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He’s surprised when the thing that cuts through the terror and exhaustion and overwhelming feeling that death has come for him is a single, silly word.
Boy.
He shouldn’t be focused on that. He should be afraid of the death that those pirates are visiting on one another -- His father and his men turning on one another amid the interlopers, their eyes wide and their voices begging for help he had no idea how to give.
He’s dealt with a lot. Never before today has he truly considered running. He’s thought about it sure, an idle fantasy on the bad days. But something, invisible iron, has always kept him bound.
Until today.
Today he runs as the shining bars, slender as needles, descend from the sky and sever the ties he has to his father and the rest of the crew. He runs through a blank world of snow, and finds the marines and while he isn’t sure they can or will help, he’s reached his breaking point.
Anything is better than what he’s left behind.
So he escapes the crew. Escapes his father. He shuts out their screams and runs to the marines. And they call his arrival over their communication devices to the other teams. They say they’ve taken him in.
And there is that word.
Boy indicates a child. Someone who shouldn’t have had to go through this much already in their life. It’s foolish to focus on this, he knows. He’s gone through terrible things. Others, younger, have even faced worse.
But still, the word sticks.
Boy.
He’s almost 20.
He knows how this looks -- how he looks. Hunger and neglect do their work well. It is not his fault and there’s no reason to feel offended, belittled, humiliated.
But he does.
He huddles, waiting to be brought back to the ship. Wondering what awaits him, once they realize their mistake. He may be heading for prison. He may be heading for death. He may be heading for clemency.
He cannot bring himself to care.
At least, he supposes, if there must be a boy here, it’s one of appearance and not reality. He cannot imagine being stuck there as a true child.
But he supposes that much like himself, the only thing a child could hope for here, with the snow and the cage and some dark power turning people against one another, is to escape.
The Drake who serves Kaido barely remembers that other Drake --strong but small and always accused of being unwilling to do what is needed. This Drake does what is needed, again and again, in spite of all within him railing against it. He never wonders if this Drake would have gone back to try to save the crew from that cage.
This Drake would have left long before that horrible day.
This Drake also knows how slim the span is when a chance is given. And he knows whatever is being planned outside the walls of the capitol, it stands a better chance to work if the Surgeon of Death is out there to help with it.
He’s had enough time to learn some of the weaknesses and many of the strengths of the Headliners, so he knows this move carries a terrible amount of risk. From down the hall, he listens to the echo of the interrogation, still in its early stages. Hawkins is meticulous and patient and, occasionally, cruel. He must be, to effectively wield his devil fruit to its furthest extent.
But Law is a stubborn bastard, from everything Drake knows, which is admittedly not terribly much. He’s heard some from Coby, and some through the grapevine, but his own observations are limited and sparse. He believes he’s only been in any proximity to the man once, years ago, in the shadow of the Red Line. A tenuous connection.
Though … he thinks he remembers hearing the man is from North Blue, like Drake himself. And like Hawkins, now that he thinks about it.
Maybe the stubbornness comes from something in the sea there.
Drake inches closer to the corner. This won’t be easy, but Hawkins has relaxed his guard, or maybe saved all his alertness for the danger in front of him. That makes it easier, but it won’t make it easy -- especially if Drake wants to continue his work here until the last.
He stands and listens -- words, too low to make out, a small sound of pain. There is always the admonition to wait for the perfect moment, but Sengoku told him once that the right moment is a fable. Perfection doesn’t exist for any plan. At some point, he needs to just go.
But still, he hesitates. Maybe it’s the cumulation of everything, catching up with him. All those acts he didn’t want to do. An eternity with a look on his face like none of the cruelty he’s made to commit bothers him.
He feels, though he cannot be sure, that Hawkins is the same way. A man who doesn’t want to be here, doing acts he way or may not hate to keep himself alive. He can’t bring himself to fully see either of those men as an enemy.
But he must stop the one. So the other may be able to help stop the threat hanging over all three of them.
Three children of North Blue, on three different sides, with a common enemy.
He closes his eyes.
He moves.
It’s over quickly. It has to be. More than a few seconds and Hawkins will know it’s him. Maybe knows anyway -- Drake isn’t sure even now what the cards tell him.
Law doesn’t exactly thank him, and Drake’s fine with that. He’s not helping him, exactly. Just giving him an opportunity to get back out of the capital and fulfill whatever plans are in motion outside of the capitol. Opening the way once.
This once, and no more.