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The world is quiet, now, and Luffy thinks that’s a shame. Quiet like it’s holding itself in, wounded, with twisting concrete roads splattered with graffiti and the stench of blood hanging in the air. There aren’t too many people around anymore, just the street gangs like flies buzzing in to fight over a rotting carcass, but there are still seagulls, if you can believe it. Seagulls, swooping low over the empty overpasses, under the dull hot sun, and that’s what makes him decide, one day, casually, while sitting on the railing of a bridge, skinned knees dangling over nothing but asphalt – I’m gonna go see the sea. He’s heard stories. The sea is where there’s still life, where the rest of the world went when it ended. He remembers his two brothers, both gone before him. Lifts the brim of his straw hat to squint up at the sun, pondering, considering. Then grins. Dances off the edge of the railing, almost ends up falling. Follows the road until he’s nothing more than a speck of a silhouette against the setting sun, the wide expanse of horizon laid out before him like a map, paper-bare.
He walks, watches, holds out his thumb. Most days, no one ever stops. No big deal; he scavenges, sneaks half-eaten burgers off of plates, dodges grabbing hands and angry curses – he’s always been quick. Shares his onion rings with the seagulls. On the rare occasion that a beat-up pickup truck grinds to a halt by his side, he always replies to their questions with, “I’m going to the sea.” They laugh, they narrow their eyes – impossible, kid. The sea dried up years ago, way back when the world ended. Or – is this a joke? You think you’re being funny, you little punk? Or they mug him, simple as that, less simple when they discover he has nothing but funny-shaped pebbles in his pockets. Then comes the rage, but he’s always been good at running. One hand pressing his straw hat onto his head, keeping it on as he ducks in and out of alleyways and leaps over fallen trash cans, metal glinting in the light, crows peeking out at him in disinterest. He laughs into the wind.
One morning he’s rudely awakened from his sleep when he spills out unceremoniously from an empty trash can, limbs unfolding and eyes blinking blearily to look up at open sky. Somebody is screeching, rather unnecessarily loud he thinks, and when angry faces loom into view, glaring at him, he’s sure to smile extra widely, yawning, saying, “That was a good nap.”
Three knocked-out stubbled, burly men later, Luffy’s perched on the edge of the trash can, listening as a pale, panicky kid wrings his hands and talks anxiously. His eyes are wide as saucers behind his thick-framed glasses, and his hair’s dyed an interesting shade of pink, though the roots are beginning to show. “Alvida’s the queen of everything ’round here,” he says, fingers fidgeting, eyes constantly darting back and forth. “Her gang’s got this city tucked under her thumb. We’re like slaves here. You… You’ve gotta get outta here, quick, before she finds out what you’ve done!”
“I like your hair,” Luffy tells him. The guy stares back at him. “What’s your name?”
A little while later when Alvida won’t be bothering anyone again for a very long time, Coby finally relaxes a little, smile losing the nervous edge. He tells Luffy he wants to be a cop, dreams of silver badges and justice the same way Luffy dreams of blue wilderness and the shape of his brother’s back, walking away. In the middle of the fight he thought he saw something in the shadows, orange hair and focused gaze. He leaves the city with its memory, Coby, and a name.
He finds Roronoa Zoro tied to a telephone pole. “Wanna join my crew,” Luffy says, flashing his grin, and the guy looks up at him with a sideways, slanting gaze, twists the corner of his mouth into a not-quite sneer. Not exactly impressed, but not dismissive, either. Luffy figures that isn’t too bad of a start.
“He sure fights old-fashioned,” complains Coby as they lug Zoro’s katana together, long and gleaming and wickedly dangerous in the half-light of the rising sun – but he soon changes his mind on that when they watch him fight, limbs whirling and blades ripping through the storm of bullets, the curved edge of his mouth sharper than the steel it wields. After, Coby’s eyes are wide with wonder, and fear, too, but Luffy sits down next to Zoro, bent low on the ground with blood in his mouth, and remembers the way he ate every last piece of rice a little girl gave him. When he asks again, this time the man meets his eyes and says yes.
They leave Coby as a shining young police recruit and start their trek west, always west, and Luffy catches up with the orange-haired girl somewhere in the darker side of town. Or maybe she’s been there all along, because suddenly she’s everywhere. Nami is at the local diner, the run-down convenience store, the bar. Nami is playing pool, beats Zoro with her eyes closed, merciless. Nami is robbing them blind. “A girl’s gotta be places if she’s gonna get anywhere,” she explains from her barstool. She’s smiling, showing teeth. She’s patting Zoro’s back pockets for cash, dancing out of reach when he snaps at her, annoyed. She’s a force to be reckoned with and Luffy’s not about to let her go, smoothly disappear into the city shadows like she was never there at all.
“There are enough ghosts in this world,” Luffy tells her one day, seriously, over breakfast. She’s grimacing at her coffee; he’s sucking up stale Coca-Cola with a straw. “Why don’t you join my crew?”
“You don’t even have a car. Crew? What crew? All I see are a couple of stooges.” Zoro stiffens and straightens up beside Luffy, eyes narrowing, grumbling, but Nami just chugs her coffee, waves him off dismissively. Still, something must interest her, and maybe it’s just the prospect of gold coins and cash, but Luffy doesn’t miss the look in her eyes whenever he mentions the sea. He couldn’t – he’s lived with it long enough to not recognize it in another. Regardless, she’s the one who hotwires them a car – “I can’t believe you idiots walked here all the way from whatever town you came from” – a nasty little thing with rusty brakes and tires that squeal, and the paint job’s peeling at the edges, but Luffy’s happy enough riding in the back laughing as Zoro and Nami try not to kill each other in the front seats, lying back against the patched-up leather and thinking that just maybe he’s finally getting somewhere.
Five short miles lead them to a town with a strange case of questionable graffiti greeting them everywhere they look. ONCE UPON A TIME by an abandoned gas station, THE BRAVEST HERO TO EVER LIVE in tall shaky letters under an overpass, I’M TELLING THE TRUTH!! on the side of a Dumpster, underlined twice for emphasis. They finally find the long-nosed culprit in the process of spraying I’LL SAVE – on the CLOSED sign of an old run-down diner. He tries to make a speedy getaway on his skateboard, but Zoro’s got him by the collar of his battered old T-shirt, and Nami’s chewing him out because doesn’t he know how much spray paint costs in this day and age, shouldn’t he be considering how much money he’s been splattering onto dirty old brick walls – but Luffy’s looking at the words, and Luffy’s looking the kid in the eye, and he asks – “Who’re you gonna save?”
A lot of people, apparently, starting with a kind blond-haired girl who takes them in for the night, and ending with himself. Usopp’s got a lot of tall tales and Zoro and Nami like to scoff. “What do you mean,” Usopp blusters, red-cheeked with affronted rage, “I’m telling the truth, I’ve seen so much of this world – more than you can dream of.” But he’s the biggest dreamer of them all, Luffy can tell – and the way he sees it, there’s plenty of space in the backseat for more. Kaya, however, does them one up and gives them a brand new car, small and sleek with red-and-white-striped seats and actual seatbelts and a figurine of a smiling goat dangling from the rearview mirror. Usopp dubs it Merry, Luffy calls dibs on shotgun, and Nami steers them onto the highway as Zoro sleeps in the back. A mistake, as it turns out, when he ends up with a marker-drawn mustache on his face, but he doesn’t know yet and it’s not like Usopp’s gonna tell him; they’ve all got stronger self-preservation than that. Nami drives with one hand and takes low-quality pictures on her shitty pink phone with the other, and Luffy laughs out the window, loud enough to wake up Zoro, who frowns at them suspiciously from the backseat but doesn’t question it, just rolls over and halfheartedly tries to remember his dream, something about a blue-haired girl and a moon hanging wide and heavy over his shoulders in the dark twilight sky.
It’s almost evening when Luffy starts to fidget, twisting knobs and dials on the dashboard and whining about his hunger. Nami’s saying something intelligent about state lines and speed limits and how far they can make it before the sun goes down, but Usopp resolves the argument by leaning dangerously far out his rolled-down window and pointing at a sign, saying, “Hey, restaurant at next exit!”
And it’s a little surreal, Usopp thinks as they’re getting seated in plush leather chairs, that there are still places like this in the world, with crystal wineglasses and silk napkins and platters lined with gold. He mentions as much to the waiter, all jagged edges and cut lines of his crisp collared linen shirt, and the guy grinds down on a limp cigarette between his teeth, snaps, “Are you sure you delinquents are gonna have enough to pay for this?” But maybe that’s the least of his worries, because Nami’s eyeing the pewter ashtray in his pocket with a devilish glint in her eye, and Usopp’s having the time of his life using his slingshot to impale peas on the edge of Zoro’s blades, and Luffy’s ordering enough meat to shut down several small local businesses, and – “Just who are you punks, anyway?”
“We’re going to the ocean,” says Luffy, grin wide as the memory of the blue, blue sea, and Sanji raises his eyebrow, remembers what it was like to believe.
--
For the most part, they coast on. It’s not all fun and games; sometimes the sun beats down too harsh, sometimes the rain falls thick enough to flood their car off the road. Sometimes it’s claustrophobic, fumbling for elbow space in the backseat of a car that hasn’t been washed for weeks, and sometimes there’s nothing for miles but road upon road of dusty black rock and barren earth. Zoro isn’t allowed to drive anymore, not with his tendency of falling asleep at the wheel, and his lacking sense of direction – “How do you get lost on a fucking highway,” Nami’s livid, Usopp’s trying to make sense of the map but it doesn’t help when Luffy keeps pointing at random roads and chortling at their names. Zoro slams the brakes, snarling, and Sanji blows a cloud of smoke accidentally-on-purpose into his face.
Nami keeps a potted plant on their dashboard, and Luffy gets distracted sometimes, watching the way the tiny sprout bends towards the sun, against the glass. One bleary-eyed morning Zoro is half-jokingly trying to teach Usopp how to wield a katana. “Like this,” he says, “not so forced, but firm. What are you doing? Stop that.” But for a moment, Zoro bends down low to the earth, spine curved, sloping, legs balanced, blade extended outward. Eyes closed. The shape of his still form against the dawn is shadowed, all mussed hair and bare feet, almost soft looking. The edge of his blade catches the light. Something like grace. Then Usopp drops the katana on his foot, wails.
Sometimes they rake up enough cash (“From perfectly legal exploits,” claims Nami, and they know better than to question her by now) to settle down for a few nights at a cheap motel, to spend a few days running wild in the towns and stocking up on snacks. And sometimes there’s nothing but NO VACANCY signs lighting up the side of the highway, everyone else asleep and drooling on each other as Nami heaves a long-suffering sigh. Streetlights burning into her eyes as she glances at them in the rearview mirror, scrubs a hand over her face, absentmindedly reaches down to rub at the tattoo on her shoulder. Plume of exhaust snaking up behind their car like the banner of a flag waving in the midnight wind.
One time, they’re hanging out in a bar when a guy at the next table takes offense, maybe at the way Nami’s cheating him out of all his cash in their game of poker, or at Luffy and Usopp’s obnoxious drunken singing to some old folk song, or at Sanji’s insistence on lighting up a cigarette right under the NO SMOKING sign. In any case, he’s got his band of cronies on their feet and he’s cracking his knuckles menacingly, and Zoro barely even blinks an eye, bored – they’ve been in barfights before, usually borne from Luffy’s inability to keep his nose out of trouble, and they can hold their own. But what the guy says next veers away from the usual script of good-for-nothing punks and gimme-my-money-back.
“You guys honestly think you’re gonna make it to the ocean?” he sneers, and Luffy stops in the middle of his song, straightens up just slightly, imperceptibly. “You’re just a buncha kids, that’s what you are, hung up on some sad old pipe dream. Isn’t it funny–” and he turns to his goonies, an ugly sneer on his face “–isn’t it hilarious how they honestly believe?” Their laughter echoes off the walls, and Luffy’s dead silent.
Nami’s glancing at him from her seat, and her gaze is piercing, strangely serious. A little worried, maybe. Usopp looks like he’s been punched in the gut, eyes wide, wounded. Sanji’s stomping out his cigarette under the heel of his boot, eyes hard to see under his messy blond bangs, and Zoro clenches his fist tight, holds it for one second – two – three – and meets Luffy’s gaze. Nods, then lets it uncurl, lets go.
After, Usopp stumbles over his own feet in the parking lot, squints up at the late night sky feeling half-drunk, streetlights flashing spots in his eyes and spinning. His jaw throbs, and his battered ribs, and his lungs – all blending together into the same dull haze of ache. Nami has bundled Luffy into the passenger seat, muttering angrily to herself and slamming the door harder than probably necessary, digging through the glove compartment for the band-aids. Furrowed brow, angry frown, narrowed eyes. Hand on the side of his face, applying a napkin to the cut on the corner of his lip, impossibly gentle.
“We could’ve taken them,” Usopp says, to no one in particular. He’s lagged behind; Sanji and Zoro have both made it back to the car as well, sitting on the trunk, sharing a smoke, silent. Faces lit up by the warmth of the flame, glowing. Zoro’s left eye is bruised with black, and Sanji’s mouth is bleeding.
And Zoro shrugs his shoulders, loose-limbed, smoke clinging to his cold huffs of breath. Beside him, Sanji’s lips are curled up into an easy grin, smeared with red, but his eyes are hard-set, determined.
“It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it, Usopp?” he asks, hair falling into his eyes, and Usopp snorts, laughs until he’s bowled over his knees, chest hurting, throat sore, because yeah, it kind of is. Laughs because he gets it. He has cuts and bruises everywhere – everywhere but his fists, the grooves of his knuckles, and it feels good, he thinks. Opens his mouth to breathe. His feet drag him up to Merry’s hood, and he places his palm over the gleaming metal, feels the shuddering hum as she comes to life, as Nami turns the keys in the ignition.
“Hurry up and get in this car before I run you over, so help me God,” Nami yells, rolling down the window, and Usopp’s gaze slides past her, to Luffy, face shadowed under the brim of his hat. Then Luffy’s looking up, straight at him, ear-to-ear grin on his face but something sharp to it, dangerous. Something glinting in his eye, steeled, like a wire stretching taut –
Nami blares the horn and barks, “Scramble,” and Usopp picks himself up off the Merry’s hood, but not before being struck with the thought – damn it, he’d follow that captain anywhere. To the end of the earth, to beyond. To the sea.
--
For a day in the life, picture this: Sanji slumping forward in his wrinkled suit, flicking a cigarette before Nami starts screeching no smoking in this fucking car, Sanji, and he tosses it out the open window, accidentally on purpose elbowing Zoro in the side as he does so. The lazy lump doesn’t even budge, snoring louder than a freight train and Sanji shouts for Usopp to turn up the volume on the radio station, regrets it when shitty old pop music comes blaring out of the speakers.
“Hey, I like this song,” says Luffy from where he’s perched on the other side of Zoro’s unmoving form. Sanji turns to look out the window, at cold sky, and imagines an expanse even wider than that, one he can touch, all blue and bright. Pulls up an old memory about how the sea tastes, salty on his tongue. On the radio, some guy croons something stupid, share the world or something like that, and Luffy’s singing along, at least until Nami turns off the radio.
“I can’t even hear myself think – I’ll drive myself into a tree at this rate – dear god can somebody wake Zoro up before I rip my eardrums out?”
“At your service,” says Sanji, sweetly. Elbow, meet Adam’s apple. Zoro cracks open an eye, mutters something about food. Typical. Outside, the sky following them as they zip down the endless dusty road.
--
But there’s more. There’s always more. There are the early mornings, all seamlessly blending together like a pretense of normalcy, familiarity. Waking up with the shape of the backseat indented into skin; brushing teeth by the side of the road and spitting into the gutter. The turning of the key in the ignition, the half-second of stall before the answering rev of the engine as limbs stretch and fold back into themselves, slamming car doors, ready. There is noise, in the chatter of roadside attractions and smoky pubs and the times they collapse at the table of a bar and cry from laughter at Luffy’s funny faces and impersonations. But there is quiet, too, in the lull between conversations, when Nami talks distantly of her sister living far away and Usopp places a gentle hand on her knee, when Sanji whistles softly to himself in some shitty motel kitchen to the low hum of a working stove at last, when Zoro polishes his blades under the cover of the moon and Luffy watches, says nothing, falls asleep to the sound of steel.
And there are the times when Usopp spends hours bent-backed, face smeared with grease, fingers flying in the Merry’s hood, and he won’t eat or speak for hours, or days, or however long it takes to get the Merry up and alive again. There are the times when the air is fraught with a tension that settles uncomfortably underneath their skin, prickling, when barbed words and stony glares won’t back down and they’re reminded of the miles of differences between them. When Zoro disappears off for hours to train in the woods and comes back with a strained spine and teeth bared in frustration; when Nami looks out the window to see nothing but shallow mountains and mist and can’t stop thinking of home.
But the Merry’s strong, stronger than all of them, Usopp thinks sometimes, to be able to carry them all so far, and it always wakes up with a lurching roar in its engine, and he can’t stop his grin from spreading, from saying, “Hey, girl, good morning.” And that’s enough to get them all back on track, riding with the windows rolled down and all of them pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, eyes on the road, on the sky, on each other. Content.
There are the days, and the nights, and there are the dreams. The dreams of a man with smile like fire, tilting the brim of his orange hat, a promise – we’ll meet again. A boy with a chipped tooth and eyes bright as blue, waving, with the courage to go on first. And an old story, about a shore, and a sea, and beyond that – the edge of the world, beyond that –
Luffy opens his eyes. He’s slumped down in the backseat, straw hat over his eyes, alone, but he can hear muffled voices outside. Yawning, he straightens up, rolls his neck, comfortable, and looks out the window. It’s midmorning. They’re parked by the side of the road, next to some grassy clearing, where Zoro and Sanji are in the middle of some makeshift duel. Not a serious fight, Luffy thinks, squinting, but like practice, with Zoro lightly dodging Sanji’s stretched kicks, loose, limber. Easy. Next to them, Usopp is dramatically commentating the spectacle, using a balled-up cheeseburger wrapper as a microphone, and Nami’s rolling her eyes, but she’s laughing, calling out a remark that makes Zoro yell back at her and makes Sanji practically swoon to the ground. The sky is grey, but the clouds are patchy, leaking. Give it an hour or two, and the sun’ll show up.
Luffy opens the car door and slides out, grass tickling his bare feet, light breeze nudging at his hat, and he holds onto it tighter. The others are turning around, and Nami says something, “You’re finally up, Luffy, let’s go,” and he laughs in reply, standing up a little taller. Holds his arms out, staring down the sky. He can smell it, he thinks. The smell of the sea. Right here, wind ruffling his hair, voices at his back, he almost feels like something else. He almost feels like a king.