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A little known fact: Amazon Lily is a representative democracy.
To be sure, the reigning Empress is always the most beautiful woman on the island, with beauty defined more by strength in battle than any given aesthetic. But this woman is chosen by poll, not by contest, because various types of strength are present among the proud people of the island: not just muscle, but strategy and mental fortitude also. Empresses are elected not for life, but until their strength is no longer of use for leadership.
On this day, Amazon Lily is once more gripped by the election. For once, the sounds of clashing swords, snapping bowstrings, and grunts of exertion are not heard from the great stone Arena of the Amazons, and all the women, of all sizes from petite to giant human, line up in the streets to vote.
Ballots are cast by stone. Each woman takes a black or white stone from large hampers of these set in front of the imperial mansion, and places them in the pile. White stones are votes for Zinnia. Black stones are votes for the prodigal daughter of Amazon Lily. The vote is essentially a formality—Zinnia is quite beautiful, but she cannot rival the raw power of Hancock, neither the arena of battle nor that of raw attractiveness. A mountain of black stones declares Hancock the winner.
It’s a far cry from her return to the island, accompanied by her sisters and Silvers Rayleigh, when she was small and damaged despite her ferocity; now she’s forged her barren sands into hard, fired glass, and she’s as dangerous as she is beautiful; beautiful, in fact, because she is so dangerous.
She is dressed in golden silk, with the emblem of the Kuja pirates across her breast, her face uniformly tanned and calm. There isn’t applause for her victory, only silence, awaiting her first decree as Empress. Her first order is to declare herself Captain of the Kuja Pirates, which is traditional. She then appoints Marigold and Sandersonia her lieutenants. Robes marking them as such are quickly procured: Hancock stands, moves, speaks like an Empress, deadly serious even in simplicity.
“Ready the Black Mamba,” she says, finally—it’s the fastest ship they’ve ever built, and the best in their harbor. “I want the current roster for the Kuja in front of me in five minutes or less.” Orders are shouted around the crowd, and people commence to business, checking the integrity of the ship’s hull, the sails and ropes, the store of weapons, food, water, and wine. Hancock is intolerant of mistakes, they all remember from her training days: the young girl practicing kick after kick, forcing herself to do a hundred more for each one that wasn’t perfect. The muscles built so quickly her biceps were stretch-marked, and maintained so well that at eighteen she looked stronger than more experienced Amazons. She won’t tolerate any less than the best from her chosen.
Those chosen women who will join Hancock on her campaign amass on the pier, boarding the ship as she watches from a chair on the deck. The ship is proud pure black, conspicuous as a challenge to others, with a snake on the prow, and it matches its captain for ferocity. It slides into the seas of the Calm Belt with unnatural speed, and only through the force of her Haki does Hancock keep the Sea Kings at a safe distance. They reach the Grand Line with no trouble, and there Hancock makes a simple announcement, her first as captain as well as Empress.
“We will capture the first ship we see,” she says. The Amazons work loudly, singing their work songs, but they all hush as soon as she speaks—she is young, yet eighteen, but they have all felt her leg before. Many have been freed from prisons of stone by nothing more than her mercy.
“Hancock, perhaps—” The speaker hushes as Hancock turns to look at them. Her eyes are blank, and one black eyebrow arches.
“Do you have an objection?” she asks, and in her smooth tone there is something of the serpent’s hiss.
“No, Captain,” says the Amazon, averting her eyes. Hancock’s gaze returns to the sea, and the sailors return to singing. The sun is half-drowned by the time they catch sight of a ship—a small junk, probably merchants from the South Blue, escorted by a Marine gunship. Hancock orders that the pirate flag be left flying. She has no intention of anything less than total, crushing victory, no tricks required.
The Marines open fire as soon as the Mamba draws within range, but their cannons aren’t coated. Kuja arrows split the balls and break them like coconuts, showering the sea below with detritus, and blow holes in the hull moments later. These are well-trained Marines, saltiest men on the sea, and no one jumps ship, but the captain, in his formal uniform, gives immediately falls into a Rokushiki stance. A few rifle go off, but these soldiers aren’t Haki-trained, and they will never know why their shots don’t strike.
Hancock can recognize the captain from here: he’s Rhino Reynolds, with a strange horn-shaped protuberance on his head that is the product of genetics rather than Devil Fruit. She gets an idea, and smiles wickedly even as she gives orders: sharpshooters to deck, half remaining Amazons onto ocean rafts to plunder the merchant vessel, and the other half to join her in taking out the Marines.
Her group, too, sets out in rafts. Hancock need not slop salt water on her pumps, and takes the leap to the other ship, in excess of twenty yards, in a single bound. Reynolds’ men are well trained: a young man, eager and with eyes full of lust, lunges forward. Hancock tosses her hair, twists her hands into a heart, and turns him to stone. A foot lashes out and breaks the statue like a twig, sending the head backwards at lethal velocities into another Marine’s chest. The breaking ribs are her siren song.
Hancock raises her hands like a conductor, sweeps them in front of her. A line of pulsing pink hearts follow her fingers, and she pulls them back and fires, smashing through the assembled ranks. Reynolds springs forward, now; she’s an unknown pirate, but it’s clear that she can’t be neutralized by average soldiers. His Kami-e evades her kicks quite efficiently, and she finds herself dodging short Rankyaku beams. Reynolds cracks a sly grin: he has her on the defensive, he thinks.
“I’m just playing with you,” says Hancock, diverting his beam with a kick. One of his men sneaks up behind her with knife raised: she snatches it from him effortlessly, muscular arms overpowering him, drives the knife into his forehead, then turns Reynold’s leg to stone with a crane kick. He unbalances and starts to fall, but she darts forward and catches him by the collar, puts the knife to the side of his neck, coats it with Haki, and decapitates him. Grabbing the head by its curly red hair, blood staining her arms, Hancock turns to the remaining soldiers, gone pale beneath their skins of varying shades and tans. She smiles as her crew finally catches up, and kicks the mast in two.
Nearby, the merchant vessel is filled with screams as Amazons bludgeon, stab, and shoot their way to the treasure room. Few are killed, but all are intimidated. Soon, chests of gold, fine fabrics, and expensive weapons are being passed out to the rafts, where they will be hauled back to the Mamba. The conflict is all but over in a matter of minutes. When the dust settles, Hancock stands on the deck of a merchant ship, addressing the surviving Marines and merchants: a group of no more than fifteen. They are tied together with strong rope.
“You’ll be drifting here, you men of lust and hate,” says Hancock, strolling around them. “No food. No navigator. Only rainwater and the sun. If, by luck or providence, you are found...” She takes the knife, covered in blood, and carves the emblem of the Kuja into the deck. “Tell them that Hancock of Amazon Lily sends her regards.” They scream curses and slurs at her back as she turns to leave.
“Bitch!”
“You arrogant slut!”
“I hope some pirate puts you in your place the old fashioned way.” Hancock twists around at this last comment. “Yeah, get fucking raped—” Hancock throws the knife. The speaker’s eye is swiftly rendered into a sheath. They fall silent, killed instantly, and the remaining survivors have the good sense to hush.
Hancock tosses the head to a crew member, delivers her instructions sharply, and spreads the map of the area in front of her. To the west is Sabaody Archipelago, but she isn’t bound for the New World. She sets her course east.
Two weeks, four naval battles, and a scar later, Boa Hancock makes landing in the desert kingdom of Alabasta. She’s already got a bounty: 20,000,000 beri, chump change. She is selling her stolen goods on this island’s lucrative black market—or rather, her crew is. For herself, she’s going to have a drink.
She wanders into the nearest bar, a seedy establishment on the bad side of the port town. Several pirates are drinking there, including some regular old gutter scum, but she doesn’t care as long as the beer is good—she sits down and pulls out a white object: the skull of Reynold’s converted into a grisly cup. The eyes of all the men and women flit across her body, dirtying her with their filthy thoughts and lewd gazes.
“Serve me,” she tells the bartender, nose slightly inclined.
“Mind your manners,” he mutters, turning to serve another customer. Hancock clears her throat.
“I’m sorry, you must have misheard me. I command you to serve me.” She says this with the finality of a child who cannot conceive of not getting their way. The man the bartender is serving turns around, and Hancock sees several patrons look up. Cronies, then.
“Just who in the hell do you think you are, girl?” he says. He has a long fur coat slung easily over his shoulders, and he wears clothes inappropriate to the venue—a sharply tailored brown three-piece suit, rings aplenty. He’s chomping a cigar, too, using one hand to hold the fat tube and the other for his drink. “When Crocodile’s drink is poured, you wait your turn.” He takes a careful sip of his whisky, savors the sting.
“How dare you speak to me?” replies Hancock, eyes turned up to the ceiling.
“Dear god,” says someone, from the corner. “She’s looking down so far she’s looking up!”
“Listen here, you two-beri night of entertainment! Don’t start any fights you won’t finish.” Crocodile inclines his head, the single rogue lock of his hair bouncing slightly. “I’m a dangerous man, worth over a hundred million beri!” Nods, mutters. Hancock grinds her heel into the floor, making a small hole.
“I am worth a fifth your bounty,” she replies, “but reckon myself in possession of five times your testicular fortitude.” Crocodile rolls his neck, hands off his cigar to the bartender, and sets his drink down.
“Listen here, bitch. Maybe you haven’t heard, in whatever gutter in East Blue you crawled out of—” he paused for laughter, from his cronies, “but little girls like you don’t stand a chance against the power of a Logia-type.” His arms extend into sand, and he takes a step forward, reaches out, and strokes her cheek with a rough hand. “Tell you what. Why don’t we take this upstairs...?” Hancock’s eyes widen as the other patrons begin to laugh. Then her eyebrows snap together, and a frisson of energy runs through the room. Crocodile shivers.
The bartender goes slack, falls, and shatters a bottle of wine. Everywhere, faces are falling into bowls of soup and tankards of beer, and men and women are slumping, falling out into the floor, and foaming at the mouth. A hooded figure at the bar is the only one seemingly unaffected, other than Crocodile and Hancock herself, and the figure quickly slumps over. Luckily, no one is looking.
“What the fuck—” begins Crocodile, but is interrupted by a slap so momentous that it lifts him off his feet and sends him into the wine rack behind the bar. Hancock’s eyes are wide, pupils contracted to nothing, and teeth bared in a snarl of fury.
“How dare you touch me?” she shrieks, as Crocodile picks himself up. Her Conqueror’s Haki is still in force, but it’s not enough to put him down seriously. He raises a hand to his cheek, which is bright red and bleeding slightly from the Armament-enhanced slap.
“You hit me,” he says, in total disbelief. “That isn’t even possible. You hit me,” he repeats. He almost misses the leg when it swings for his face, but he dodges just in time, and she takes out nearly the entire back wall of the bar in one blow.
“I have never in my life been this furious!” declares Hancock, who lands again, lunges, and knocks him to the floor with a hard kick down onto his shoulder, which dislocates. Crocodile whines at the unfamiliar pain, but she doesn’t stop, stomping, kicking, and eventually grabbing stools and bottles to smash over him until they’re too splintered to work. In the end, she spits on his prone form, takes a bottle of the best red the bar stocks for the road, and marches out. Crocodile lays in a pool of his own blood, breathing heavily through several broken ribs and an equally broken nose.
“Worth a hundred million, hm?” says the hooded figure, standing up. Crocodile turns his head and sees a purple haired woman with a prominent chin and a wide smile standing over him.
“W-what do I owe you?” mutters Crocodile. “Take my wallet, I’m—”
“I don’t want your money, Crocodile boy,” says the woman, laughing. “I’ll take your story for free.” Ivankov walks out of the bar, chuckling to herself. When Crocodile’s companions wake, he tells them he gave better than he got, and ran off the upstart female.
The seas become weaker as the Mamba approaches Reverse Mountain, and more pirates in search of the One Piece enter from the four Blues. Hancock destroys these with nothing more than a scathing glance and imperious Haki, and rumors of the Pirate Empress begin to spread: a menace with a snake on her shoulders and hate in her eyes who can knock you out with her mind and rob you blind while you’re down, then force your crew into brutal survival games.
Nonetheless, the woman not yet twenty is bored. Blood is not enough, and no matter how many men she fights, Rayleigh is the only exception to the universal tenet of male inferiority. They are all amoral, and weak in addition, not even worthy of her leg’s touch. She sips wine from the skulls of Marine leaders, carves bone earrings from their femurs and teeth, makes a set of rings from their knucklebones. And they begin to hunt her.
They hem her in at Long Ring Long Land, surround her with three ships worth of Marines led by then-Captain John Giant, wielding his massive katana with the ease his giant’s muscles afford. Hancock’s women, driven to intense loyalty both to their country and the angel of destruction they have seen descend to earth for many long months, form a circle around her, but she smiles, pushes them aside even as John Giant gives the kill order. Hancock’s countenance tightens.
A few shots are fired, but they go wide—the shooters as foaming at the mouth already, falling to rest in the long grass. Hancock smiles grimly at John Giant, and her hands form into a heart as the smile stretches to savagery.
The giant statue is left there with a Kuja emblem carved into it and its unconscious comrades, and Hancock takes the liberty of lighting the gunpowder reserves of the battleships the captain brought with him, destroying their chance of leaving. If they have Den-Den Mushi, they’ll be freed soon enough. But until then, let them suffer and starve.
Two weeks later, the story of Marines who were marooned for two weeks on an island by a vicious pirate attack hits the news. Cannibalism, murder, exposure, madness—Hancock laughs until her eyes water. In unrelated news, Pirate Empress Boa Hancock is given a bounty increase to eighty million beri, unheard of for a new pirate on first campaign.
In the end, she goes to Sabaondy to visit her one-time savior, the only man she thinks she will ever respect. Silvers Rayleigh is an old man getting older, but he still has a smile and overpriced liquor to share with her, and at the very least the perfectly-aged Shakuyaku keeps him young.
“What have you learned on your journey, Ms. Boa?” asks Rayleigh, wine trickling from the bottle into his scraggly beard. Boa tastes her wine like a food critic, swirling it around in her mouth before swallowing, and looks out at the grove beyond with a thoughtful eye.
“Men are weak, Mr. Rayleigh,” she answers, and he tosses her the rest of the bottle with a smile.
“You just might be right,” he says, stretching, and strolls off to see about his coating business. Hancock returns to one of the more criminally associated Yarukiman Mangroves, sipping easily, and ponder going to the New World. Paradise was no challenge at all to her, not a single hardship or difficulty. Surely Raftel was not that far away, and the balance of power yet unsettled...
She doesn’t notice the Marine until he’s too close for comfort: an absurdly tall man, even for someone of her height. He’s dark-skinned, with thick lips, a handsome face, and long, curly hair, but she doesn’t mistake his casual coat and slacks for weakness: this is obvious Vice Admiral Kuzan, not a man to underestimate under any circumstances.
“I have an offer for you, Miss Boa,” he says, handing her an envelope with the World Government’s stamp. “I think...you will want to consider it. We at Marine HQ want to improve the stability of the oceans. We are offering you a position as a privateer—independent, but affiliated with the Marines. We freeze your bounty, take you off Wanted status...and might not look to closely at what you do and where you come from. And your side is, you heal John Giant, come when we call you, and don’t let yourself lose.” Kuzan scratches the back of his neck.
“I will need time to think.” She looks at him carefully.
“Hell, take it,” he tells her. “But we only have seven positions open, and new pirates are becoming powerful every single day. Think fast, Miss Boa. Think fast.” He walks away from her, and she stands looking at the envelope. She makes a decision, and calls after his back, not yet realizing that she is more powerful at eighteen than most will become in a lifetime.