Chapter Text
You killed your first man when you were five.
Which, okay, fine, the moral conundrum of taking another life, the philosophical implications of watching someone’s consciousness drain away at your feet as your brother watched in silent shock from a few feet away.
But the man in the white-and-blue uniform had been whistling a pretty tune as he strolled past the alley, pausing just long enough to glimpse the two of you crouching next to a passed out drunk and rifling through his pockets for spare change. And instead of grabbing your hand and sprinting away like you’d done hundreds of times before, your brother, greedy for the drunk’s thick blue coat that was big enough to swaddle the two of you at night, leaped to his feet and shouted, “What are you looking at, asshole?”
Ace didn’t look much like your dad, which you thought was a blessing. (Not that Gol D. Roger was ugly by any account, but Portgas D. Rouge burned like a sunrise, dawn gleaming in her hair.) But he wasn’t alone, and the two of you were thin and bony but not thin and bony enough to throw off some easy math.
Your mouth twitched into a nervous grin.
The man’s face went white. “Pirate King,” escaped his mouth like a prayer, and his hand went for the lump at his waist.
Yeah, no.
The worst part was getting the blood off afterwards. No amount of scrubbing in the river could replace a good ol’ bleach treatment (which you didn’t have access to, boohoo), so now blotches of brown dotted your favorite tank top like a bird shat on you from above. You even found bits of gristle and viscera under your nails.
“Stop sulkin', Ace,” you said, trudging through the waist-deep river to lay your ruined tank top on a flat rock so it could dry under the sun.
A pebble bounced off the side of your head.
Ace's back was turned towards you, his knees drawn to his chest. The pebble thrown at your head matched the one he was tossing up and down in his hand.
“‘m not sulkin’,” he muttered, sulking.
At least he had stopped throwing up. Somewhere along the way his terror had turned into anger, which, ugh. He was still a kid, so he didn’t know why that name mattered or why you’d sunk your thumbs into that man’s skull and popped out his eyeballs with a snarl.
With a huff, you dug your hand into the river silt, grabbed the biggest rock you could find, and flung it at him. He yelped and fell backwards into the river with a splash as it collided with his head.
You cackled at Ace’s disgruntled expression as he emerged, drenched from head to toe. He scowled at you and spat out a stream of water. “You didn’t have to kill him,” he said, swiping strands of wet hair from his forehead.
You stopped laughing.
“Whadya think he was gonna do if I didn’t? Bake us a cake?” Though honestly, you missed cake. You missed a lot of things from your old life, like a working toilet and tank tops that didn’t stink of blood.
“We coulda lied to him or somethin’. Or threatened him not to tell!”
You stared down at all thirty pounds of yourself soaking wet, then at Ace’s pouting cheeks, still round with baby fat despite his diet. “Sure, and gotten laughed off of the island for it.”
Ace’s scowl deepened so much that his dimple appeared.
“You’re not mad that I killed him, are ya?” you said, splashing him a bit. “He was a marine, and you saw what he was gonna do to us. Marines don’t care if you’re a kid or not.” You drew a line across your throat and grinned. “They’ll kill us first.”
“I know!” he snapped. “I’m— Pirates hate marines.”
“And you’re going to be the best pirate on the seven seas,” you said, a promise.
“There're four seas, dumbass.”
You shrugged and clambered out of the water, climbing onto the river bank. The rock that you were drying your shirt on was nice and warm, and you laid yourself on top of it, limbs splayed out like a starfish. “That guy was a private. No one gives a shit about privates.”
Ace snickered and immediately looked angry about it. “I know that too. I’m not dumb.”
“So why are you mad at me?” you asked, raising your voice.
“I don’t know!”
“Then stop being mad!”
“Fine!”
The two of you glared at each other. Ace looked away first because he didn’t have your sheer fucking willpower to ignore every single warning sign that your body shouted at you. He sank into the water until all that was visible was the top of his black head and a pair of angry silver eyes. “It was gross,” he said quietly. “Really, really gross. I don’t like seeing you like that.”
You opened your mouth to complain that the two of you had definitely seen grosser (tiger lords and crocodiles gave no shits about where they took a shit). And then you closed it.
It wasn’t about morals, not really. Ace bashed in as many knees as you did, and you were raised by bandits so of course you didn’t have traditional senses of right and wrong. The problem was that Ace cared too much and that you cared too little, which was why the two of you fit together like a knife in a king’s back.
But he’d never lived in a world where you didn’t exist, so he didn’t understand. He’d never understand—and you hoped he’d never realize—what you would do if he died because of you.
The bandits didn’t own mirrors. Even if they did, it’d probably get smashed as soon as someone started a drinking game for beris. But there was a reason why your grandpa occasionally flinched when he thought you weren’t looking, how people’s eyes sometimes caught on your face as you darted through the streets, distracted by a ghost of the past.
Ace had his father’s colors and his mother’s freckles, and it didn’t matter that his laugh rung across the sea like a promise because when he smiled, he looked like the type to say “yes sir” and “no ma’am” and take your daughter home an hour before her curfew.
You had your mother’s strawberry blond hair and a dead man’s grin.
The stone was warm against your back. You closed your eyes against the sun. “I’ll let ya kill the marine next time,” you offered.
“Not the point!”
You laughed. Water splashed against the riverbank as Ace crawled out of the river. He leaned into your vision, black hair dripping into your face. “Dumbass,” he said, pulling down one eyelid and sticking down his tongue.
You showed him your middle finger. “Stuck-up.”
Ace rolled his eyes and offered you a hand. “Come on. Let’s go see if Dadan’s got any bleach, or if she can fix your ankle.” You touched your leg, startled. You thought you did a good job of hiding your limp. “Then we gotta go huntin'.”
You couldn't help it. You smiled, wide and guileless, because Ace was the only one who could make you go from contemplating the meaning of your own death to food in two seconds flat. “Tiger or crocodile?”
“Croc,” he decided. “We’re wet anyways.”
You let him haul you to your feet.
The day that a marine with too much history on his back told you your true names, Ace punched him into the ocean. Without a second look, he turned tail and sprinted towards the forest as the man broke through the water with a roar.
“Brat! Get back here!”
Ace was pretty strong for a four year old, but not strong enough to knock over the strongest marine in the world. Garp must’ve rolled with the punch to avoid breaking his bones.
You stood up from your perch on a nearby boulder and aimed a kick at your grandpa’s head. “You chased him away, stupid.”
Your grandpa grabbed your ankle and tossed you into the low tide. “Show me some respect!”
Saltwater enveloped your head. You broke the surface with a gasp, only to dive to the side when Garp threw all of his five hundred pounds of pure muscle at you. A tidal wave crashed over your head and shoved you towards the beach with the full force of a tsunami.
“Hah! Finally taking your training seriously?” Garp shouted from the ocean, the fucking maniac.
You crawled towards the sand and scrambled back up the boulder, assuming a defensive pose. “I already told you, marine uniforms are ugly!”
The bundle of kelp sticking to your grandpa’s head did nothing to dampen the ferocity of his grin as he emerged from the water like an old sea king. “Oh? But once you become a vice-admiral, you get to customize your clothing. Don’t you want a cool coat like gramps?” he crooned, even though his flower-print shirt was the ugliest shade of yellow you’d ever seen.
To be perfectly honest, you were a little tempted. The admirals were badass, as was their entire lineup when they stopped tearing out each other’s throats and actually stood as a united front, sleeves flowing behind them like an oath to justice.
Too bad their definition of justice meant killing your brother.
“Your jacket is ugly and so are you,” you said.
Garp clucked his tongue and eyed the boulder you were standing on, weighing the pros and cons of hefting the thing into his hand and launching it at you. It was nearly double his size and wouldn’t even make him break a sweat. Just to be contrarian, you sat down at the top of the rock and crossed your arms, arching an eyebrow in challenge.
He looked away first. “Didn’t think the brat would run,” he grumbled. He snagged the kelp from the top of his head and tossed it into his mouth, chewing sullenly.
You stared at him. You could definitely see where Monkey D. Luffy had inherited his airheadedness. “You just dropped a huge bombshell on us without any warning. Of course he’s going to take it badly.”
“Tch.” Garp dropped himself onto the sand and eyed you with narrowed black eyes. It was a bit like being surveyed by a sated grizzly bear, blood dotting its muzzle as it weighed the benefits of picking itself from its comfortable perch and tearing you to pieces versus taking another nap. “Not you, apparently.”
You shrugged. “We don’t look alike anyways.”
“Not that,brat,” he chided. “The other thing.”
“Oh, the part where our bio-dad is actually Gol D. Roger, King of Pirates?” you said, and delighted in the silent flinch that rippled through Garp’s posture.
“Yeah,” he grunted.
You pretended to think about it. Gol D. Roger supposedly massacred villages on whims, conquered islands to raise his flag far into the clouds, and burned down orphanages to make room for his castles. To the average populace, his name meant terror and unrest. To Ace, he meant that everyone who had ever spat on him and looked at him like he was the filth on the bottom of their shoe was right. The son of the Pirate King should’ve died on that island with his mother.
Funny thing, fate was. You weren’t meant to live either, and to be honest, you didn’t really care if one or two orphanages collapsed as long as you and your brother could warm your hands over the flames.
“I don’t give a shit,” you decided.
“Language!”
Hunched over and clutching your throbbing head, you glared up at your grandpa through teary eyes. “WHY?”
“Bah.” Your grandpa looked away and muttered something about, “right face, wrong voice.” “You’re not curious at all?”
You grumbled and rubbed your head. A piece of history burned like embers in Garp’s eyes as he peered into the distance, haki stretched far to follow the fleeing dot that was your brother—not quite hatred, not quite fondness.
You’d always wondered how close Garp must've been to the Pirate King if the man had entrusted him with his son. Now you knew.
“I don’t care about dead men’s wishes,” you said. “We’re alive. That’s all that matters.”
Your grandpa grunted. Before you could duck out of the way, he reached over and scrubbed the top of your head with a massive hand, messing up your reddish-blond hair. “You’re pretty mature for a four-year old.”
You were twenty eight and zero and dead and alive and a contradiction layered on top of an illogical paradox. You had the awareness of a bunch of scattered atoms that once formed a consciousness. You hated being born more than you loved being dead.
This wasn’t your world, this wasn’t you. This body breathed and cried and gasped for a life that only mattered because Ace once gripped your hands and said your name like a promise to survive.
“I’m thirty-two, actually,” you said.
Garp threw his head back and roared with laughter.
Sabo came crashing into your life at age seven. And here was the thing—
Anime wasn’t real, even if Dadan and Portgas D. Ace and the bandits living on Mount Colubo were. So Dadan was fat and had a mouth bigger than a politician’s, but she also had faint wrinkles beside her eyes and thick, broad-set hands that weren’t—couldn’t be—captured by a few poorly animated frames on a TV screen. Ace’s hair was wavy and parted around droopy gray eyes, and he had ridiculously lanky arms and a freckle that stood out on his neck when he blushed all the way down to his chest.
So even though you knew what Sabo the character looked like, you had no way of knowing that he was the scrappy seven-year old with a high-pitched screech and a chipped front tooth who launched himself over the rose bushes with a roar and slammed a pipe over your neck.
“Give it back!” he shrieked as you stumbled further into the garden, head ringing.
The pearls of the necklace dug into the flesh of your palm, hard enough to hurt. You shook your head out like a dog and bared your teeth at your attacker.
“Get your own,” you snarled, because you didn’t spend the past five days tracking guard rotations and plotting the best escape route through the outer district to get robbed by a seven-year old with flea problems—even if it was a seven-year old who had the same idea to break into the noble’s mansion while the owners were vacationing in the North Blue and the head guard was too distracted by the birth of his first son to tighten security around the perimeter.
It wasn’t even a fight. A starving street kid against you, who had enough rage for two lifetimes and a willingness to bite and scratch where it hurt the most? You had him on the ground within seconds.
“That was sad,” you said as you sat on his back and tossed his pipe beneath some hydrangeas. He flailed beneath you, but running through the forest with Ace for years gave you the muscle density of someone twice your age. “Did you even read The Art of War by Sun Tzu? Appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak.”
“That’s not a real book,” the boy said, beating his hands uselessly on the stone path.
You scoffed and adjusted your weight forward, pinning his chest to the ground. “And how would you know that, Gray Terminal boy?” you said, flicking his red ear.
Smelled like it too. Yeesh, at least Ace and you took regular baths. This guy’s scruffy blond curls were practically brown, and his clothes were just as ratty, though definitely too fine for a real gutter brat. Plus, he held the pipe in both hands, more like a sword than blunt weapon.
“I— How do you know how to read?”
“I don’t,” you said drily. The East Blue’s writing was some unholy combination of Japanese kanji and Korean hangul, which you neither had the patience nor the interest in learning. You kicked the boy’s hands so he’d stop reaching for his runaway pipe. “Who told you that the Blanchettes would be gone?”
“What?”
“People from the Gray Terminal don’t just come to High Town and break into mansions for no reason,” you said. “So who told you that the Blanchettes would be gone?”
He grumbled until you smacked the top of his head. Then he flinched and tried to curl into a ball. “Ow! No one told me, I just knew!”
“You knew that they retired their carriages so they probably weren’t staying in Goa Kingdom for a while?” you asked, incredulous.
The boy’s flailing paused. He twisted his head awkwardly to stare at you, brow furrowed cautiously. “Yes, and the head guard had been requesting longer and longer leaves, and he was spotted purchasing children’s toys at the market.”
“And everyone knows that he’s got a pretty wife at home,” you finished.
You stared at each other.
“You—” you said.
Taking advantage of your momentary distraction, the boy gripped a fistful of dirt and threw it at your face. As you rolled away with a cough, he wiggled out from beneath you and made a mad dash for his pipe.
“Don’t get in my way! I’m going to steal their treasure, not you,” he declared, whirling around and lifting his pipe.
You spat out a lump of dirt-tinged dirt and shot him a dark grin. “Too late,” you taunted, wiggling the stolen pearl necklace at him. “What, you thought I was alone?”
Right on cue, a battle cry ripped through the air. A figure leaped onto the stone wall that surrounded the garden and launched itself at the boy, long black jacket flaring like wings.
“Get away from my brother!” shouted Ace as he tackled the boy to the ground.
They tumbled further into the bushes and disappeared around the corner. With a curse, you sprinted after them, only to find Ace trying to strangle the boy with his own collar while the boy used the pipe to fend your brother off, foot planted on Ace’s chest.
You slowed to a jog and watched them fall to the ground in the middle of the path, resorting to all of the petty children’s tricks that would get them banned from an official match.
“That’s my treasure!” the boy shouted, yanking at the ruby chain around Ace’s neck.
“I stole it, so it’s mine!”
“Well, I arrived first, so it’s mine!”
“Get ‘im, bro,” you cheered. “Use your elbows!”
Ace chomped on the boy’s hand. In retaliation, the boy reared back and slammed his head into Ace’s so hard that a huge thunk echoed through the garden. Both kids stumbled back, momentarily stunned.
You almost felt bad. Ace’s head won matches against solid concrete. But judging by your brother’s wince, the boy’s noggin was just as stubborn.
“Are you an animal? Why did you bite me?” the boy cried, holding his forehead.
“Why did you headbutt me?” retorted Ace.
“Because you were attacking me!”
“You started it!”
“Did not.”
“Did too! You had a pipe and everything.”
“Not that it helped,” the boy grumbled, and his teary blue-black eyes caught yours momentarily before he wrenched it away with a growl. “Your brother overwhelmed me easily.”
Ace preened. Then he frowned and punched the boy before he could grab for his pipe. “Quit trying to distract me!”
The hair on the back of your neck pricked.
You shot a glance behind you, then grabbed both kids by the back of their collars and hooked one under each arm. Then you leaped onto the top of the stone wall, balanced there on your tippy-toes, then tipped over to the other side just as a pair of guards darted around the corner in a frenzy. “Where’d they go?” you heard as you landed on the other side of the wall with a soft thump.
You tightened your grip around the boys and slid to the ground, pressing yourself as close to the wall as possible. Then you waited.
Ace wiggled, nervous. Under your other arm, the boy remained still as a bunny. You could feel his thin ribs beneath his stupid shirt, expanding and deflating slowly with his breaths.
When the wind stopped buzzing in your ear, you released your vice grip around the two boys’ waists. Ace jumped to his feet, while the boy stumbled away and held hands awkwardly in front of him. His pipe was on the other side of the wall, and he looked caught between the urge to retrieve it and the equally strong urge to launch himself at the two of you again. There was a large bruise blooming on his forehead that matched the one on Ace’s cheek.
“Who are you?” he hissed, eyes flicking from you to Ace and back. “How did you get in here?”
“Walked. Climbed a bit. Mostly walked,” you said.
“And that’s our line,” Ace retorted, massaging his bruise with a pout. He cast you an annoyed glance. “Why’d we even bring him with us?”
You picked your nose and contemplated your answer. Because he’s the only one who had the same thought as me, because he’s clever, because I know there some deep-seated trauma that he’s trying so hard to hide except it’s failing spectacularly and I want to be there when it falls apart.
You said, “Cuz I felt like it.”
“Hold on. You can’t just walk into High Town,” the boy said, incredulous. “There are rules and checkpoints and— How did you even find this place?”
Ace scoffed. “What, like it’s hard? There’s like, two roads.”
And now the boy was gaping openly, because there were definitely more than two roads in High Town. A traveling reporter once called it a lovely stroll for those looking to lose themselves in the cityscape, which was a flattering way of saying that a blind architect once spun himself in circles, put his pencil to paper, and built whatever came out of his notebook.
It was always fun to see someone realize just how ridiculous Ace’s honing radar was. It could be observation haki, but it could also be the first three years he spent in the forest struggling to even catch a rabbit. Go hungry for a couple of weeks and you learned to pay attention to the small things.
And to be honest? Goa Kingdom had nothing on New York.
“That can’t be right,” the boy muttered. “I spent weeks on my plan, and the two of you just stroll in here without thought?”
Ace began to frown. “We had a plan too, you know!” he said, heated. “That you ruined.”
“I can guarantee that my plan was five times more intricate than anything you could concoct,” he said with a sniff.
Ace gripped his fists, a dangerous gleam entering his eyes. “Yeah? Well, I bet my brother’s five times smarter than you are.”
“Well, I’m ten times faster!”
“He’s fifteen times stronger!”
“I’m twenty times quieter too,” you said, and the two leaped away from each other from where they were practically at each other’s throats. You pushed yourself to your feet with a dramatic stretch. “Really, is this how you treat your savior?”
The boy sputtered and blushed. His fingers darted up to finger his cravat, and you squinted at the strangely elegant movements. “M-My savior? I don’t even know you two! And might I remind you that we’re still in High Town! We could be dragged away and killed at any moment.”
“Nah,” you said, waving your hand at Ace. “Show him.”
“Yeah, yeah. Stop nagging.”
Ace fidgeted with his long black jacket. A few undone buttons later, and it unfurled into a long cloak, long enough to cover the two of you easily. You were pretty proud of that one. The needle and thread was Dadan’s, but the design was yours.
Ace clambered onto your shoulders. You grabbed your brother’s feet and let him settle down. He weighed far less than a tiger lord, so it was pretty comfortable. He grabbed the jacket-turned-cloak and drew it over the two of you, shutting you in near darkness.
“What are you doing?” came the boy’s confused voice.
Ace stared at him. “Exactly what it looks like?” he said flatly.
The boy’s eyes darted towards the end of the street, where the path forked into a circle of mansions with overlapping guard rotations, a death trap for aspiring thieves. Determination and resignation tightened his mouth. You peeked past the cloak and laughed. “You know that’s not gonna work.”
The boy frowned.
Ace leaned his arms on the top of your head and rested his chin on his crossed wrists. You felt him run his gaze over the boy, all narrow and disbelieving with a tinge of wary respect. The boy had been vicious with that pipe, and there was nothing Ace respected if not strength and a willingness to bite where it hurt. “We taking him with us?”
“Yeah,” you said, watching the boy’s wariness turn to surprise.
Ace grunted. “He better not slow us down,” he said, and that was as good of an approval as you were ever gonna get.
The boy whirled around with a huff, patting down his tattered blue coat and adjusting his gray-stained cravat. “There must be a catch,” he said, eying the two of you.
You did your best to shrug with Ace sitting on your shoulders. “You wanna take your chances with High Town, be my guest. But just know Ace and I are pretty generous with our bounties.” You wiggled your hand, showing off the pearl necklace wrapped around your wrist. “Whadya say? Wanna work with us?”
The boy’s eyes narrowed into blue-black slits. His gaze lingered on Ace, who was slumped over your head like you were his glorified pillow. “And your brother doesn’t mind?”
Ace’s jaw cracked with the size of his yawn. “Let’s just go already,” he groaned. “We’re wasting daylight.”
“We can settle things once we’re outta here,” you added. “How about it?”
The boy lowered his head and appeared to think. Finally, he nodded. “What’s your plan?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” you said cheerfully. Ace drew the long cloak around the two of you until all that was visible of you was a sliver of strawberry blond hair. “We run.”
“This is insane,” the boy whispered as the three of you edged carefully through the nooks and crannies of High Town, following the path back to the town center. “This isn’t a plan at all.”
“Shut up,” hissed Ace.
Even with the cloak blocking most of your vision, you could tell that boy was bristling. “I will not! And what are you doing with that cloak?”
“They’ll be looking for a couple of kids, not an adult,” you explained. Even if said adult was a bit lumpy, lopsided, and walked like two kids stacked on top of each other. “Art of misdirection.”
“It was my idea,” Ace bragged.
The boy fell silent, and for a second the three of you traveled through the winding streets of High Town in blissful silence. He had startlingly quiet footsteps, darting from wall to alley to street to alley with only a slight huff when he landed. You wondered if he trained for it or if it came naturally to him, like how Ace took to the trees like a monkey.
“How long have you two been thieves?” he asked suddenly.
Ace bristled, and you grabbed his ankle before he could leap at the boy. “Not thieves! Pirates.”
“We’re pillaging,” you added. “Relax. Just stick with us and we’ll be outta here in no time.”
“How can you be sure that we won’t be caught?” the boy asked.
Ace’s heel dug into your right shoulder. Obediently, you swerved to the right and narrowly avoided running into a stack of barrels.
“Cuz we scouted the place beforehand,” you said. “High Town’s practically empty today. This will take us directly through the town center without anyone being the wiser.” You could already hear the distant murmur of noise, like a thousand people clamoring for food at the same time.
The boy’s footsteps stopped. “Pardon?”
“High Town. Town center. Edge Town. Gray Terminal,” you said, slow enough to be mocking. “Get it?”
“It’s a straight shot through the kingdom. It’s how we got here in the first place,” Ace added. “Bet those stupid nobles are regrettin’ taking that vacation now!”
“You’re wrong.”
You stopped and turned on your heel. The boy had stopped in the middle of the alleyway, his shoulders trembling. He lifted his head, and the genuine anguish on his face gave you pause.
“You’re wrong,” he repeated.
You weren’t fast enough this time. Ace hopped off your shoulders and landed with his fists clenched. You sighed and gathered the cloak back into a jacket, tossing it at your brother. He caught it and shrugged it back on. “What’s your problem?” he snapped. “We’re literally halfway to Edge Town. You can hear it from here.”
The boy shook his head. “That’s not Edge Town. And you’re not saving me, you’re leading us to our deaths.”
You stilled. “Explain,” you said, and the sharpness of your voice quieted even Ace’s complaints.
The boy didn’t have time to.
“Hey! Who’s there?”
You fought not to spin around or make yourself seem obviously guilty. A pair of armored men strode towards the alley. Each of them carried swords, which would be fine except that now you had two people to protect, and the boy was already backing up, clearly fearful of something other than the fight.
“Who’s there?” the first guard repeated, squinting through his helmet. He hadn’t spotted the three of you yet, which was good but wouldn’t last long if you didn’t come up with a solution right now.
You stepped in front of the boy, both to hide him from sight and to force his frantic gaze to focus on you. “Explain,” you repeated. Armed guards never patrolled public areas, strictly under the purview of the nobles they were employed under.
Unless—
The boy pressed himself to the wall like he wanted to meld into the shadows. “It’s the fourth day of the fourth month,” he said, hands flexing on his thighs.
The realization hit you like Garp’s fist.
“Shit,” you said.
“What?” said Ace, head whipping back and forth from you back to the boy. “What is he talking about?”
You didn’t have a calendar in the forest. Why would you need it? You had the sun and the moon and Ace’s hand in yours. So it never occurred to you that the reason High Town was so empty was because it was a holiday, where everyone—regardless of status—would be gathering at the town center. You had taken it as a blessing instead of a very obvious warning, like the hiss of a rattlesnake’s tail or the tide receding to reveal a spread of pretty shells before the tsunami.
“We’re still in High Town,” the boy said. “Those sounds you’re hearing? It’s the Lantern Festival, not— not Edge Town."
In other words, you were nowhere near the Terminal.
You dug the heels of your hands into your eyes until bright blots of light flashed across your vision. “I’m an idiot,” you hissed as the two guards drew closer, step by damned step.
"How did you not know? It's one of the biggest events of the year, people have been talking about for weeks," the boy said, incredulous.
"Yeah, well, I was busy, okay? And I wasn't thinking," you said, because your image of the Lantern Festival had always been bright reds, crowds of family, firecrackers and sticky rice dumplings—not Goa's subtle yellows and blues.
“Did you hear me?” the older guard repeated, his hand drifting to his sword. “Hey!”
You grabbed Ace and the boy’s wrists and pulled them deeper into the alley. Wouldn’t help much in the long run, but it gave you enough time to hiss instructions into their ears. “We’re splitting up. Kid, take my brother and meet me at the mouth of the Gray Terminal. I’ll buy us some time.”
“What? No!” Ace blurted out.
The boy’s eyes bulged. “You’re going to fight them?”
You flexed your hand and peered around the corner. Two men, one in his forties, one in his early twenties. Armor was minimal but the bulk gave them an edge. You’d have a harder time knocking them to the ground or fitting your fingers through the cracks. “What, you want us to lie down and wait for them to kill us?”
“There— There has to be a better way.” The boy scrubbed his face. “Just. Let me think of something.”
“Be my guest. But,” you said, and bared your teeth in a grin, “if it gets my brother killed, they won’t remember you in the history books.”
“Fuck that!” Ace grabbed your collar and dragged you towards him with a snarl. Anger flushed his cheeks, making his freckles stand in dark contrast to his sun-tanned skin. “You’re dumber than me if you think you’re doing this without me.”
You placed a hand on his chest and shoved him to the ground. He fell back with a yelp, and you stomped your foot next to his ear, sending a plume of dust into the air. He went still as his hair settled back over his forehead, jostled by the mini-shockwave your foot had sent through the ground.
“My mistake,” you told him, “my responsibility.”
Ace glared at you. You blinked away an image of magma and missing torsos and charred organs. “I won’t let you.”
“I’m not asking,” you said.
A silent step, one that you only noticed because you had kept an ear out. “We’re not confronting them,” the boy said. You glanced towards him and were briefly startled by the placid nothing on his expression. He wasn’t exactly ugly, with his thick blond hair and wide eyes, but now you had the distinct impression that he could slip away and you wouldn’t be able to pick him from a lineup of similar children. “Wait here.”
His posture rippled. Suddenly his shoulders rolled back and his chest thrust forward, chin held so high that you’d think he saw nothing but the sky. With large and deliberate movements, he stepped out of the alley and strode towards the guards.
Ah, you thought as Ace crawled to his feet, gaping at the boy’s new confidence, there he is.
“You!” he said, high and shrieking.
The guards were already wincing, tension dropping from their shoulders. The older man gripped his sword hilt and tried not to stare as this tiny force of nature stormed up to them with all of the gravitas of a man ten times his size.
“How can I help you…” The man’s eyes flicked up and down. The boy’s clothes were filthy, yes, but that self-assured arrogance of a noble’s son was impossible to fake, like he expected them to drop to their knees and lick his boots when he gave the order. “...young lord?” he finished, a laugh bubbling in his voice.
The boy put his hands on his hips and sniffed. “You can help me by not being a blithering idiot,” he said, and oh, he was good.Even his accent had changed, becoming haughty and crisp, enunciating every syllable like he’d learned them from an inbred tutor rather than the cacophony of everyday conversation. “It’s due to your incompetence that I’m suffering!”
Yeah, okay. You believed it. He might’ve looked ridiculous standing there with the bruise on his forehead and the dirt smeared over his face, but there was no denying that bratty attitude or that lofty way he held himself. Court manners were damn hard to fake.
“What’s he doing?” Ace whispered. You shushed him.
The younger guard giggled, nervous. The older guard shot him a look, then bent down to look the boy in the eye, showing him the respect that he assumed was deserved. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Some filthy Gray Terminal rats,” and the boy spat out the word like the worst kind of curse, the ones uttered on death beds and inscribed in blood, “have made their way into the city. They even did this to me.” He tugged at the collar of his shirt and gagged. “Look at me. I’m as disgusting as the rest of them!”
Ace bristled. “Oh, we’ll see who’s filthy when I kill him!”
“Hold on,” you said, blocking him with an arm. “He’s doing us a favor.”
“By betraying us?”
You stayed silent.
The guards exchanged a glance. “We did receive a report that someone had broken into the Blanchette mansion earlier this morning,” the older guard said. “Could that be what you’re referring to, young lord?”
“Don’t know,” the boy said bluntly, and you nearly laughed. He had the casual selfishness of the nobles down to a T. “But if it was, I wouldn’t be surprised. Rats will be rats.”
The younger guard still looked hesitant. “Forgive me, sir, but may I know what happened?”
And here was the climax, the magnum opus, Lady Macbeth coaxing Macbeth to do the deed. The boy lowered his voice and delivered his lines perfectly. “Are you questioning me?” Then he stomped his foot and started to shriek, playing the perfect part of the sullied noble’s son. “I’ve had it! I’ve been dragged around the city, covered in mud like a commoner, and now I can’t even get some peasants to do my bidding? What are your names? I’ll have you flogged before the entire kingdom!”
Perfect. Didn’t answer why he was dressed like one of you rather than a proper little princeling, but his behavior would tickle enough amusement that the guards would rather indulge him than protest or dig for proper answers.
The boy said, “I want them to suffer for what they put me through. Send them back to the Gray Terminal.” Then he pointed in the opposite direction and demanded, “After them!”
Ace’s mouth fell open. Understanding glinted in his eyes. “Oh. Oh. ” His mouth stretched into a maniacal grin, and he cackled.
“That’s our cue," you said.
Like you’d done hundreds of times before, you threw Ace onto the window ledge, where he then turned around and hauled you up with him. The two of you climbed to the roof and then you were flying.
Ace’s laugh danced through the air as he darted past chimneys and jumped off roof tiles with the simple delight of a seven-year old born to run. The wind blew his hair back, revealing his sloping forehead and his ridiculously gleeful grin. His jacket billowed behind him like wings.
You kept an eye on the street below you, catching glimpses of blue and yellow darting through the alleys in the opposite direction. “Hey, Ace,” you called as the two of you leaped from one balcony to another.
“Huh?”
“Got room for a third?”
“That was pretty good, Your Highness,” you said as you landed on the ground with a grunt.
The boy concealed his surprise well, but it was impossible to miss the jolt of his fingers as he gripped for a pipe that didn’t exist. He only relaxed when Ace hopped off of the roof and landed in the alley beside you.
“Oh. You two made it.” Then he scowled. “Don’t call me that.”
You laughed. “Don’t tell me you didn’t have fun with your little act back there,” you said, watching him wipe a line of sweat from his forehead.
His hand was trembling as he leaned against the wall and tried to catch his breath. “Appear strong when you are weak.”
“And weak when you are strong,” you finished. “Sun Tzu.”
Behind you, Ace made a confused noise. “What are you two nerds talking about?”
“Don’t be jealous that we’re smarter than you,” you said. “Hey, catch.”
The boy’s eyes fluttered, and you caught him before his face smashed against the ground. Beneath all that grime was the faint smell of expensive perfume and salt.
You swept the boy into your arms, hands hooked beneath his knees and back, like you used to do for Ace when he fell asleep in the middle of a hunt and didn’t wake up until dinner. He was thin and light, and beneath all that pomp and fluff of his white shirt and long coat were ribs that you could practically count. He was desperate, had to be in order to barge into High Town for a pearl or two. No one in the Gray Terminal would go near him, not with that outfit, and the same reason barred him from the town center. After all, what good was an abandoned noble’s brat?
You looked down at his face, really looked. Blond hair in tight curls, though they’d probably straighten if he grew it out. Black eyes, almost blue in the right light, though it was hard to focus on the color and shape of his eyes when the rest of his features were so small and gaunt.
Passing out after a short sprint, pft. You needed to introduce him to Garp. And a good meal.
“What’s your name?” you asked.
“Sabo,” the boy said.
The world clicked into place.
“Nice to meet you Sabo,” you said, smothering a smile. Finally. Finally. “This is Ace. My name is Abel, and you’re coming with us.”
He grunted his acquiescence, too tired to pretend not to care. You shot Ace a grin, who threw his hands up in the air and started the trek back to the Gray Terminal.
Seriously though. How were you supposed to know that he was Sabo unless he wore his stupid top hat?