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The first time that Killer cooks for Kidd, it’s a pouring night on the docks. Killer has managed to light up a small fire in a barrel and to build a complex grill woven with wire when he notices that he’s been observed. Someone is moving in the shadows; the rain drowns his small stealthy steps, but it’s clear that the visitor is getting closer and closer to the shed Killer had found shelter under.
He returns to his dinner without fear; he stabs with some sticks the sausages that he had fought the butcher’s dog for and he puts them on the improvised grill. The dripping fat makes the fire crackle briskly. Just when he’s about to check the cooking of his meal, he’s attacked from behind. A scream pierces his ears while puny arms and legs wrap around his back, and soon enough he finds himself with a blade pressed against his throat.
“The weenies or your life,” is the threat that is being blown in his ear, and Killer would laugh if only he still knew how. Instead, he bends his arm backwards and grabs the kid by the base of his neck, like a cat does with her kittens. The little criminal shrieks in protest and tries to wiggle out, but he’s promptly dropped in the dust. The knife falls next to him without a sound.
“Not a clever move,” Killer says while picking up a sausage from the barrel, “Attacking someone who’s stronger and bigger than you.”
The kid retrieves the knife and pockets it with an outraged expression, as if he’s the one who’s been offended. “But I am strong,” he retorts, “And I’ll be bigger than you.”
“Okay,” Killer concedes, because there’s no point in arguing with someone who just put a knife against your throat. “If you asked me, I would’ve simply given it to you, but since you attacked me, you must earn your reward,” he adds, shaking the skewer with the sausage in front of the kid’s eyes.
The boy makes a face. “You’re weird,” he says, but doesn't run away; instead, he waits, wide-eyed and with his lip between his teeth, to hear what Killer has to say. He doesn’t know why he’s doing this. He should’ve just frightened the boy enough to stop him from procuring food with such a stupid strategy. Or he should just give him the sausage and tell him to get lost.
“Fight me again,” he says instead, “Like an honest man. If you win, we’ll share dinner.”
The boy doesn't ask what would happen if he lost. The knife is in his hand again, and he adjusts his scrawny body in an attack posture. Killer takes a look at the reddish mane on his head and at his ragged clothes. He must be a few years younger than him.
“Ready?” he asks, and he lifts up the skewer to the sky. The kid doesn’t wait a second longer: he launches himself against Killer, screaming, and the second later he’s biting the dust.
Killer takes a bite of his sausage. “You can’t win if you don’t know how to defend.”
The boy, meanwhile, has gotten himself up. He spats and throws at Killer what he certainly thinks is a menacing glare. “Again.”
The next time, the kid ends up upside down, held up in the air by the ankle.
The next time again, his knife traces a nice arc in the air before planting in the muddy ground.
The last time, the boy learns that aiming for the nether regions is something that will anger even the most controlled opponent.
Killer goes back to the barrel, leaving the loser behind him to clean up his face from the mud. He has lost enough time. When he is about the retrieve the rest of his dinner, however, he’s met with a bad surprise.
“Shit,” he curses, looking at the black crust that had covered the sausages. For a second, tears burn at the corners of his eyes, but he’s quick in fighting them back.
“What happened?” a strained voice asks behind him.
Killer grabs with too much force one of the sticks and turns abruptly around, ready to pour all of his frustration onto that stubborn, dirty player, little gremlin, but the look on his grime face stops him in his tracks.
“What’s your problem?” the boy asks, and before Killer can reply with something nasty, he pulls the skewer from his hand and takes an enormous bite. They look at each other for a solid minute, during which the kid chews loudly and contently on his morsel. In the end, Killer sighs and picks up the rest of the sausages. He tries to scrap off at least part of the charring, while the boy gulps down his part without a care in the world.
When they’re finished, the kid burps and turns towards him. “What’s your name?” he asks.
Killer tells him. The boy makes another of his faces. “For real? What kind of name is that?”
Killer asks himself for the tenth time how he had managed to survive to this day in the slums while being so clueless. He must’ve been lucky. Or maybe it’s exactly his cluelessness that allows him to charge against the brutal reality like a bull, again and again, getting back up the second after being brought down, again and again, until he gets what he wants. It’s a terrible flaw as much as it is a divine gift.
“It’s mine. And yours?”
“I’m Kidd,” the boy grins, and Killer tries to resist the impulse to smack him in the face. What kind of name is that?, has dared to ask, the little shit. “And I’m going to beat you, someday.”
The banquet has been a success. Placing the last biscuits over the colossal three-tiered cake, Killer can’t help but hum along to the music that, even if it’s played on the deck, manages to reach the depths of the kitchen. When he’s done, he calls for Heat and Wire to help him bring the gargantuan pie upstairs. He might have gone a little overboard with the dessert, and his crewmates cuss and sweat while climbing the stairs under its weight, but the special occasion has called for nothing less, and every doubt fades when they are met with cheers and ovations as soon as they set foot on deck.
“Calm down, it’s just a cake,” he says, tone flat and a smile that nobody can see on his face, and his words are immediately booed.
An amused voice rises from the noisy crowd. “If that’s just a cake, then I am just someone who really likes to visit other people’s ships.”
Kidd sits at the center of the table, a white fur coat on his shoulders and jewelry hanging from his neck and wrists, and towers of empty plates and mugs surround him.
“Can you believe him?” Heat laughs. “Boss, you’re getting older but your sense of humour is the same as a child.”
Kidd gets up, jug in hand, and approaches the cake. Smiling, he puts his arm over Heat’s shoulders and drenches his blue dreadlocks with rum. “You’re right,” Kidd grins. Heat, after the initial shock, joins the crew’s laughter and makes a couple of jokes about the risk of catching fire.
In the middle of the chaos, a hand rests on Killer’s shoulder. Kidd is behind him, and he bends just enough to ask his mask: “To whom goes the honour of cutting the cake?”
A short sword hangs by his captain’s hip—He has forged his own birthday present, of course. Killer turns around just enough that his fingers can curl around the hilt. “I believe that this will do.” He can feel the tremor of Kidd’s laughter through his fingertips.
“As the chef wishes,” he says, unsheathing the blade. The crew suddenly goes silent at the sight. Just as the sword is about the slice through the cake and the crewmates’ lips are curled around the first note of a mocking song, something explodes in the sea and the ship swings violently. While everyone tries to steady on their feet, a voice screams from the crow’s nest: “Enemy ship rapidly approaching from north-east!”
Kidd is fuming. The cake is at his feet, on his boots, a mess of spongecake and cream splattered on the deck. His captain throws him a rapid glance and then raises his dirty sword high, roaring: “Get ready for the counterattack!”
The crew exults and everybody goes to retrieve their weapons, while Kidd takes care of the cannonballs that threaten Victoria, repelling them in the enemy’s direction. However, their ship is swift and their helmsman must be an ace, because they manage to avoid major damage.
“We’ll have to deal with them hand-to-hand,” Killer considers while unsheathing his Punishers.
Kidd nods. “Let’s give them what they want.” He shouts the order to bring Victoria closer to the other ship and immediately they cut through the murky waters, until they come face to face with the rival caravel. No wonder a ship so small could dodge their attacks so easily, but what’s worse is that among the faces of the enemies Killer can identify a couple of fishmen. If they don’t get rid of them quickly and they succeed in diving into the ocean and striking from there, things might go down badly.
Killer informs Kidd the instant before the rival captain screams at them: “Surrender and we’ll spare your lives!”
Realization dawns on Killer. Newbies. He almost feels pity for them.
Kidd laughs. “Have you heard, Heat? Who’s the one with a terrible sense of humour again?” With a rude gesture, he launches the attack.
It’s all so fast that it’s kind of embarrassing. Kidd crushes them under his fists like they are helpless ants and soon blood stains his fur coat with messy squiggles. After slaying down the threat represented by the fishmen, Killer isn’t left with much left to do, so he doesn’t feel guilty for observing his captain while he takes down the few remaining enemies.
It’s a sight so brutal that it should be appalling, and yet he can’t help but feel enchanted by it. Bones break under his feet with ominous sounds, blood is sprayed into the air and splatters on terrified faces, and the pungent sting of piss mingles with that of sweat in the night breeze. Standing at the centre of the scene, fist clutched in the rival captain’s hair and a manic grin splitting his face, Kidd is so overflowing with beauty that Killer could be annihilated by that terrific power day after day without a word of complaint leaving his lips.
They end up dragging the caravel and its beaten crew behind them, with the project of reselling it on the thriving black market dedicated to pirate ships. Boarding Victoria again with the few treasures that could be found below deck, they are confronted with the chaotic conditions in which their own ship was left.
Killer joins Kidd by his side, sighing. “Those fuckers… I’ll make you another one.”
His friend, however, has already crunched down next to the sugary blob that has invaded their deck, and he wastes no time in sinking his hands in the not-completely-smashed bits of the cake and in happily munching on them.
At the sight of his captain covered in blood and cream, Killer finds himself unable to hold back another smile that nobody can see.
When Killer enters the dimly lit room, his eyes take a moment to adjust to the sudden darkness and to recognise one by one the figures that emerge from the black backdrop. He tries to keep his hands and the tray that he’s holding steady, but he’s pretty sure that some of the contents will spill while he makes his way to the bed. It’s just a few steps away, but it feels like dark waters have flooded the cabin, making it impossible to reach the other side.
He knows it’s the tiredness playing tricks with him, but what a sick game it is: aren’t they on a ship drifting away on that same black sea? A ship with no captain is like a fatally wounded bull, destined to wander in pain until it sticks its horns in something it cannot pull away from and slowly dies out. He’s trying to keep the pieces together with his hands, but how can he, when he can’t even keep himself together?
It’s the third night, and he rationally knows that the worst has passed, but his body doesn’t seem able to shut down, and his muscles are constantly screaming at him to do something, but there's nothing he can do, and that urge constantly aborted is gnawing him alive.
Finally, he reaches the bed, and the slender figure of the surgeon, bent like an angel of death over it, acquires the more human traits of Trafalgar Law. The fellow Supernova removes the last suture point from Kidd’s cheek, dropping it in a small tray on the table that works as a nightstand, and Killer’s eyes fix on the pinkish scar tissue that covers half of his partner’s face. It’s a miracle he hasn’t lost his eye, Trafalgar has said. The surgeon takes a step back, mumbling something under his breath that sounds a lot like “Here it is, your ugly face again”, and Killer finally drops his tray on the table.
“Is that soup? You made me soup?”
A man who had only been artificially fed for the last three days should not ask that type of question, according to Trafalgar’s expression, but he doesn’t know Kidd as Killer does, and he doesn’t have memories of Kidd eating half of a Sea King by himself after a particularly hard battle.
“Thus said the doctor,” Killer replies.
Kidd scrunches his nose as if he has just smelled a bad odour, and grimaces in pain when the gesture clearly makes the scars on his face hurt.
“Fuck the doctor.”
Law, who was arranging his medical equipment, turns abruptly around, almost as if he were bitten, and points his finger at Kidd.
“This is not a joke, Eustass,” he spits out, “And if you have no respect for me, at least have some for Killer.”
There’s a second in which Killer is sure that he sees both of the men’s inferior lips tremble, even though for entirely different reasons. A moment later, all hell breaks loose. A pair of scissors flies in Law’s direction, straight as an arrow, but mid-trajectory they fall to the ground, though it’s unclear if for a lack of power or for a change of intention. The gesture is enough, however, to make Trafalgar open a Room, retreat his nodachi, and draw it.
Meanwhile, Kidd’s words fly at Law more directly than the improvised dagger that he tried to throw at him.
“Don't you dare,” he growls, “don't you dare to speak of him like you know him. You know nothing of us. You know nothing at all.”
When Kidd seems on the verge of tears, Killer decides that he had enough.
“You're right,” he says, and both of them turn their heads towards him as if they had forgotten that he was there for the whole time. Killer looks at Law and feels the energy of his Room around them, the lethal threat of the drawn nodachi. He wonders how much he cares about Kidd to have come to this point. “You should go. Ask Heat about your money, if he makes a fuss tell him that it's my order. Thank you for your services, Trafalgar, I won't forget it.”
Law keeps his restless stare on him for a moment, but then he sheaths his sword and he collects his equipment. Just before leaving the room, however, he tilts his hat over his face and says, in a strange tone:
“You don't realize how much you're lucky.”
A second later, he's gone. Killer reaches the bed, from which Kidd had almost managed to fall off in his attempt to get up. He embraces the trembling body of his partner and puts him back to rest against the cushions, and even there Kidd doesn’t give a sign of wanting to let go. Instead, he holds on to Killer as if he had committed a crime in a moment of frenzy that now he’s unable to face.
“I'm sorry,” he babbles again and again against his neck.
“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” Killer rebuts calmly. “I'm by your side, always.” Even when you believe that you don't deserve it.
Kidd ends up sobbing, clutching Killer's shirt in his fist, and Killer ends up removing his mask to meet his eyes with the ones filled with tears of his friend. He moves his hair from his sweaty forehead and proposes:
“Do you want me to sleep with you tonight?”
Kidd nods and slowly regains control over his breath.
“You have to eat your soup first, though.”
Kidd nods again and, with Killer's help, manages to balance the tray on his lap and to bring the first spoon of soup to his lips.
“You put cabbage in it,” he says, and his voice almost breaks.
“'Course I did.”
Kidd doesn’t show up for dinner. While in the background Heat and Wire take care of the dishes, arguing and splashing water everywhere, Killer pours the leftover pasta into a bowl and stabs the little mountain of stir-fried noodles with a fork. Casting a last resigned glance at the tower of plates that doesn't seem to grow any smaller, he leaves the kitchen.
Killer doesn't need to wonder if Kidd is in his room, the deafening music that is barely muffled by the door is a more than obvious confirmation. He doesn't bother to knock, but, balancing the bowl with one hand, he lowers the handle with the other. Just by the small crack offered to him by the ajar door, Killer can sense the chaos that has taken over the room. Kidd's back is to him, bent over his work table, and all around him, scattered around the room but obedient to his will like tiny satellites, dozens of bolts, screws and unidentified pieces of metal gravitate in the stale air. The record player is blasting one of Kidd’s favourite albums, and the sound produced by the bowl being slammed on the desk ends up being swallowed up by a guitar riff. But Killer’s voice is loud enough.
“You didn’t eat dinner,” he says, a simple statement of fact that challenges Kidd to reply with bullshit like “I’m not hungry”. His captain finally drops the ball of cables he’s been trying to detangle for the last minute and grabs the bowl; it takes only a couple of minutes for the fork to rattle against the empty bottom.
“Done. Are you happy now?”
The song comes to an end with a scream that drags on for too long.
“You’re being childish.”
Kidd turns to face him, and for a second Killer believes that his mask will be cracked open in half.
“And you are treating me like a child.”
Is he? Ever since they have been together, they have stood on equal footing. Killer may have been kneeling in front of his captain, but that was an inevitable choice, the place where his heart stood, and not some kind of hierarchy they had established, nor did it prevent him from instilling some sense in Kid when needed. How can this time be different? Is it a mistake not letting Kidd get away with his one-way train of thought and protecting him from crushing against forces bigger than them a second time, when they barely made it out alive the first? Is it wrong to take into greater account theirs, the crew’s and the ship’s well-being rather than sacrificing it to stubborn pride?
Killer decides that he can’t let go.
“Give me a reason, a convincing one, for why we shouldn’t get allies.”
Kidd makes a face as if he had just mentioned something disgusting, like curry udon.
“I’ve already told you that we don’t need them.”
Killer contains the urge to throw him off the ship.
“We do,” he rebuts, voice firm, “It won’t be forever, but right now we can’t manage on these waters alone.”
He has not yet stopped talking that Kidd springs up, screws and bolts surrounding him buzzing like angry hornets, and points his finger against Killer’s chest.
“I don’t need anybody else,” he roars, “I’ve got you, the crew and Victoria. Who else would I fucking need?”
For a moment, Killer is left speechless. The loud sounds vomited by the record player mix with Kidd’s words, deafening him as if an enemy has hit him hard on the head. With hasty movements, Killer removes his helmet and throws it on the desk, where it collides with a bang on the hard surface before resting against the pile of cables.
“I understand,” he replies, meeting Kidd’s eyes without hesitation, “But have you considered that we need you too?”
Kidd seems to be taken aback. The constellations of scrap suddenly appear to remember the existence of gravity and a second later they are dropping to the floor in cascades, bouncing everywhere with a deafening jingle. At the sight of the mess at their feet, Killer can’t help but scoff.
“I’m not gonna help you with that.”
Kidd kicks some bolts as if they were pebbles, and it would look like a frustrated gesture if not for the hint of a smile that has crept up on his face.
“Well, fuck you, it’s your fault.”
Deciding that it’s better not to venture into the topic in order not to lose the last bit of patience that the gods granted him, Killer combs his hair back and asks: “Do you get it now? It’s like when one of your creations breaks down—You can’t use it if you do not take the time to fix the problem.” Killer’s hand instinctively curls into a fist as he speaks. “We need just that—A little time, a little external support, and then we’ll be stronger than ever.”
He knows that he’ll never look in Kidd’s eyes and find enthusiastic approval of such an idea, but he’s not rejecting it either, right now, and that can be considered a small success. It’s not like Killer is looking forward to it, especially considering the pain in the ass that will be to find trustworthy allies, ones that will last more than a day without stepping on his captain’s feet—and consequently being beaten to a pulp by him. Killer’s head aches at the mere thought, but it’s also true that in the search they will probably meet a lot of inadequate candidates… And getting rid of potential rivals has always been a lot of bloody fun.
He’ll explain everything to him in due time. For now, one thing it’s all he needs.
Killer extends his closed fist to his partner. “You trust me?”
It takes no time for Kidd’s closed hand to bump against his. “Are you even asking?”
The waters of Wano have never loved intruders. The Victoria Punk dances on the waves, barely restrained by the anchor, and it almost looks like she’s trying to find a moment of respite, without the unforgiving ocean giving her one.
They approach her familiar shape slowly, inch by inch. It couldn’t be otherwise: Killer’s weight is almost entirely sustained by his captain, who’s also wounded and battered, and they have pushed their broken bodies for kilometers, all the way from Udon’s prison. Kidd is trying to mask his heaving and Killer pretends not to notice it, but he silently prays for somebody on the ship to spot them and come down to help them.
“Look, we’ve made it,” Kidd says in a small voice, “We’re home.”
Killer lets out a chuckle. Just then, a scream brings their eyes to the sky, up to the crow’s nest. A tiny figure is waving at them, jumping up and down and yelling: “They’re back! Captain and Killer are here!”
For a second, Killer wonders how they were able to recognize him, but it’s a stupid question: who else could be on Kidd’s side? In the meantime, his captain has greeted back and has sped up in the ship's direction, stumbling even more frequently than before. At least they are reached by a worried Wire, who picks up Killer without effort and throws Kidd a guilty look.
“We’ve got rid of Kaido’s subordinates that had seized Victoria, but we didn’t know where to look for you,” he says, bowing his head, but he’s so tall that the gesture turns out awkward. “We failed you, Boss.”
Kidd waves his hand as if to close a discussion that never actually began. “Enough with such bullshit. Killer needs a check-up.”
Wire nods and they rapidly reach and board the ship. The atmosphere on deck is eerie; the cheers and greetings die in the throats of the crew members as soon as their stares fall on Killer’s disheveled figure and Kidd’s wounds. Killer can’t help but envision the moment when somebody will ask him a question and they will receive a deranged laugh in response.
Kidd calls for their doctor and exchanges a few words with her aside. Killer tries not to think of anything while he descends the stairs to the doctor’s cabin. Hop checks his wounds and prescribes him the appropriate medications, then she pauses and leans back in her chair.
“The captain mentioned that they’ve done something else to you, but didn’t elaborate further. What happened, Killer?”
He immediately feels his throat clench around words that he knows aren’t going to come out. Instead, a raucous laugh leaves his lips under the shocked eyes of their doctor. Killer manages to stifle his laughter to say: “They fucked me up.”
He then explains the situation to her, because she’s a great medic and she may know of a solution, and because she’s a crewmember and, like everybody else, she deserves to know. The only one he can’t fathom talking to about the devil fruit incident is Kidd, which is ironic since he’s his captain, his friend, and the very person he wanted to protect by eating that fucking fruit.
Hop promises she’ll do her best to find a cure, and helps Killer to wash away the grime off in order to tend to his wounds. When they’re finished, Killer puts on a fresh change of clothes and feels like himself a little more.
As soon as they go out on deck, however, they are left dumbfounded, since no one is there. Killer and Hop exchange a look, and she shrugs, but he can sense that his crewmember knows more than she’s letting on. They descend below deck once more. Killer’s first instinct is to go check the kitchen and when they reach it he would swear he can hear the clangs of pans through the door. Once he opens it, a bizarre spectacle awaits inside. The long tables in the dining room are set and trays full of golden French fries continue to be placed on them by the crewmates that crowd the hall. In the actual pantry, large pots are guarded by Kidd, who is sweating while he throws handfuls of spaghetti into the boiling water. Suddenly, he turns around and yells: “Did you forget the straws?” Heat pops up with packets in his hands, replies “Here they are!” and runs off to add them to the mugs that sit on the table.
Killer tries to find something to say, but words die in his throat. Before a burst of laughter can press to exit, however, Kidd turns to him as if nothing is happening and whines: “Kil, come check the pasta if you don’t want it to overcook and taste like shit.”
The kitchen is his domain, as is the battlefield, and Killer doesn’t need to be asked twice. He takes control of the cookers, quickly creates a sauce for the pasta (Kidd has not thought this far) and drains the latter before it overcooks.
When the plates are brought to the tables and Killer glances at the spaghetti, the fries and the drink with a straw, something breaks in him. Without being able to control it, he throws his head backwards and lets out a loud, prolonged laugh. Tears collect at the corner of his eyes, but before he can try to wipe them and cut off his laughter, an unexpected sound fills his ears. The cacophony of dozens of people laughing out loud, every laugh unique and ridiculous, a thunderous sound filling the room, filling Killer’s heart.
He turns to Kidd, who’s laughing his typical manic laugh, and Killer knows that he’d made that choice again and again.