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Something had run afoul, but such often was the case when raids were involved. When cornered, people became easily frightened creatures, bolting like spooked deer at first provocation. People trying to hide things, illicit things, lashed out even more violently and when the human capacity for harm entered the equation, the chance for slip-ups on all sides skyrocketed. Unfortunately for those on the wrong side of the law, they rarely accounted for a grown allosaurus among their enemy’s ranks. And it was that kind of gross miscalculation that netted men like Diez Drake an impressive wide winning streak.
A white uniform sewn for resilience, made of thick cotton and canvas stretched and groaned as it reconfigured around his shifting body, as pale skin gave way to dark scales.
Tonight his men had sprung upon a clan of lesser-known villains who had dug their heels in deep on a territory, likely hoping the chill of the North would drive back anyone looking to snoop on their operations. Through some horrific lack of foresight, their upper echelons had completely overlooked that maybe the weather had little to do with peacekeeping duty.
In any case, when the doors of their warehouse had blown, the streets were already clogged with a rush of bodies–pirate and civilian alike–as canisters of toxins blew, shaking the block with each new explosion.
What a mess. What a bloody, goddamn mess.
Still, a man to do his homework, Drake had known what sort of poison the pirates were attempting to brew up and had instructed his men accordingly. “Masks up and stay on guard! Once you’re in, I don’t care if you have to hesitate on that trigger–do not fire unless you know exactly what’s down the end of your muzzle! I will not have any civilian injuries on my watch!” As his men complied and rushed into the billowing gas, Drake huffed–exhaling sharply as the scent of it tickled his tongue. Raising his head above the threat of the encroaching cloud, his massive barrel chest expanded as he drew in a deep breath. Then ducking low, he sulked in after them, his long tail outstretched behind him, swaying ever-so-slightly with each heavy footstep.
It took embarrassingly long to round up all the offenders, but between poor visibility and civilians pleading for medical assistance when he had little he could do but beg them to wait for services that had long since been called…it was less than ideal, but with the vermin off the streets and shoals, the greater good had been served and–
Oh. Hello there.
Movement caught at the corner of his eye and he pivoted just in time to watch a decorated body, not unlike all the others he’d helped take down already, racing off toward a back alley. For whatever reason, pirates loved a good excuse to break into theming. Regardless of their gimmick, with teeth bared, Drake launched after the goon, his pace thunderous against the pavement of the street. If he could remember, he’d file with the city to help reimburse them for anything cracked–but for now…
Distantly, the sound of cannon fire ripped through the night and Drake’s pulse fluttered with the anxiety that they’d missed a pack of fools somewhere–but so far out, he had no way of telling what side had begun firing. The unknown element sparked the worry within him that much brighter. But with a threat already in front of him, he tightened his focus and lunged, serrated teeth shining in the lamplight as he roared, jaws snapping at the man’s body. The pirate howled, his voice cracking as loud as his bones when Drake caught him by an arm and whipped the pirate down onto the ground with what was likely excessive force.
“And stay down.” His nostrils flared as blood red reptilian eyes narrowed sharply. There’d be no more fight from Drake for this cretin tonight–he still drew breath, though his arm was badly mangled. He’d find his succor behind bars at the hands of a military physician. As Drake returned his human form, dusting off his coat, he took note that a group of soldiers from a nearby base had finally arrived to collect the garbage that Drake and his fellows had so lovingly gathered up for them.
A brassy bastard with too much swagger and too little decorum strode up to the downed pirate and offered little but a glance down his nose to him as he addressed Drake. “ Is this all of them?” he snorted, a smug grin on his thin lips. “The East really knows how to funnel our funds if this kind of work is what we get after paying through the nose for all that fancy training of yours.”
If the officer was trying to needle some kind of reaction out of Drake, he wouldn’t get it. Though the jibe, however the man intended it to sound, felt like an awfully convincing argument for Drake to flash his claws til the brute reconsidered…but that was likely what the man wanted–to steal a stripe of satisfaction in looking at a monster, calling it the same to its face, and winning proof that he'd been right to do so all along.
Born and bred, North Blue through and through, it was Drake’s skill alone that had gotten him called to the East for better training and later still, the Devil Fruit that had gifted him his zoan abilities. It wasn’t his fault if the officer before him couldn’t boast the same.
“Captain!” An ensign Drake didn’t recognize, likely a part of the officer’s company, rushed forward, “There’s someone in the alleyway!” –and while it pleasantly ruffled Drake’s figurative feathers that the young soldier addressed him, the actual leader of this operation, instead of the man who outranked even Drake–the idea of having missed yet another pirate made him bristle. Before the over-flocked officer could sprinkle out another trail of snide commentary, Drake took off.
He’d expected a pirate decked in the same silly flamboyance as all the others. What he got was a slender body dressed in jeans and a hoodie, tucked up against the brickwork, trembling in the shadows cast by the walls around them–a civilian in all likelihood, possibly even chased by the man Drake had just taken down.
When his encroaching footsteps did nothing to draw them out of their daze, concern took him and he kneeled and tugged off a glove, “Are you alright?” While not formally trained in field medicine, he’d interjected himself on enough civilians tonight to at least gauge the severity of poisonings– anything he could report back to doctors would be better than nothing. His fingers glanced against the stranger’s neck. The heat beneath them staggered Drake and he recoiled as the stranger froze. Instead, he settled it against their single bared forearm.
The stranger hiccuped when they found no danger waiting in Drake, and a pitiful keening sound escaped them. “I’m a doctor and I was trying to help. I was…” Their voice cracked as a frightened wail pushed out. Clutched to their chest, they gripped a pouch, nondescript. “I have the antidote, I just need to administer it. Officer, please I don’t want to die here.”
Drake’s heart ached. Judging from the lack of more appropriate winter wear, they’d likely rushed out at the first sign of trouble for their clinic. And now armed with the tools to help, this had happened…
With everyone else he’d waded through as he’d tried to make sense of the destruction wrought by the pirates, without the knowledge or means to help, he’d been forced to step aside–only able to offer up his desperate and genuine hope that help would arrive in time for those people who’d caught the bad side of a lungful of that vile concoction that still hung on the air in pockets through the neighborhood. Turning away from those in need hurt quite like nothing else. Here though, he might be able to act.
Breathless as the doctor cried, Drake hesitated only momentarily before easing the pouch from their grasp, voice low and tone resolute. “Tell me what to do.”
It took them a moment to collect themselves, but within a few deep breaths, the shaky and fearful stream of tears slowed. While they didn’t subside completely, it was a start, “Put the needle head on the syringe, roll up my other sleeve…”
Easy enough.
The sleeve was first–the easiest by far, even though it had to roll all the way to their shoulder. Once set up, as Drake loosened the strings of the pouch, he peered in–a feat made abysmally difficult with the poor lighting, but with some effort, he managed to pick out the pieces his task entailed. Removing the syringe and needle from their separate packaging, Drake slotted them together and uncapping the vial. Pushing the needle through the resistance at its head and down into the liquid within, he drew slowly, careful to keep it within sight for the doctor, and stopped only with their nod of acceptance.
“--follow the curve of my arm. Do not inject in the dip, it’s too close to the nerve. You want it above that, in the deltoid.” For a moment, it felt as if the doctor would succumb again to fear, as a fresh shudder rolled up on them, bringing fresher tears sliding down their shadow-obscured face, with teeth gritted through a wave of all-too-apparent nausea as they fought to deliver their instructions.
Drake couldn’t fail them.
His fingers pressed up and up further still along the doctor’s arm until he earned another curt nod for his efforts. His mouth dry, he licked his lips nervously as he held the syringe over the site, “This is going to sting.”
His doctor, weary, could only snort at the remark, “Of course it is.”
Drake worked quickly. The needle, partially dulled by the vial draw, took more effort than either would have liked to puncture skin and the flinch it stole from the doctor sent a fresh pang of guilt through the marine. He depressed the plunger all the same, slow, but firm.
With the syringe emptied, Drake withdrew the needle and resheathed it before returning the whole lot back into the pouch. He wondered errantly why the doctor had only a single needle on them, but assumed they meant to meet with colleagues better stocked for the emergency. When Drake’s attentions turned back to them, the strings of the pouch tugged tightly, he found himself once again, painfully lacking in experience. The doctor had slumped against the wall, silent, but for their soft breaths.
Depositing the pouch back into their lap, Drake settled himself against the wall as well and sidled in closely, reaching to twine their fingers together. While awkward in many ways socially, comfort, he felt, was universal. Go slow–he believed–go earnest, and your efforts would be felt.
“What do I do now?” Drake asked, hushed. “I’ve never…I’ve never done this before.” The admittance, though obvious in truth, laid his anxieties bare. The doctor needed care and rest, and here they sat, babysitting him through their own treatment. It was humiliating in a way, to see how little he truly knew and how narrow the scope of his ‘help’ extended without the aid of others. But so long as the doctor spoke and led him, Drake would act without second thought.
Their head tilted in and nested against his shoulder. In turn, Drake mirrored them and leaned in, lips just shy of their temple.
“Just make sure I don’t die.” It was an honest response, but the faint twinge of sarcasm from the doctor summoned up a silent chuckle in Drake’s chest. “For starters,” they continued, “--keep talking to me. It can be about anything, I just need to focus on something to stay conscious...”
Drake mulled over his choices. Immediately, he considered and shot down all of the day’s events leading to this moment, as well as current events and the weather. Too used to swallowing down all his own hobbies and interests, he instead turned a question toward the doctor. “Your accent is different.” he noted, “You’re not from the North Blue are you?” It was a beautiful lilt that rolled fluidly off the other’s tongue. He was certain he’d heard it before–perhaps from one of the men his father served alongside once upon a time…
However, when the doctor stiffened, dread found itself a comfortable place knotted in Drake’s stomach.
“My parents were from Dressrosa, they…” His fear was well-founded it seemed, and the doctor’s breath hitched as they sniffled, burdened by the weight of memory. “They were exiled, unable to go home, so they settled here.”
Even as the doctor spoke, Drake found himself compelled to move. He wound an arm around their narrow quivering shoulders, practically drawing the other into his lap.
“They were why I became a doctor,” Even with treatment, even with their head tucked neatly beneath Drake’s chin and their slim body nestled against his broader, bulkier frame, he still felt no closer to soothing them. “--they both caught a sickness from living in poverty and no one would treat them.”
Only hindsight was 20/20. There was no way Drake could have known, but all the same… Nearly a whisper, “I’m so sorry.” He held them like that, curled protectively around them–a shield made of little more than trained muscle honed with fires of hyper-focused intention–but even that could never change the past. He knew that far too well.
But the small body in his arms sighed softly, somehow able to find a measure of calm despite the storm Drake had unintentionally pulled them into. So he tried again.
Since taking the doctor’s hand, Drake had never let go. Acutely aware of the difference in their sizes, he considered how it must feel to have their long, elegant fingers locked between his thicker ones. With a fresh flash of guilt, he shifted the position to cup their hands together, palm to palm. It was there that he noticed the sight of black ink upon the other’s dark skin, though he couldn’t make out exactly what it said. The fact that he’d begun touching the other–his thumb swiping gently across might have had something to do with it.
“...may I ask about the knuckle tattoos?”
Another shock of tenseness braced Drake for the worst, but instead…while edged in bitterness, the doctor delivered their answer with more grace than the last.
“It was a reminder…it’s a little edgy, but doctors face death every day, so I wanted to have that reminder on me always.” They laughed softly. Drake couldn’t glean if there was joy somewhere within the memory or if it was a thread of embarrassment creeping in upon them, but when they rolled a sleeve down and scrubbed their face against it, Drake unwound himself and quickly patted himself down.
Somewhere on his body–somewhere he was sure he had it…
It was an awful thing–a poorly fired joke aimed at him by other cadets in his year. Against his will, they’d dragged him off-base the moment they’d gained clearance to leave and hauled him to an island hosting some wild sort of disco joint. Never very social, he certainly didn’t want to get up and dance with the woman who’d orchestrated the outing and after experiencing his father’s ugly decline up close and personal, the last thing he wanted to do was drink –which meant the equally anti-social cadet with them would have to booze by his lonesome. Then between her cigarettes and his cigars, it eventually drove Drake to another table entirely.
The female cadet sauntered off to hunt for a more receptive dance partner and the male cadet disappeared shortly after. Finally, as alone as one could be on an island brimming with crazy people, it left Drake in an exhausted slump in his seat. The music had been too loud, the lights too bright. He wanted to leave–but then the male cadet returned, cigars prominently displayed by his smug grin.
Drake had sighed deeply, more concerned with the twinge of his building headache than any of the other’s bullshit, “What do you want?”
That cadet was, unfortunately, the culmination of Drake’s sexual experiences at the time–and those spanned the length of a single evening and ended with both parties folded into mutual dissatisfaction and Drake booted out of the other’s dorm room. Regardless of their false start and how brutally it had crumbled under its own weight, the cadet and his self-satisfied grin remained as he held something out to Drake.
“Peace offering from the gift shop.” he’d insisted, though never disclosed which one of the several that dotted the lots between food stalls and dance floors.
Drake had eyed the bag with brief suspicion before he finally caved and snatched the thin paper bag from the other. Inside, innocuous enough, was a dark blue handkerchief. His gaze flickered back to his classmate, confusion mottled deeply into his reply, “Thank you?”
The man’s expression never once dimmed, and for that, Drake felt real fear.
“There’s some kind of code that goes with them. Different colors for different shit you’re willing to put up with when you’re into men.”
Drake’s skin, though sunburnt from days of drills spent outdoors, still managed to blanch.
“That one,” he stressed, “-- is for when you wanna fuck. Or be fucked. I don’t know how to show the difference, I wasn’t paying attention.”
Drake not only recovered from the pallid shock, but further still, turned a violent shade of red as he emptied the bag, balled it up, and pitched it at the other’s head through a burst of the man’s laughter.
Somewhere, deeper in a breast pocket than Drake remembered, his fingers caught the embroidered edge of a well-worn piece of fabric. The shoddy stitching had been his addition–a mark to prove his ownership in case the article shifted hands accidentally in the wash. Overall, it had seen better days, but since gifted to Drake, it had tended to scrapes, bloody noses, a battery of weapon-cleaning in the days before he’d settled firmly on martial weapons…the list went on. About the only thing he hadn’t used it for was its intended purpose. And today the list would grow, though only partially out of spite.
“Use that instead,” he pressed it into the doctor’s hand. “--it will likely feel a bit better than your sleeve.”
Meekly, the doctor accepted and blotted their cheeks, wiping their face dry again. For a moment they fell silent, but before Drake’s worry could bubble up for another round, the doctor withdrew further from him and the handkerchief in their hands disappeared into the front pocket of the hoodie. Drake frowned. That…that was his.
“Officer, I think I should be able to go home now.”
Home? Hadn’t they been out to help people?
“Thank you so much.”
That was it, the clear sign of an exit. Concern surged fresh and Drake rose to stand alongside the doctor as decorum blew past the need for concise answers, and instead demanded him act less a brutish soldier, less a bleeding heart, and more of the kind of gentleman worthy of his rank.
“It’s Dory.” he blurted–it tumbled out unbidden and awkward as a stumbling fawn. “I mean,” He couldn’t even begin to explain where the old name had risen from, but once free, he couldn’t stop. “--that’s my name,” His voice rattled like cartwheels over cobblestone. “I should have told you sooner…that was…”
The doctor’s posture cracked–where once was wilting submission and weariness, coiled tension now reigned. “Thank you,” they smiled tensely, the expression hidden but tainted clearly into their tone. “-- Dory .” The punctuation sliced him like a knife between the ribs. Stupid, foolass–
As they tread back a step, Drake pressed forward into their space. Maybe he could–no, he should accompany them. What if they ran into something unsavory again? What it–
“Please understand I have to hurry and get the antidote to more people. Just…go do what you do best.”
Again, his words poured out hot and earnest, and his brows knit inward with his worry as the doctor backstepped beyond his reach again. “Will I see you again?”
The poor thing seemed about ready to vibrate out of their skin, continuously thrown by every verbal spear Drake threw. “I dunno?” Another step, then another. Their arms and shoulders both ratcheted up in a sharp-edged shrug. “Maybe?”
Behind Drake, someone called his name. He turned to find one of his men waiting. When he turned back, the doctor was gone…
His double take between his Petty Officer and the empty space left in the doctor’s wake nearly gave him whiplash. “Did you just– did you see?”
Looking between their captain and the far, open end of the alley, all they could do was raise an eyebrow, “See…what?”
Gone. They were really gone.
Drake deflated, “...there was a doctor here with me.” He thought back, grasping at straws, “An ensign….they pointed me down here and–”
“Captain Diez, sir–I came to tell you that all medical personnel on loan from local clinics have finally been accounted for–that we can leave.”
The gears in his head clanked around–heavy and unwieldy. He refused to believe they’d lied to him…but then who were they? Where did they go?
“But they–”
“Captain…?” The Petty Officer cocked their head questioningly. “--you sure you didn’t get a hit of gas? A few different kinds got out in the scuffle, and judging by some of the symptoms we noted, we’re pretty sure at least one was hallucinogenic…”
With each new word, Drake suddenly felt more adrift than he had in a long while. It had all felt real. But he’d also gone in unmasked, regardless of held breath. Though tough as old shoe leather, even zoans weren’t invincible. He’d have to submit himself for an examination just in case, but… He swore under breath and signaled for the other to follow. If it was time to withdraw, there were protocol to follow first.
As he strode along buckled streets in long, sweeping strides, Drake patted down his uniform. The breast pocket on his coat was empty, though it was shaped to fit a handkerchief that had lived there for a woefully long time…