Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Freedom’s a brittle mistress, lambkins. Cruel ‘nd vain, yet sweeter than a jar of honey, seducin’ ye with false hope ‘nd meaningless oaths,” said Makino’s mother, tucking her restless daughter in her comically large bed.

“And what if someone offers me freedom? What if they say: ‘You can be free, I offer it to you out of my goodwill.’ What then?” asked Makino, her large, owl-ish eyes peaking from the edges of her blanket. 

Makino’s mother frowned. The bulky woman pursed her slim lips into a pale line, her eyes growing thoughtful for a moment.

“Freedom can’t be given, lambkins. 'nd if some thick-skulled bloke tries t’ convince ye otherwise,” Makino’s mother grabbed her thick forearm and shook her clenched fist in front of her daughter’s face, “then ye mama bear will give ‘em a piece of her own mind.”

Makino giggled, knowing very well just how mean her mother’s punch could be. Many crude bandits and sailors got a taste of her ‘good ol’ chap Toby’ when they visited their family bar.

Makino’s mother placed a gentle peck on her daughter’s forehead. “The only one who can give you freedom is yerself, lambkins. No one else, but ye, caphiche?” 

“Aye, Mama,” she nodded, before settling her head against the white pillow. “Good night, mama.”

“Good night, lambkins.”

Makino was fifteen when she dreamed of the young lad for the first time. 

She stood upon a deck of a large ship—even larger than Garp-san’s own flagship, the Doggy Voyager—with her feet bare (she must’ve fallen asleep on the beach whilst reading), her slim frame hugged by her favourite light-green dress, the edges of its breezy skirt brushing against her ankles and she walked around, studying her strange surroundings.

Makino walked towards what she thought must’ve been the ship’s Helm—and there! Near the steering wheel stood a man—a boy, really, perhaps around Makino’s age; tall and spindly like a willow with legs nearly twice the length of his torso, he wore a simple, white shirt, barely buttoned up with knee-length trousers of odd colour and even odder patterns—were they meant to be flowers? Makino wasn’t sure. 

Yet the most noticeable trait of the boy before her were his wild curls of scarlet hair—brighter and sharper than the red of blood—trapped under a paled straw hat perched on the top of his head like a king’s crown.

Her mother taught her to be wary of strangers, but whilst she was carefully exploring the ship she saw no one bustling about, making sure this large complex of wood and sails wouldn't sink. 

So, he was probably all alone here, just like her. Not to mention, he didn’t seem hostile, he felt… warm. And free. Like the seagulls she often saw perched on the roof of her bar, capable of flying wherever they wanted.

Makino steeled herself and decided to approach the tall stranger, her steps spry and eyes determined. She tapped him on the shoulder (she had to stand on her tiptoes to do that).

The scarlet-haired boy whipped around, startled and wide-eyed, he resembled a small, grey rat caught in a mouse trap, its tiny mouth stuffed with delicious cheese. 

His left hand immediately shot towards his right hip, where he had a long saber sheathed within a red sash wrapped around his hips, and only now did Makino notice he was armed. 

Despite the knowledge of him bearing a weapon, Makino… she didn’t exactly feel threatened or in danger. She couldn’t explain it, but… his presence was an odd comfort, like a distant memory buried in the outermost corners of her mind. 

She knew him somehow, and he too must’ve had that odd feeling, for when his eyes—dark maroon with speck of gold—first met with hers, the boy’s lips curled into a wide, clumsy grin, his eyes shining with curiosity and something akin to recognition. 

Makino opened her mouth to speak, wanting to introduce herself, but no sound came past her parted lips, her voice snuffed down in the back of her throat like a flame upon a candle. 

Her thin brows furrowed, before she tried again. But she was unsuccessful once more. The scarlet-haired boy’s broad shoulders shook with suppressed laughter and Makino clenched her jaw to resist her more than righteous urge to punch that cackle out of his gut.

The scarlet-haired boy wiped the tiny tear from the corner of his eye, before he opened his mouth to speak as well, and yet he was unsuccessful, just like her. 

She smiled at him, the kind of smile that said: ‘You see? You aren’t able to do this either.’; harboring all the smugness and petty satisfaction of seeing someone else fail.

His shoulders sagged in defeat, his lips pursing in a comical pout.

Makino giggled and reached out to grab and pinch his freckled cheek…

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Makino woke up with a startled yelp. A cold sheen of sweat crept upon her neck and forehead. The loud, ear-wrenching sound sent a shiver down her spine.

Makino blinked away remnants of sleep, before she stood up and put her slippers on (she could’ve sworn she’d been playing with the local children on the beach coast. When did that change?)

She adjusted the long sleeves of her nightgown before she crept towards the door to her room. With a soft click she turned the doorknob to the left, and locked the heavy door behind her. 

With soft, carefully placed steps, Makino walked down the short hallway of the attic, and then down the long and curved staircase of her bar. 

She took extra care to assure herself that she didn't make too much noise as she padded towards the bar’s main door. 

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Makino jumped back, her back arching as she hissed like a frightened cat, her small hands balled into fists. 

She regarded the old, red door with a wary look.

"Have to be brave. Have to be strong," she muttered under her breath, licking her dry lips anxiously.

She prayed to the Sea Goddess, may the tides be merciful, that whoever disturbed her sleep weren't the mountain bandits.

Her chest tightened at that thought, a thick knot forming in her belly, growing tighter and tighter until it ached.

Once, when she was but a six-years-old girl, a group of mountain bandits raided the Foosha Village. They stole as much money from the villagers as they could carry, and they didn’t shy away from whisking away barrels of good cider from her mother’s bar. Makino's mother managed to knock down three of those wicked lot, before a bullet took her in the knee.

Makino sucked a sharp breath into her lungs. With a trembling hand, she reached out and grasped the wooden handle. 

She opened the door very slowly, allowing herself a small peak through the gap between the door and its thick frame—

—Her fear-struck eyes met with a pair of exhausted and angry gaze of one Vice-Admiral Garp.

Makino’s voice faltered, and her throat managed to gurgle out a strangled groan. She slammed the door open, the cracking sound pushing her out of her momentary shock.

"Garp-san! Wha—Why are you here? Oh, do come in! Come in."

Makino let the bear of a man inside, before poking her head out into the peaceful streets of Foosha village. No windows in the houses on the opposite end of the streets were lit, and no one seemed to care enough to inspect the booming noise. 

Makino closed the door behind the two of them, sighing in relief. Her knees almost buckled under her own weight as she walked after the elderly man. The knowledge that the intruders weren't bandits or simple thieves, or Sea Goddess forbid, the pirates, made Makino’s heart leap in joy.

Garp sank into one of the tall bar chairs without a word, his hunched figure giving Makino a wretched feeling, as if she was looking at a wet, abandoned dog, starving and dying in rain.

The Marine ran his scarred hand through his greying hair, his frame deflating against the bar counter with a heavy sigh.

Makino swiftly stepped behind the bar counter and from the closest cupboard hanging on the wall behind said counter, the lass pulled out a dusty, green bottle and placed it in front of the gloomy-looking man

"This is the new spicy brandy I bought during the Summer markets last year; the finest brand in all of East Blue,” Makino gave the Vice-Admiral with a hopeful smile, trying to cheer him up. “Old man Docks sold it for a fine price, well, not really. Actually, it was rather expensive. Expensive, yes, but it is good. Try it. Go on."

Garp only grunted in response and gave Makino a curt nod. 

He grabbed the bottle by his left hand, and popped it open with its teeth. Makino said nothing to the unconventional style of opening bottles, and watched as the Vice-Admiral took a large swig of the booze. 

The old Marine kept his right arm firmly tucked against his broad chest, which piqued Makino’s interest. Placing her palms upon the smooth surface, she propped herself to lean across the bar counter, curious to take a look at the small bundle the Vice-Admiral tried to hide under his large, white Marine coat.

"Hm? What do you have there, right under your coat, Garp-san?" 

Vice-Admiral Garp's bulky body stiffened for a moment, his tanned, weathered face twisting into a careful blank mask. However, he didn’t keep that long, and a soft smile cracked his façade, the sheer joy quickly spreading across his entire face. 

"Bwahahaha! Nothin’ can escape your eyes, can it, eh, little lass? Oh, since you asked s’nicely. Makino-chan, I want you t’meet someone important t’me," Vice-Admiral’s voice was hoarse and harsh, his laugh great and booming like a storm in the Grand Line. 

Makino liked listening to the old Marine’s tales of his adventures and achievements when she was a babe, even now, when she grew older, she wouldn't mind a tale or two.

From under his Marine coat, Garp pulled out a rather small bundle wrapped in dark-green blankets with strange red patterns that resembled diamonds. 

The grizzled old Marine cooed at the blanket, as an uncharacteristically tender light shone in his light-blue eyes. He gently rocked the small bundle in his great arms, as if it were…

Makino stifled a gasp when she saw two chubby arms push past through the thick cover, small fingers clenching and unclenching as they tried to reach Vice-Admiral’s face.

Her jaw hung open, unable to close as she glanced back and forth between Vice-Admiral's gleeful expression and the babe that the old man embraced against his chest with that roughed-up love he gave before to his son.

Makino’s mouth pressed into a tight, pale line. Dozens of jumbled thoughts flew through her mind, one trying to outrun the other. The young lass was at a loss for words, unable to get out a single sound out of her dried up throat.

She walked up to the Vice-Admiral and peered at the babe from one of his broad shoulders.

A toothless smile, all sunshine and warmth, radiated from the round, flushed face, and Makino felt something warm and fluffy, like a cotton snuggle up in her chest, turning her brain into fuzzy mush. 

The babe’s large bright onyx eyes squinted at her with delight, the babe’s small, button nose scrunching in glee as a soft giggle pierced the heavy silence.

“Makino-chan,” said Garp, “Meet Monkey D. Luffy, my darlin’ grandson."

Makino cooed at the baby—at little Luffy—and reached out to gently shake his chubby hand. 

“Hello, little Luffy. My name's Makino, pleased to meet you.”

Luffy made a small babbling sound, before he giggled, kicking his tiny, bare feet in joy. He wrapped his chubby hand around her index finger and squeezed tightly—his grip was surprisingly tight!

Makino laughed softly, before she bent down and placed a kiss upon the babe’s brow.

"He's so adorable! And so tiny. I know that not all babies are particularly large—at least not human ones—but Luffy, oh, he is so small!”

Makino glanced up at the grizzled Marine, asking: “Was Dragon this small too when he was a baby?" 

Makino's smile turned into a sour grimace, noticing the old man's stormy glare. 

She mumbled an apology before her gaze fell back on little Luffy. 

Even a slight mention of Dragon made Garp this… sad and angry-looking mess. Makino understood why—she did—but she couldn’t help but feel a bit remorseful about their tragic relationship.

Dragon was the leader of the Revolutionary Army, a group of rebels that opposed the World Government and the Marine Corps, whom the old man served and was proudly a part of, hence his rank of Vice-Admiral.

On paper, in ideology and in terms of justice, the two of them were enemies. 

Father and son on the opposite sides of this terrible, endless conflict.

“They’re after ‘im, Makino,” rasped Garp. 

The fact that he’d dropped the endearing honorific he used whenever they had the chance to chat spoke of just how grave this situation was.

“The World Government knows he exists. I don't know how this secret was discovered; say whatever you want ‘bout Dragon, but that brat knows how t’keep a secret. Clever little shite.”

For a mere moment, and it might’ve been just Makino’s own eyes deceiving her, she saw a proud smile etched upon the battle-hardened man’s face. But the phantom of a smile disappeared the moment the Vice-Admiral went on.

“They're all gunnin' for his head,” said Garp, “Two months ago, he turned one-year-old, Makino. He’s just a babe, knowin’ nothin’ about anythin’, lass. He’s a good kid… My kid.”

The Vice-Admiral took a large swing from the green bottle, emptying it in one go, before slamming it back down onto the bar counter, spilling a few drops upon the shiny surface. Makino said nothing.

“Dragon came t’me about a week ago, or so. He was heavily injured, bleedin’ really bad, but by Nika he was happy. Heh, the luckiest man on this planet, he called himself.”

Garp smiled, before he went on: “The Cypher Pol agents were after ‘im, don’t know which number, but… Eh, it doesn’t matter. They're all swimmin’ with the Sea Kings anyway.”

A vicious, bloodthirsty grin stretched across his face. Something dark and dangerous flashed in his eyes, before it dimmed out like a dying flame, replaced by the sad, dog-ish look.

“Cypher… Pol? Never heard of those. What are they?” asked Makino, her arms crossed under her chest.

“They’re the World Government's deadliest assassins, trained in the arts of killin’ since they were capable of thinkin’. They’re dangerous, bloodthirsty, but also arrogant, which makes them weak and oh so punchable.”

Makino's world turned upside down as Garp finished speaking, and she had to press her weight against the Marine’s shoulder to keep herself from falling. 

The World Government had sent the deadliest assassin group… All to kill one small infant? Just how corrupt is the bloody institution?! 

“But why did you bring him here?” asked the young lass, her chest heaving as she tried to calm her fluttering heart.

“Wouldn’t he be much safer with you? You can protect him, right? Besides, if Luffy turns into a Marine, he’ll be safe from the Government’s plotting—”

“The World Government doesn't care, Makino!”

Garp snapped at her, his blue eyes, almost silver under the moonlight’s cool rays pierced right through her, pinning her down with invisible daggers of barely contained fury.

Makino gasped for air, greedily drinking the oxygen, as a suffocating feeling pushed against the bar from above, as if trying to bury it and them six feet underground.

Tears welled up in the corners of Makino’s eyes as she grasped her throat, choking on the manifestation of Garp’s fury—

—Black lightning sparked beneath Garp’s feet, sizzling and starving, burning with bright, red light. Vice-Admiral's aura, or whatever this was, shifted and enveloped Luffy like a comforting hand or a fuzzy blanket, keeping him warm, shielded and loved.

Luffy giggled, wrapping his tiny arms around himself, as if he was hugging the invisible force of Garp’s love. The pressure and lightning disappeared in a blink of an eye, and natural warmth and homely atmosphere returned into Makino’s bar.

Makino coughed and gasped for air, relieved to feel the ever-so-sweet oxygen freely traveling into her lungs. Garp did not apologize, his gaze—once more shifted into a dim melancholic and regretful stare—settling upon Luffy’s now sleeping face.

“They would kill the boy even if he became a Marine. I overheard Senny talking to Akainu and…” he spat the word Akainu as if it were the vilest of venoms.

Garp threw his head back and laughed, a broken and wrathful sound.

“Well, it seems whatever plans I had for my grandson, they’re all as good as dead. Those bastards would find a way to get rid of ‘im. Send ‘im on some suicidal mission. Or—or create an accident. They’ll never stop huntin' him.”

Makino's eyes slid back down towards Luffy, who was now soundly sleeping in his grandfather's arms. The horrid reality of the infant's almost certain death made her guts twist like a wet rug, the uncomfortable certainty he would die made her squirm.

“I'm not an idiot, no matter how dense I appear t’be. I know that my problems ‘round the brat wouldn’t be solved by ‘im becomin' a Marine like me, nah. He’s too much like my Dragon, even though he was always so… That's why I—"

“—You took him here, into my bar so I could take care of him,” Makino finished for Garp.

“Aye,” came the curt answer.

The prospect of raising a child made Makino’s heart sink. She was no mother, barely a week past her fifteenth year—what was Garp thinking? Makino understood his need to protect his grandchild, but why her? Why not anyone else? 

Makino was afraid, truly afraid. Dread creeped up her spine like a viper, slithering up her spine and leaving cold sweat dripping down her back, ready to part its poisonous maw and swallow her whole…

Her small hands balled into fists, knuckles paling due to the sheer force of her grip. Her nails dug into her fair skin, letting small trickles of blood drip onto the bar's creaky floor.

'I am not ready. I am nowhere near ready. I am only fifteen. Sweet Mother Sea… Give me strength, I can't do it. I can't do it!'

And yet, despite knowing the small infant less than five minutes; the bright, toothless smile and the small button nose and the squishy, gummy cheeks and the sheer joy radiating from his tiny frame made Makino reconsider. 

“I’ll… I’ll do it. Or, well, at least I’ll try, anyway,” she said afterwards, her voice barely audible to Garp's old ears. "I will take care of Luffy.”

She watched as the shadow of doubt vanished from Garp's face, his light-blue eyes regaining their energetic glee. 

The Vice-Admiral gave Makino an encouraging pat on her back, which in translation means he knocked the breath out of her lungs, whilst his shoulders shook through his full-belly laughter. 

Tears of joy ran down his sunken cheeks, his mouth now stretched into his moniker D grin.

“O’, what a relief for my weary soul. Great! I’m glad you’re on board with me, Makino-chan! Don't you worry, though! I'll come over every other weekend to look after ‘im. Marine’s promise!”

Makino sputtered, as she rubbed the sore spot, soon to bloom with purple bruises, no doubt. 

“I’m glad to be of service, Garp-san.”

“Again, I’m eternally grateful to you, Makino-chan. Really, you’re an honourable young lass. Your mother would’ve been proud.”

Bright, pinkish flush bloomed across Makino’s round cheeks after receiving Garp’s praise. There was something incredibly satisfying about hearing people who rely on you be joyous about your decisions and achievements.

“Still, I gotta go. Don’t want anyone to be suspicious of lil’ ol’ me, aye?”

Makino's face grew solemn for a second, but she didn't let herself be overtaken with fears and self-doubts. She couldn’t allow herself to falter and break like brittle steel, not when she was tasked with such great responsibility.

“I understand, Vice-Admiral. I promise to take great care of your grandson.”

She carefully took sleeping Luffy into her arms, not quite sure if she was holding the babe right, she swiftly adjusted his position. She grunted in surprise at the baby's weight. She never imagined for a baby to weigh this much, and when Luffy was so small no less! 

“May the winds always blow in your sails,” Garp called out from the bar’s doorstep.

Makino raised her gaze and gave the Vice-Admiral a small nod instead of a hug or wave of hand.

“May the tides carry your ship beyond the horizon.”

Once Garp left, the atmosphere within Makino's Party Bar grew lighter and the usual warmth and the rich smell of mingling ciders and wines, and sake with it as well.

Makino wasn't a mother, and she probably wouldn’t be for a long time. She could scarcely remember her own mother, let alone her raising Makino. But the young lass was determined to go through this anyway, Government assassins be damned.

Makino went upstairs and from the last door within the attic’s hallway, she grabbed a green, horse-shaped crib that once belonged to her, and took it back into her own bedroom, setting it down in the small room’s centre, letting the soft rays of moonlight caress the sleeping babe’s sleeping face.

Makino gently pushed against the crib, letting it rock from left to right. 

She watched with a small smile as little Luffy slept, before allowing herself to sink into her own bed, letting the dreams of the scarlet-haired lad and a flying ship take over her dreaming consciousness.

That night

the sacred land of Marie Geoise

The Room of Authority

An eerie atmosphere gently swirled within the Room of Authority, swallowing up all possible warmth and hope from the trembling man like a starved out beast. 

Rays of faint moonlight that managed to slither through the tall, arched windows illuminated five, grandiose yet terrible silhouettes, who all sat upon luxurious couch and armchairs, all gilded in gold and bronze; the furniture, the decorations and even the grand tapestries displayed wealth only gods of this world could afford to claim.

The five shadows were unnatural and queer shapes, slithered on the bare walls like serpents, stalking the kneeling prey within an imaginary grasp. One shadow seemed to have large wings, the other curved horns and legs of a spider…

Alfred Moswani decided he would not dwell upon it for too long. The tall, sickly man-child was an honoured member of Cypher Pol 0, the greatest of the sister branches of the entire Cypher Pol organization. 

And yet, despite his status, his skills as an assassin and no small fortune, Alfred Moswani knew that he was going to die.

He—and his colleagues!—had failed, miserably so. Tracking and killing one stupid brat, a child’s play, really. Or, it should’ve been. But that Revolutionary bastard proved to be much stronger than what their intel and spies had suggested—they were simply caught up by surprise! That’s all.

A small stripe of fresh crimson ran down the agent’s sweat-slick forehead, sprouting from a large, unstitched gash stretched across the wrinkly, yellowing skin. He bit down against his tongue until he tasted the slick iron, preventing himself from making any unnecessary noise. 

'Why am I here-wani? Shouldn't the Chief be the one reporting to their Holynesses-wani? Ugh, I just wish I could’ve stayed with the boys-wani! I bet they’re getting all the expensive drinks we all promised to buy ourselves after the mission-wani!’

Alfred Moswani was on one knee before the Gorosei, his head dipped low in reverence. He prostrated himself before the great leaders of the World Government, for that was his duty—to serve any whim the gods might have.

The last time they fought with Dragon was near Vanilla Kingdom in South Blue, pretty close to Sorbet Kingdom as well. Wasn’t that the place Kuma the Tyrant took over after the great giant dethroned the poor King Bekori? Oh, well… 

Their battle happened around a week ago. After killing a few agents, Dragon gained the upper hand and fled into Paradise. They searched for him everywhere and yet… Just like that, Dragon has disappeared, in the blink of an eye, faster than lightning.

“You failed to kill Monkey D. Dragon's spawn. Why is that?” one of them finally asked.

Alfred Moswani bit his lower lip, mind racing with carefully planned tergiversations and whatever justifications his sore throat could muster.

"The intel we were given; you know, the information contained within the secret files provided to us through Fleet Admiral Sengoku-wani? Aye, that intel; well, it wasn't correct-wani.”

“We couldn’t have possibly anticipated the true physical strength of the Revolutionary—which was immense, your Holynesses, believe me when I speak so!—His mastery of Haki is far greater than any of our agent's-wani. Not to mention his devil fruit… or was it his devil fruit, I… I can’t tell anymore-wani.”

Alfred Moswani’s squeaky voice faded into mere whisper, before it dispersed completely. He noticed the shadows that danced upon their visages twisted into ugly, deformed sneers.

One of the Gorosei made a dismissive gesture with his long, clawed—the fingers resembled claws and he couldn’t help but squirm—hand, as if to swat a fly.

“You were all thoroughly trained in the use of Haki since you were but mere children, as was dictated within the Cypher Pol training protocol, or do you deny it?”

“No… no, sir-wani!”

“You and your colleagues as well as any agent of this organization have been taught the art of Rokushiki, do you deny it?”

“No, no, of course, you are right, absolutely correct! I—”

“Silence, wretch! I am not finished.”

The trembling agent lowered his gaze upon his scarred hands, his nimble fingers digging into the purple tiles of the Room’s floor.

“You have eaten a zoan devil fruit once you have been promoted as a new member of CP-8. Do not use these pitiful excuses as an explanation for your failure.”

Alfred Moswani’s mouth opened and closed, yet only a meek whimper managed to tear itself out of his parted lips. 

He tried to form some clever argument, something that would save his hide from certain demise—yet even now he knew, even now the agent understood he wouldn’t see another dawn. 

‘Come on! Please, come up with something, anything!’

Anything to make the Gorosei understand his troupe's failure shouldn’t be thrown upon his shoulders, others were there too! Some of them survived, anyway! Ask them! Ask them, please!

“So, please, indulge me and mine in the tale of your total failure, agent. We are quite eager to hear all about it.” 

The Gorosei's eyes bore into Alfred Moswani, pinning him down like a fly pinned down by a spider.

Alfred Moswani despised voicing out his weaknesses, his failures. He was groomed to become the most perfect killing machine. And to admit that he wasn't perfect in his job was utterly humiliating. 

“We—we weren't strong enough! Why hadn't you sent some admiral? That Kizaru bloke-wani? And—and what about using CP-9 as well! Y'know how powerful Robb Lucci is-wani!”

“Is that a command, agent?” the Gorosei voiced as one, as they asked—no—demanded to know who exactly he thought he was.

Alfred Moswani felt a terrible, all consuming presence crush against his skull, as an unknown Conqueror's Haki invaded his mind, ripping his mind open and consuming him from inside out—

—The agent howled in agony, his light-brown eyes bulging from pain as his body trashed on the floor, his limbs twisting and bending in unnatural angles; he could feel every single bone CRACK and SNAP and it hurt. so. bloody. much.

‘No! I can't die yet! I didn't mean it that way! Please, please, I beg of you! Mercy! Mercy!’ 

"No… no, no, no! Wait! Ple—achgh—ase!”

Alfred Moswani, one of the World Government's top assassins, was dying within the Room of Authority, all alone, forgotten, and unimportant.

Through half-lidded eyes, although that could’ve been hallucination, a dying man’s fading vision of the world, he saw a flash of surprise cross through one of the Gorosei's eyes, before it was sternly switched with a mask of cold, unwavering authority.

‘So… this… this Haki. Is it none of theirs? If that's so, then… then whose terrible claws are ripping my mind apart?’

Terror fell upon his spine and cold sweat ran down his body at the sheer knowledge, the certainty of his impending death, of the invisible arms pulling him towards the blissful slumber at the end of it all made him howl. 

The animalistic scream—no longer human, no longer his—that tore out of his throat and the desperation laced within his voice made the agent’s skin crawl.

Alfred Moswani raised his twisted, misshapen arm towards the five figures, now blurry as tears obscured his vision. 

The Gorosei no longer seemed to have paid him any mind, as they started talking amongst themselves. It was like they couldn't hear the agent's begging agonized howls at all.

“Well, it now seems we had underestimated Dragon’s abilities and we paid for it by losing a few of our own.”

“The agents can be replaced with new ones.”

“Hm, quite right.”

“The Revolutionary Army’s leader is far more elusive and discreet than his father could’ve ever hoped to be. Surely, he has already hidden his spawn somewhere," one of them sighed, rubbing his temples with annoyed sneer on his lips.

“Naturally. Dragon is no fool. He knows the risk of keeping his child by his side, especially when we consider the fact that we have our own spies within the Army as well. That is far too dangerous.”

Alfred Moswani felt the unknown claws slowly fade away, finally allowing him to succumb to eternal rest. He knew that whoever invaded his mind got what they wanted, his memories of Dragon and of his mission were… blank.

“Then where is the child? We know for certain that Dragon…”

All five of the Gorosei grew silent and still like statues.

Alfred Moswani felt his consciousness slowly slip away. His heavy eyelids closed. His already ragged breathing grew even shallower. 

From the remaining minute of his life, the agent managed to hear some snippets of the conversation.

“…send to East Blue…”

“The Fist knew…”

“…Sakazuki shall leave…”

“…Send a Knight instead…

“Master, you must understand…”

The crumpled body of Alfred Moswani grew still. The tears that haven't spilled over his face dried in the corners of his eyes. For some reason, he felt at peace. As if he had accomplished something great. And yet, the terror of knowing that terrible presence in his mind will surely haunt him even in the afterlife, if there was any.

'I really should have stayed with the boys.' 

 Three weeks later

Dawn Island

Foosha Village

Makino stood behind the large, crescent-shaped bar counter, cleaning the last dozen of her glass mugs that were left over by her last bunch of customers. 

She carefully arranged the mugs, pushing them way back into the lowest shelf, just so they wouldn’t fall over and break (like some mugs before). The shelf itself was built in between two large liquor cabins, all of them stuffed to bursting with all kinds of booze and sake, all from East Blue, naturally.

Makino threw the dirty rag onto the bar counter and untied her white apron, which she miraculously managed to keep clean, despite serving day and night in such a rowdy bar.

She neatly folded the pristine apron and walked up the curvy stairs and down the hallway of the attic, right to her bedroom.

With a twist of a wooden door knob, she pushed the wide, oak door open and stepped into a small, yet somewhat spacious room and placed the apron onto a small, oval table standing under a single square-shaped window.

There wasn't much furniture, so that may have caused the impression of greater space. 

Her bed stood in the corner with a striped white-and-red pillow and blue blanket, all of them stuffed with freshly plucked goose feathers. Then there was the tall, imposant cabinet from yew wood where all of her clothes and boots were. It was right next to the door to her room, on the right. The thick walls built out of trunks of old oaks were bare, as was the floor. No pictures or photos of her loved ones, not that she had any left. 

Makino sighed softly, rubbing her weary eyes with the back of her hand. 

She took her checkered yellow-and-red sweater off, and hung it next to the other clothes within the cabinet. Then came the pretty, floor-length, green skirt she bought last season. It was pure green silk and it was one of the nicest and most expensive things she had ever owned.

Makino put on a white, knee-length dress with black buttons and thick sleeves. They served well enough as pajamas. 

She stepped towards a green, horse-shaped crib where a one-year-old babe sat, his chubby hands clinging onto the crib's railing. 

Luffy's large eyes lit up, and he gifted Makino with one of his gummy smiles. Her heart melted at the sight. 

Luffy has brought joy into her life, yet sometimes he was also her worst nightmare. 

A bundle of endless energy, the babe had already learned how to crawl on his four, which left Makino chasing after him through the whole place, giving her occasional headache.

Naturally, he wasn’t allowed into her bar when it was still occupied by her customers. 

No one but her knew about Luffy's existence, and she tried her best to make sure it stayed that way.

Makino patted Luffy's head, ruffling the strands of soft, inky hair. 

“You are a little trouble maker, aren't you, Luffy?” she chuckled fondly, listening to Luffy's nonsense babbling.

Makino let out a fond sigh as Luffy's belly rumbled once more. Only this day she had fed him over eleven milk bottles. But despite drinking a lot, Luffy never seemed to grow too much, which did baffle her. 

Knowing Vice-Admiral Garp and the way his stomach seemed like an endless pit that could never be sated. Makino assumed it was the Monkey D. genes.

“Don't worry, Luffy, I'll get you something soon enough!”

Luffy giggled and clapped his chubby hands as Makino departed with a gentle kiss upon Luffy's brow.

She locked the door behind her. She always does these days. Makino couldn’t explain it, but… Something was coming. Something terrible will soon befall the boy and she… 

Well, it doesn't matter. 

She double checked the door, just to be sure, before she went down the staircase. 

Underneath the crescent bar was a green box filled with fifteen milk bottles. She bought them just yesterday from Mrs. Marshmallow.

Makino picked up three bottles very carefully, hoping they would be enough for the endless maw that was Luffy’s stomach.

When Makino stood up and smoothed the skirt of her dress, she felt a prickly sensation at the back of her brain. 

Her brows furrowed. Something was wrong. 

Turning her head, her eyes locked with the staircase.

Makino's eyes widened in shock as she noticed swirls of hoarfrost blooming upon the steps of the staircase like fallen pine tree needles, or flowers of ice.

Loud cries echoed through the bar and the smell of death and blood made Makino’s small nose scrunch with repulsion. 

“Luffy!” she cried out, letting the milk bottles clatter upon the floor.

She ignored the shattered glass and spilled milk in favour of her ward’s wailing.

Makino dashed upstairs, running through the narrow hallway towards her room.

The hoarfrost covered the walls and floor and  even the ceiling. The closer she got to her room, the colder the air grew, until it pierced her lungs like a hundred needles…

The stench of blood grew stronger and stronger, and death was present with every step she made.

'Luffy! Oh, Luffy! Please, be okay! Please, be alive!'

Makino panted loudly, cold tears that burned her skin welling up in her eyes. 

Tiny puffs of white mist appeared before her parted lips. She could feel the unnatural cold creep up her skin, numbing her muscles and slowing her down.

“I… I won't m-make it in time. Luffy! Oh, Lu… Luffy!" she wailed in despair, her teeth chattering.

Makino's rosy skin soon turned paler than snow. Her lips went from rosy-pink to light-purple. 

She felt so, so tired. Incredible fatigue washed over her, pressing against her shoulders, weighing her down, down, down. 

If she just… If she just took a little nap… Perhaps then…

'No! I can't! Mustn't fall asleep! Mustn't fall asleep. Mustn't… Fall… Asleep.'

Makino's head spun from unknown pain. 

When her slowly numbing, red-ish fingers pressed against the cold oak wood of the door, a burst of energy rushed through her body, as if she was being soaked in a hot tub during cold winter nights.

Makino gritted her chattering teeth together. Her quivering fingers pressed against the door knob, also covered in hoarfrost.

"I… I must p-protect Luffy! Can't die no… now! Not when Lu… Luffy’s in danger!"

She pushed the wide door open with all her remaining strength and stumbled inside.

Foosha Village was a small, shabby place with very few houses and miserable-looking shops, all of which were located near the coast of Dawn Island. It was a port town… or maybe not. Hm, that didn’t matter to him.

He waited 'till midnight. 

He and his colleagues debated on how they should proceed with this operation. Why did Warcury task the Cypher Pol of all agencies with this particular mission was beyond him. The Holy Knights were far more reliable. They could at least get the job done properly, without any complications. Most of the time. 

Tsk, his thoughts were wandering again. 

From what intel the spies stationed in the East Blue had managed to gather, Garp gave away his grandson to a fifteen-year-old girl who owned this bar. When was the last time he was in a bar.  And why aren't there any bars in Marie Geoise? That’s just plain stupidity. Honestly, he should’ve stayed in Wano a bit longer.

He watched from the shadows as the young barmaid took out a bunch of empty boxes and went towards a trash can to throw them in. Due to her smaller stature and the weight of the boxes, which made her task more difficult, it gave him enough time to enter the bar without being noticed.

The bar itself was a large, homely place, stacked with a dozen of small, round tables, each table harbouring four chairs each. Cupboards, certainly filled with high-quality alcohol—he knew how to recognize a good bar, thank you very much—and shelves with empty glass mugs hung low in between above the crescent-shaped bar counter. The lacquered wood glittered under moonlight's shine, and the smell of fresh paint mixed with yew and faint hint of sake made him sigh in content. Aye, this was a really nice bar.

His eyes met with the curvy staircase and his gaze slid up, watching the stairs curve up and up.

He quietly walked up the staircase and through the narrow hallway like a shadow of death. 

For tonight he was an executioner, and his blade thirsted for blood.

Hoarfrost bloomed under his every step. The air grew thick as he let his presence swallow up the entire hallway. In the back of his mind, he could hear the faint clip-clop of Bakotsu’s hooves as it pranced around, neigh-ing with delight.

From the last room, he felt a very faint Haki signature swirling in the air, stretching far and wide like warm rays of sunlight reaching out to the world.

He gracefully unsheathed Shodai Kitetsu and grasped the smooth hilt into his left hand.

The other hand grabbed hold of the round doorknob, letting the hoarfrost paint the wood in white. 

He turned the door knob to the left. A faint click came from the other side.

He stepped inside, taking in the cramped up surroundings. He found the target sitting in a green, horse-shaped crib.

The babe watched him approach with curious light in his ink-black eyes, chubby hands gripping the thick railing with an unwavering strength. 

At least, that was until he raised Shodai Kitetsu above his head.

Dragon's spawn opened his toothless mouth, and a loud shrill sounded in the room, as tears welled up in his large eyes.

He grunted in irritation, his mind half-set to snatch the babe by his throat and strangle him right there and then… 

…The door slammed open and the barmaid—when did she get in here?—appeared, exhausted and trembling as she leaned against the doorframe for support.

“LUFFY!” she gasped out, rushing towards the crib.

“Oh, Ryuma, save me,” he half-groaned half-sighed, and with a swift side-step he appeared right beside her. 

With the blunt edge of his blade he slashed against her spine.

The barmaid's eyes bulged, before she collapsed on the floor like a broken marionette.

The babe started wailing even louder, stretching out his chubby hands towards the unconscious barmaid, crocodile tears rolling down his cheeks. 

He cursed under his breath—why couldn’t Mars deal with this instead?—as windows from the other houses lit up with life.

He turned towards the Revolutionary's spawn, raising Shodai Kitetsu above his head once more. 

He must finish the job before the villagers get in, and he was in no mood for—

S T O P

This single command made the blood freeze in his veins.

Master.

"Bring the child to Marie Geoise, unharmed. Mu has great plans for this one."

With reluctance he sheathed Shodai Kitetsu back against his belt, and grabbed the infant by the scruff of his cream onesie, like one would lift a scruffy kitten.

He tucked the Revolutionary's spawn, who was still bawling his eyes out for the barmaid, under his white kimono.

With a flick of his wrist, a flash of black lightning burst under his feet. A large pentagram appeared and scorched itself into the floor. 

The Abyss was always a grand sight to behold.

'What does the Master want with the child?' he pondered as he stepped into the darkness.

That night

The sacred land of Marie Geoise

Pangea Castle

The wheel of time turns, the unstoppable marching of its spokes always drumming against the crust of this Universe, changing and corrupting the billion worlds it holds within its grasp. The Immortals observe; unchanging, untainted, perfect. Mu being one of them. The world is as the creator wills it, but Mu is no creator.

“Imu-sama, they have arrived.”

Mu's loyal subjects, summoned by their Master, bend their knees, prostating themselves under Mu’s radiance and power, their heads held low and eyes attached to the red carpet like blood trailing beneath their feet.

Mu climbed the stairs without hurry or care, the destination clear before Mu’s eyes. 

The King sat down upon the Empty Throne—their throne—gloved hands caressing the golden mane of the lion statues, as if the felines were alive.

Mu's presence enveloped the great hall, his eyes, crimson like blood and burning under their thin veil like two embers, digging into the hunched figure of Nusjuro, who knelt in the far right.

“Your Grace, I have brought you the boy," Nusjuro said, feeling his Master’s gaze upon his person.

Mu merely waved their hand. 

“Let Mu beholdeth the face of the one whose father dareth to blow the horn of war and curse Mu’s rightful rule of this world.”

The King rose to his feet, and the world held its breath. Mu descended the staircase, the great pitch-black robes he was clad in; all of which were satine, silk and thick layers of velvet, glided behind him like a river of tar. 

Mu could feel it in the air. The shorter the distance between the King and the babe, the clearer the light of his drums became, enveloping the babe like a cloak, nay, a garb of holy light—yet the child himself was no deity—before only mere star too far out of Mu’s reach when Nusjuro took the babe into his arms. 

Mu saw themselves as Icarus of old, the boy with wings of wax that soared higher and higher, closer to Apollo and his sun.

But unlike Icarus, Mu did not burn. Nay, he would not burn, for the Apollo of Mu’s story was a desperate, freedom-seeking child, deity or not, and Nika would never wrought harm upon his elder sibling.

Mu stopped in his tracks once he stood face to face with the disgraced samurai. 

The child's tear-filled eyes gazed upon Mu with great interest. And yet, his chubby hands held onto Nusjuro's wide sleeve in an unwavering grasp, unwilling to let go.

The King slowly reached out for the child. 

Nusjuro gave up the boy without a hint of complaint, perhaps even relief, as Mu's hands coiled around the babe's small, round body like two serpents, ready to latch onto his meat and feast.

"Mu demandeth this one's name,” he ordered without letting his gaze flicker away from the babe's liquidy, black eyes.

“Monkey D. Luffy, Your Grace,” Warcury answered.

“Monkey D. Luffy,” repeated Mu, savouring each syllable upon their tongue.

The babe’s—Luffy's—eyes glimmered with faint, golden light, as his lips stretched into a toothless smile. 

‘Nika?’ Mu blinked in faint surprise, pulling the wriggling babe against their chest.

The boy squealed in delight. Chubby hands grabbed and pulled Mu's cheeks. 

His touch felt warm and quite gummy, just like the little deity that terrorized the world in the olden times. 

Upon leaning closer, Mu caught a whiplash of very distinct scents; sea salt, freshly cut grass during spring and… straw. Not the queerest of combinations.

"Monkey D. Luffy is dead,” Mu proclaimed, his crimson eyes shifting towards the Gorosei. 

“From this eve forth, the babe shall be knoweth as Saint Luffy of House Nerona.”

Mu’s black pupils narrowed into slits, cruel satisfaction shining within their eyes’ crimson depths. He watched as his subjects' faces morphed and twisted into grimaces of barely contained obfuscation, outrage and disgust.

“Your Majesty, this could prove to be dangerous. He is Dragon's son! He carries the D. initial within his name! Why should he be allowed to live?”

Mu gave the Warrior God of Agriculture a long, stern look. The tall, blond man lowered his head once more, beads of sweat rolling down his temples. Ju Peter should have known better than to open his mouth when not ordered to.

"Mu hath two reasons: First; the Sun God’s devil fruit hath been thwarting our chances of gifting Nika’s powers to a mortal whose soul and life hath been boundeth to us; wandering from island to island, desperate to find itself in grasp of a user suited for my brother’s tastes. Eight hundred years, and it all ends tonight.”

Nusjuro dared to gaze upon his Master’s divine visager, a questioning glance. 

Mu’s lower lip ticked upwards, as they resisted the intense urge of throwing these fools out of the highest spire of Pangea Castle.

“The babe’s Haki signature feels somewhat familiar. Does it not, Nusjuro?”

The disgraced samurai glared at Luffy, who only had his large eyes for Mu—as it should’ve been. 

The Gorosei extended his Observation Haki towards the infant, his will pressing against Luffy’s mind.

Nusjuro grunted in surprise. “It cannot be. Impossible!”

“Mu assures thee, Dragon’s son is not our foe come again. Their Haki signatures are nearly identical only on the surface. Their inner cores, however, are complete opposites."

“Your Majesty, is it truly safe to use this… child, as bait? What if the boy consumes the fruit? What then?”

“That is Mu’s second reason; having the boy consume the devil fruit is a necessary evil we must agree to let pass.”

“A Joyboy that serves the World Government and is loyal to our cause,” Warcury stated, giving Mars a cold look.

“Aye,” Mu nodded. “Turning our old foe into our most formidable ally.”

“Then, who shall this boy be given to? The Donquixote family?”

Saturn shook his head, the grip on his cane tightening. “Those traitors would only corrupt the boy's mindset. We have to keep the boy loyal to us, just look how Doflamingo had turned out, not to mention the fool that was his father.”

“Saturn is right,” Mars admitted reluctantly, as if merely agreeing with the Warrior God of Science and Defense made his stomach turn.

“Giving him to Donquixotes wouldn't be wise. Saint Mjosgard is already displaying signs of… rather rebellious behaviour.”

“Manmayer family?” Warcury suggested.

“No,” Ju Peter said sharply.

“Then, how about Garling ? He is loyal to us and—”

"He shall be raised by the five of thee," Mu's lips curled into a light smile as he spared Luffy a look. 

The babe was resting his head against the King's shoulder, already asleep.

Through the Mind Strings Mu had shared with each of the five men, oh, so long ago, Mu had been granted access to their minds. 

Now he was prone to listen to their raging thoughts. None of the Gorosei had noticed their mind shields weren't raised.

'I don’t understand. Why bother with raising the boy? I understand the Master's way of thinking, but the babe is still a D. He is dangerous to us and our peace. He should be dealt with.’

‘If we execute the boy publically, we will not only have Dragon banging our doors, but Garp as well. We mustn’t forget he is the child's grandfather, and as far as our knowledge reaches, his true loyalties lay with the boy. Then again, we can use the boy as a bargaining chip against Dragon. Hm, the possibilities are endless.’

'The Sun God’s devil fruit can be claimed by someone truly loyal to us, a Holy Knight in training—Shamrock, perhaps?—or a Marine Vice-Admiral.'

‘No, we can't. The fruit is sentient just like every zoan, and we’ve been chasing that fucking fruit for over eight hundred years—’

‘Language!’

—And I’ll be damned if we let our greatest chance slip by. There's simply no other way out of this one.'

'We can raise him, yet that doesn't mean we have to grow attached to him. He is nothing but our weapon, meant to be used against our enemies.'

They all raised their heads as one, five pairs of eyes reverently glued upon their Master.

“So shall it be, Your Grace,” they said in unison.

Chapter Text

3 days later

Somewhere in the Grand Line

It was that girl again, Shanks thought. 

The one with hair as green as juniper and eyes of a curious desert owl. 

It has been, what, three weeks since he last dreamed of her? Shanks didn’t want to admit it, lest he would’ve sounded desperate—which he wasn’t!—but he had been lying awake each morning, disappointed that his dream hadn’t included the girl as well.

This time, the two of them found themselves within Shanks’ cabin. The girl was sitting on his large bed, shoulders shaking. Her small form was curled into a ball, her back bent like a bow, her forehead pressed against her knees, her short hair obscuring her face like a veil. Her long, thin arms were coiled around her joint legs.

Shanks, who was standing in the doorstep of his own cabin until now, entered the spacious room, his step slow, each foot placed with sharp precision—he knew which planks would creak under his foot, and which not—and slowly stalked towards the girl. 

He made a mistake. The floor groaned under the weight of his heel. The girl’s head snapped up, and Shanks’ stomach dropped, tightness unlike anything he had ever felt before squeezed his chest, crushing his lungs until he couldn’t breath. 

The girl had been crying.

Her chest rose and fell in a ragged breath, her entire frame, so slender and frail-looking, still trembled ever so slightly. Her fair face was flushed red; cheeks slightly glistened with trails of fallen tears that hadn’t dried out yet, her long nose was scrunched and her brow bent in a deep frown. 

The girl raised her hand in a desperate hurry upon taking note of Shanks’ presence. 

With the back of said hand, she wiped any leftover tears that still clung to her eyelashes, and the snot that ran down her nose.

Oh. Shanks knew that look; despair casting a long shadow over her blurry gaze, and the feeling of helplessness etched into her muscles, frozen in time, as someone you loved is taken away from you. 

Shanks knew that look, because it was the same gut wrenching grief that Buggy’s face once wore when Captain Roger had been executed.

Despite his better judgement, Shanks walked towards her; posture calm, chin slightly raised, his eyes glued to her face—her large, curious (now frightened, mind you) eyes.

The girl’s body tensed up, her nimble fingers digging into the thin fabric of, what he assumed, was her nightgown. 

Shanks stopped in his tracks, the calm in his eyes briefly replaced with uncertainty. 

Was he overstepping her boundaries? Well, he was a complete stranger to her—and a boy, and she wore nothing but her nightgown. 

The girl seemed to notice his hesitation. The terrified look in her eyes was replaced with a mixture of wariness and childish-kind of curiosity. She sat still on his bed, her eyes now locked with his and they seemed to be… to be searching for something. 

Shanks took a deep breath. He didn’t dare to move closer. She might’ve been friendly with him before, but that could only have been a spur of a moment. And even if she was friendly, well… Either way, he would not risk upsetting her further. 

Mother Sea knows he already fucked up when dealing with Buggy in Logue Town.

The girl gave a small, almost barely noticeable nod. She looked satisfied with whatever she’d seen in him. Her body relaxed and she uncoiled her arms around her knees, before opening them only a little. 

Oh. Oh, she wanted him to hug her.

Shanks blinked, tilting his head. He frowned, and opened his mouth to ask: “Are you sure you want me to?” But nothing left his parted lips just like the first time.

Still unable to talk, and by the looks of it, neither was she.

Shanks climbed up the bed and slowly, hesitantly, sunk into the girl’s embrace, his own arms, dangly, tanned and covered in scars and freckles gently wrapped around her torso, keeping her in place.

Shanks rested his head upon her right shoulder. She smelled of alcohol—not in the unpleasant way the drunkards in the port towns and rich cities smelled like, but in a homely way of a really good bar. 

Shanks sighed.

Closing his eyes, he let the grieving girl hold him for as long as she wanted.

That night

sacred land of Marie Geoise

Pangea Castle

They weren't supposed to grow attached to the boy, that is what they swore; the boy was a weapon and he would’ve been treated as such. 

A member of the D. Clan had no place within the sacred land; as the sworn enemy of gods, and the child of the very man who worked to undo every careful thread within the web of control the World Government has managed to spin in eight centuries, the boy was bound to turn into a nuisance at best, walking catastrophe at worst, if allowed to roam free. 

Despite these simple and very clear facts, their King’s opinion has not changed, the decision they’ve made was final, an ultimatum. The bow would live amongst the gods and be allowed to grow up despite his diabolical heritage.

The Gorosei had no other choice but to obey, no sensible argument would sway their Master, not anymore.

The morning after Nusjuro returned with the boy—alive and well, sleeping soundly in the disgraced samurai’s arms—it has been agreed upon that the babe shall be left in the care of female slaves, preferably maids. Their involvement with the boy will start upon reaching his sixth birthday and no sooner.

It was for the greater good of the World Government, after all. 

Feelings, or their Master forbid, personal attachments, could not be afforded, otherwise the boy—Luffy—would no longer be viewed as a necessary evil and a weapon, but a human being. 

A child. 

Their child.

Then why had he found himself standing in front of the boy's bedchamber, gazing upon the double-winged door with longing gnawing his brain? 

Why was it that he wanted to see him so terribly? To see how he fared so far? To watch that gummy smile stretch his cheeks once more and let the warmth that came with it fire ignite within his Soul?

Saint Marcus Mars stepped from the shadows that slithered across the hallway and walked towards the double-winged door, his spine straight, shoulders set, lifeless, brown eyes piercing the very stillness in the air, as if it personally offended him.

Two Holy Guards stood beside each side of the thick doorframe like tightly coiled springs of steel, unmoving like statues always frozen in place, playing their parts. 

They held long spears in their hands and shields pressed against their armored chests, the symbol of the World Government carved into the white, square-shaped surface.

The Holy Guards were garbed in steel, their helmets coned-shaped, long, dark-blue cloaks hugging their still forms.

On the outside, both soldiers seemed composed, in control and stubbornly unmovable, like two mountains standing side by side. But Mars could hear the blood rushing in their veins, could feel their pumping hearts flutter ever so slightly out of the rhythm. 

Mars saw the unease creep up their spines by the way one shifted his weight more unto his left foot, by the way the second Guard’s knuckles tightened ever so slightly against the wooden handle of his weapon.

Mars relished in tormenting his prey. Not in the way Saturn liked, no, the scientist was patient, too patient at times (Mars wondered if he was still playing mind games with the buccaneer boy, or if he grew tired of him and let go) in ways Mars himself could never be—one of his greatest weaknesses, he knew. Saturn liked to toy with his prey, so did Mars, but he is not so sadistic and would end their suffering thanks to his soft, merciful heart.

No, what Mars desired to see from victims of his ire (and passing fancy) was fear. Fear of loss, of pain, of death. That, and only that managed to bring some joy in his life. Watching them squirm, trying to hide from his eyes, from his sharp words, from his fire like a herd of terrified little lambs. 

Sometimes, when famished, he would feast upon his victim’s fear, courtesy of being paired with Itsumade, who more or less, ate nothing more, except the occasional Sea King.

But not tonight. Tonight, Mars felt somewhat merciful, so he would not feast. A wave of annoyance and disappointment washed over his mind from the Itsumade’s side of their bond.

"Open the door," the oldest Gorosei commanded.

The Holy Guards pressed all their combined weight against the thick wood, the massive door to the boy’s bedchamber opening with a slow, painfully high-pitched groan. The opening was only wide enough for Mars alone to enter.

Mars entered the bedchamber without another word, the relieved sighs of the Holy Guards and the slow, agonizing squeal of closing doors the only sounds that followed the tall man inside.

The boy's bed chamber was quite small for classic Marie Geoise standards; the room was plain with the only pieces of furniture being the boy’s crib, the changing table standing in the utmost corner of the room and a silver-gilded chest, empty for now, placed right beside the door.

The walls were painted in resemblance to the night sky, dark blue hues blending in with onyx black in swirls and soft patterns, with hundreds of thousands of white spots, some smaller than others, in resemblance of the stars. 

Constellations and images of sun and moon looked down upon him from the rather low ceiling. 

There was only one small window—which wasn’t a window, really, just a small, round hole—built right opposite of the door, too high for even Mars to reach.

Mars walked towards the cradle, which gently swayed from left to right, basking in the pool of moonlight that poured from the glass-less and bar-less hole in the wall.

The boy was sleeping soundly, the small of his chest rising and falling in matching intervals. His small, chubby body was covered by a thin, red blanket of what Mars assumed was cotton. The boy himself was dressed in a dark blue onesie with silver crescent moons and small balls of sun adoring the rich cloth.

Something odd and unfamiliarly warm coiled within the Gorosei's gut as his eyes lingered upon the boy’s sleeping face. The way he drew each breath through his pouty lips, each flutter of his lashes as he dreamed of good things, each squirm as he squeezed the red blanket tighter in his little fist—All of it made Mars’ heart melt, even if just a little.

‘I wonder if Peter was like this as well when he was but a babe. Did he sleep so peacefully? Has his time spent within the Realm of Dreams been kind to him? Did he roam about on all four, hiding from his wet nurses as they tried to keep up with his energetic self?’ Mars shook his head, pushing the sentimental thoughts away. 

Fate wasn’t kind enough to let Mars be present during Peter’s childhood, much to the oldest Gorosei’s dismay, but… this boy—Luffy—had all of it before him. 

Mars’ hand grasped the railing of the cradle, long, talon-like fingers scraping against the painted wood.

‘What if… just this once… I was allowed to—’

No.

He shouldn't be thinking like this. 

He must not be thinking of the possibilities, the boy was a weapon, the boy is just a means to an end, disposable tool, precious cog in a cleverly crafted machine that was the World Government. A single thread of the web that were the politics and plots, and plans of this chaotic world.

'Remember, this is a D. and you must not grow attached. You can't. You shouldn't… He is not yours. And never will be,'  Mars reminded himself, but his resolve was slowly crumbling apart.

It felt like being swayed by a Conqueror, the touch of Conqueror’s Haki but a mere brush of fingertips against his mind, almost dismissible. The boy’s charisma was strong, and he was just a baby!

Mars couldn’t look away, his eyes flickering with something real for the first time in decades, if not centuries, while drinking in the peaceful sight of the boy sleeping.

He wanted it, though. 

Oh, sweet heavens, how much he wanted to love the boy. 

And how could he not? 

He loved… he loves Peter all the same, despite bearing the crushing weight of knowledge of what the sweet young lad he had known since he was but thirteen had turned into. 

From the very beginning, when they were nothing but two sides on the opposite sides of a war (at that time, Mars wasn’t truly aware of Peter’s existence), until they met in flesh, two kings signing a peace treaty, Mars knew the lad would wrap a string around his heart, that it would’ve been only a matter of time ‘till he would call Peter his own.

And the fact that someone else, someone unworthy, watched as Peter grew from a small boy to a witty, sharp-minded and competent young king made his heart ache, and blood boil in silent rage. 

He missed his son's entire childhood, and it hurt. More than any wound he’d been ever inflicted with.

But knowing that the boy—knowing that Luffy has all of that before him… Made Mars think that maybe—just maybe—he has been granted a second chance in raising another of his own. 

And this time properly from the very beginning.

Mars knelt down, the cold from the smooth andesite tiles seeping into his bones. He didn’t mind.

The Gorosei bent his neck to the left, his pines snapped with a very audible crack. The long river of white-and-silver hair fell down upon the sleeping babe like a curtain.

"Look at you. You are so small and fragile-looking. To think you bear the initial D. within your name. Ridiculous, is it not? For us to fear you, for the entire sacred land to fear you for a single letter in your name…" 

Mars sighed softly, his voice, which resembled the breaking icebergs or an earthquake, sounding almost melancholic.

“Well, that initial isn’t there anymore, not really. So there will be no need to fret. The spies of the other Great Houses will learn nothing of your blood lineage, I swear it.”

He reached out with his hand, brushing off the unruly curls from Luffy's round face. His touch was surprisingly gentle and light, like a feather’s caress.

Luffy stirred and Mars's hand froze, bony fingers like falcon's curved tallons hovering above the infant's left temple.

Luffy's eyes opened, and two eyes of the colour of black ink met the pair of cold, light-brown ones.

Neither Luffy or Mars moved for a very long, and a very awkward moment. The atmosphere around them grew stiffer, colder. For the entirety of the tense moment, Mars forgot how to breathe. 

Luffy's tiny, chubby hand wrapped around Mars' forefinger, gripping it with a surprising force unlike any ordinary toddler.

"Good evening to you as well, Luffy. Were your dreams lovely and peaceful as your sleep?" asked Mars, not expecting an answer from the now wide-awake babe.

Luffy's lips stretched into that wide, gummy smile, and Mars' chest swelled with a sense of content. His upper lip twitched into a shadow of a smile.

"I take that as a yes, then.”

A loud growl echoed through the bedchamber, the sound piquing Mars’ interest.

"Hungry, are we? Do not fret, young one. I will take care of this." 

Mars stood up, gently lifting Luffy up into his arms, tucking the babe against his chest. He let the infant play with his long mustache and beard (even if it was exceptionally painful, Luffy’s grip was not kind).

"I heard rumours regarding the great appetite harbored by members of the D. Clan. Well, let's see if there is any truth in those rumours, shall we?"

They left the bedchamber without hurry or care in the world.

The two Holy Guards that have been guarding sleeping Luffy so far, had been ordered to stay and guard the room even with the infant’s absence. Neither Guards complained.

Mars strolled through the complex of Pangea Castle with an easy step, leisurely sagged shoulders and entertainment shining in his eyes. 

Luffy’s large eyes gazed at everything with awe and innocence, which only babes were capable of, his eyes litting up each time they walked over anything that made him curious, which was almost everything surrounding them.

It came so naturally. 

The blooming warmth within his chest and the feeling of familiarity that was so right, so… so fitting in ways he couldn’t voice out. 

Mars always had a soft spot for children, especially the ones who were malformed, misshapen by the circumstances of their life and abandoned by the ones who they trusted the most.

This… feeling applied even to the slave children, or half-breeds, yes, those too. There was just this desire always stirring within him, the desire to keep them alive and happy. Mainly alive.

After half an hour, Mars finally made his way to the Royal Kitchens of the Pangea Castle.

There were no Holy Guards standing by the arch-shaped entrance to the endlessly busy settlement. 

Even from the outside, Mars could already hear the countless voices of the cooks and their scullions bustling about, the stirring of soups within the pewter pots, the ringing of sharp knives against wooden desks, as they cut ingredients and the endless waves of footsteps like war drums going around. 

Mars went through the entrance unannounced, he had no need for it, and immediately placed the back of his hand upon his forehead. 

The loud chatter and countless noises mingling together gave the Warrior God of Environment a terrible headache.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed Luffy squirming within his grasp, evidently too highly irritated by the meaningless noise. 

The black-haired boy buried his face into Mars' right shoulder, chubby hands  fisting his finely tailored dark-blue suit.

Mars’ eyes narrowed, before his eyes pierced the crowds of white cloth.

"SILENCE!" he yelled on top of his lungs, his booming voice carrying a faint hint of Conqueror's Haki.

The cooks and their scullions froze, all eyes now glued upon the towering form of the Gorosei. They all gaped at him in silence, and Mars allowed it to stretch, his gaze heavy like a judge’s hammer as he regarded each and everyone with a sharp stare.

It took the fools far too long to understand just who had graced them with his divine presence. 

In unison, all cooks and their scullions dropped on their knees and bowed their heads low in reverence, muttering blessings to their master.

"What brings one of the Great Hosts of the Pangea Castle into this humble place? O', we greet thee, m’lord—”

"Spare me your hollow praises and tell me about the Yoncooks' whereabouts. I need to have a talk with them," Mars said, his voice carrying through the large place, now silent like a graveyard.

The Yoncooks were the greatest chefs in the world, four of them, each Yoncook specialized in different aspects of the culinary art. 

Their titles paralleled the Yonkos, the Four Emperors of the Sea, greatest pirates of this age.

One scullion raised her head, her malnourished body trembling in fear. Her face ashened and gaunt and her hands burnt in some places.

"The Yoncooks have been sent into the Down Below to acquire fresh ingredients for Saint Saturn, o' Honored One."

For a split second, a dark storm passed the Elder’s pale face, before it slipped back into its well-worn mask of cold indifference and arrogance.

It seemed that Saturn's cravings grew more urgent. He will have to ask Warcury to talk to Saturn about his increasing appetite and find a, preferably, permanent solution for this everpresent headache.

"That fool's wasting our resources with that silly diet of his," he shook his head in bemusement.

"But I didn’t make my way here to waste time in idle chatter about other people. I demanded to see our milk supplies. Luffy needs to eat, and he is one demanding baby."

To be fair, Mars could’ve always asked for a wet nurse to feed the babe, and he had no reason why not to. 

However, a quick stretch of legs never hurt anyone, and he wanted to feed Luffy himself, despite how selfish this decision was. Frankly, Mars didn’t care. He was a god and gods are selfish in nature, so why shouldn’t he be allowed to be selfish too from time to time.

One cook, a middle-aged man with an eyepatch over his right eye, and short, sandy hair  rose onto his wobbly feet.

"This way, o' Honored One."

Mars followed the one-eyed cook  into the vast storage room built on the other side of the Royal Kitchens. The doors of the storage room were small and built completely from steel with a sharp handle and a tiny, barred window.

The storage room, as Mars found out, resembled an orderly archive with long rows of boxes that had tags with letters of the alphabet nailed onto their sides, all harbouring ingredients both common and incredibly rare. The only difference from any other archive was the freezing temperature harnessed within the dim-litted complex.

The cold light of torches gave the storage room a little semblance of life and very little light that only allowed Mars and the one-eyed cook to see as much. 

Mars gave Luffy a quick glance, reassuring himself that the babe was doing alright. He was, to some extent. 

After a while, the one-eyed cook returned with a box full of glass milk bottles.

"Here they are, o’ Honored One,” The one-eyed cook said, presenting the box of milk bottles to the Gorosei.

“Good, I’ll be bringing those with me,” Mars said, as pointed at the one-eyed cook with his free hand. “You’ll carry those into Luffy’s bedchamber. Make sure none of them break whilst you do so.”

The one-eyed cook gulped. “A… Aye, Honoured One.”

“Follow me.”

The one-eyed cook obeyed.

They returned to Luffy’s bedchamber with all milk bottles intact, and the one-eyed cook returned back into Royal Kitchens in one piece, not a single scratch or bruise left upon his already mangled and beaten body. 

Mars picked up one milk bottle, the box now sitting on top of the empty chest. 

Opening the glass bottle, he let Luffy's chubby hands eagerly grasp onto the bottle's thin neck and with a small, amused smile watched as the babe opened his mouth wide, and suckled. 

He drank the milk eagerly, his eyes closed half-way, as if savouring the flavour, or the experience of getting his stomach full. 

In a matter of seconds, the bottle was empty.

Mars blinked in surprise. “It seems the rumors hold some truth after all. You do have a black hole for a stomach.”

He placed the empty bottle back into the milk box and patted Luffy's back with affection as the infant started hiccuping. 

"Should've drank slower, hmm?" he mused softly.

He continued patting Luffy’s back, hoping the babe would burp.

“Come now, little dragon, rain your fire upon me,” Mars encouraged the boy, who’d simply hummed in content. “‘Tis no fire I shall receive, hm? Come on, you know you wish to.” 

At last, Luffy burped, and all tension that coiled in Mars’ shoulders faded at once, as if great stones were lifted off of his form.

The Warrior God of Environment rocked Luffy to sleep, humming a tune until the baby boy’s eyelids closed. His breathing grew steady and deep, chest rising and falling in well-known rhythm. 

Mars placed the sleeping infant back into his cradle, covering his curled up body with his red blanket.

From his left breast pocket, Mars pulled out a small, golden pocket watch, the ticking device fitted right into his palm. 

He opened the watch and looked at the time.

The Gorosei hummed, his eyes thoughtful, before returning the watch back to its place. 

Three hours until his hunt begins. He might get some rest until then.

Somewhere in the New World

The world was quiet here. 

The stars lit the sea's waters for ordinary sailors, Marines and pirates alike. The moon, a round circle of yellow-and-white, proudly displayed itself as the crown jewel of the night sky. 

The night was cold, but that was of no concern to it.

An enormous bird-shaped shadow glided above the raging seas of the New World, flying amidst the sea of puffy, silver-white clouds, concealing its presence from the unworthy, prying eyes of the Two-Legs living in their shabby Earth Nests.

The cold moonlight washed over the aerial behemoth, revealing a massive body of a massive serpent, at least hundred feet long. Its back was adorned with azure and emerald-green scales that turned into green and blue feathers of its giant pair of bird-like wings.

With predator’s grace, the yokai soared down, its two beady eyes like two burning embers drilled into the small grey speck that stood on the never ending wall of red stone that splitted the blue world in two.

The yokai simply called it the Wall. A fitting name that told you all you needed to know about the red line of massive stones. 

It never bothered with naming things in such complicated ways as its user or the other Two-Legs did. 

The Two-Legs named the Wall the Red Line. 

The yokai thought it strange. How would the Two-Legs know and remember the main functions of something named the Red Line, if they never saw it? And how would the other Two-Legs explain it to them? Besides, the name itself gave very little away. 

Honestly, it’s been three millennia since the demon encountered its first Two-Legs and it seems their impracticality has not changed since then. 

Its fellow yokai, who were also paired with mortals,  explained that the Two-Legs liked to name the simplest things in such a complex way to appear clever, mainly to the other Two-Legs. A mating dance, they called it. 

The yokai licked the tip of its long, curved, yellow beak in thought and hunger. Perhaps they were right, but who was it to understand Two-Legs?

The yokai’s prey wriggled in its three curved, jet-black talons. 

A large fish tail banged against the yokai's muscular legs, and its dagger-like teeth tried to scrape its thick scaly hide, but to no avail. 

The yokai gave its supper a brief glance.

It was laughable.

As if that would ever do damage to its great armor.

The bird-shaped yokai was named Itsumade. Itsumade's prey was named Sea Eel, for it resembled an eel which lived in the sea waters.

Itsumade's user, Mars, explained that these little worms were called the Sea Kings, but there simply wasn't anything royal about them. They were rather pathetic, these Sea Eels. And their flesh tasted bitterly, and was hard to chew.

The White Nest was close, and Itsumade's prey was still alive. 

That wasn't good. 

Itsumade's eyes narrowed into slits, as a low growl bubbled in the back of its throat. 

The yokai's beak parted to open, revealing two rows of jagged white fangs.

With a powerful swing of its legs, Itsumade threw the struggling Sea Eel high up, way above its massive head.

A surge of immense warmth stirred within its gut. It bubbled and grew stronger, brighter, tangible. From embers, flames arose and Itsumade was ready to feast. The flames started crawling up its neck, the prickly sensation a welcomed distraction to its nerve-wrecking hunger.

Taking a deep breath through its nostrils, the pressure that coiled and balled in its opened maw released.

A column of scorching flame bathed the falling Sea Eel in bright light, piercing its already scraped, slick hide. 

Itsumade’s flame was white with intricate veins of blue sewn into it.

The Sea Eel shrieked in agony, the sound like a dying spider whose body still twitched in the last throes of life. 

Itsumade jerked its head back and let out a melodic shriek, which could've been compared to the laughter of Two-Legs.

Itsumade caught the cooked food within its still widely opened beak. It sunk its teeth into the lovely smelling meat, so chewy and smooth. 

With powerful flaps of its magnificent wings, Itsumade flew towards the White Nest, where the Human-Dragons lived.

Drool was already forming on its forked, purple tongue, dripping upon the cooked meat and down its chin. 

It couldn't wait to present its fine meal to Mars' newest Two-Legged-Hatchling. 

From what it had seen through Mars' eyes, the Two-Legged-Hatchling was too small and too weak to hunt food for himself; he hasn't got the strength of the Worm-Hatchling, not yet at least. 

It would be many moons until the Two-Legged-Hatching would be allowed to join their nocturnal hunts, but time will pass and the Hatching will grow, just like everything.

Yet, unlike Worm-Hatchling, this new Two-Legged-Hatchling smelt…

…Well, Itsumade couldn't really describe the specific scent that coated the Hatchling’s soft hide.

For instance, he smelt differently compared to the other Two-Legs. 

Of course, there was the classic stench of Two-Legs upon him as well; blood, bones and earth. 

But even for all that…Itsumade could smell something that could only be described as otherworldly.

The lingering scent was sweet and warm, bearing marks of the sea and pungent smell of bright flames alike. To put it simply, the Hatchling smelled like the sun… or what Itsumade thought the sun smelled like.

That very scent previously described, seemed to cling onto the Two-Legged-Hatchling's Soul.

That’s why Itsumade called him the Sun-Hatchling. Simple, practical and it made sense.

Itsumade flew above the white, square shaped nests the Human-Dragons built. 

Itsumade thought they weren't very practical in terms of design. Tall and slim, decorated with the shiny, yellow stone that glowed when caressed by sunlight. Pretty enough to catch a potential mate's eye, but impractical against enemies. 

If Itsumade wanted, its flame could heat up the white stone and the Human-Dragons residing within the nests would be cooked like the Sea Eel minutes before.

The bird-shaped yokai made its way towards an enormous square-shaped building with sixteen great towers. 

Itsumade managed to land on top of the round-shaped hole within the Nest Tower where Itsumade and Mars lived.

Stretching out its pair of short legs to lessen the impact, Itsumade's curved talons created cracks within the white stone as it finally landed. 

Folding its broad, azure and green wings, Itsumade pushed its scaled body inside, beady eyes adjusting to the darkness. It didn’t take much time.

Itsumade readied itself for a jump, its attention was on a giant birdcage, thrice its own size. The birdcage was built out of the same shiny, yellow stone just like the thick, long chain attached to the dome-shaped ceiling that held the birdcage afloat in the air.

The bird-shaped yokai jumped, its thin legs stretched towards the oval-shaped door of its home.

Once its large body got attached, Itsumade pushed the door open with a flick of its draconic tail and scurried inside.

It eyed the nest with interest. Almost nothing has changed, not even the familiar stench of dried animal blood. 

The nest was an ancient place, perhaps older than the White Nest itself.

Itsumade created its nest out of dried roots and sickly trunks of dying trees, all of it collected from many corners of Down Below. Some holes that the roots and logs couldn't cover were filled with Itsumade's own feathers and scales the yokai has shed throughout the centuries, and some leftover bones from previous hunts.

The yokai laid down, folding its broad wings against the serpent body. 

The cooked meat tasted slimy and bitter as the yokai expected, but it was food. 

It gobbled the meat down, its forked, purple tongue smacking against the roof of its maw with reluctant pleasure as the blood of the Sea Eel quenched its thirst.

After finishing most of its meal, Itsumade added the Sea Eel's bones into its nest's foundation, stacking them on top of the other, far older bones. 

Itsumade knew that small Two-Legs didn't eat much, so it only left a small portion of the Sea Eel's back for the Sun-Hatchling to feast on.

Itsumade grabbed the slab of cooked meat by the tip of its beak. 

Following the trail of Mars' second Two-Legged-Hatchling, the bird-shaped yokai flew out of its cage and through the hole out in the open skies once more.

It found the Sun-Hatchling's nest quite fast thanks to his scent, which Itsumade memorized. 

To Itsumade's irritation, the only window the small Sun-Hatchling had was a tiny hole far up in the thick wall. 

Unfortunately for Mars—and the rest of the users—not all tricks each demon possessed was revealed to the light. 

Itsumade squeezed its enormous body through the tiny window without scraping it hide. It appeared as easily as when you watched a knife slice through butter.

Itsumade clicked its tongue in displeasure. Next time it will demand a larger window from Mars and the Worm-Hatchling as well. It deserved to play and protect the smaller Sun-Hatchling just like the others.

The Sun-Hatchling slept in his tiny, black nest built out of perfectly oiled wood. The combined scent of the walls, the smooth wood and the Sun-Hatchling itself made Itsumade's nostrils flare and chirp in confusion.

The Sun-Hatchling was small, with black feathers sticking out of its head. It had a tiny beak just like any other Two-Legs, and a round face. 

Maybe after he finished his meal, Itsumade will be able to cuddle with the Sun-Hatchling as well.

Itsumade pressed its beak against the tiny chest, nudging the Sun-Hatchling to wake up.

To the yokai's glee, one of the Sun-Hatchling's eyes opened up, the infant trying to blink his last remnants of sleep away.

Itsumade watched him squirm in the black nest, pushing his beak closer as if urging the infant to take the small slab of meat and eat it up.

The Sun-Hatchling's nose scrunched and his round face morphed into a strange expression Itsumade didn’t recognize. His face grew red, eyes watery and when the infant opened his mouth wide, he let out a terrible, loud cry that reverberated through the room.

Itsumade jumped away in surprise, the slab of meat falling onto the floor. The bird-shaped yokai let out a shriek of its own, but it sounded confused and hurt. 

However, the confusion slowly melted away and it was replaced by a challenging anger.

Feathers on the yokai’s neck stood upright, like a cat's fur as it faced a challenge or danger.

To Itsumade, the infant's wailing was an equivalent of a war cry, a challenge for battle. 

It felt hurt knowing that the Sun-Hatchling rejected its kind offering, and even more hurt when he dared to challenge the great demon to a brawl.

Itsumade was ready to pounce on its rather small enemy, but its vicious attack was promptly delayed by two creatures of shiny, grey metal as they burst into the room. Their pointy sticks immediately went for Itsumade's neck.

"Saint Luffy-sama!" one of the creatures yelled in panic, its metallic body stumbling towards the shrieking Hatchling that hid in the nest.

Oh, that won't do.

The yokai growled, before it swiftly whipped around in a circle, swinging its tail with ridiculous speed. 

An audible crack echoed through the room.

Itsumade’s tail hit the metallic creatures right in their pointy heads. 

Itsunade's mouth curled into something that could be only described as a sadistic snarl, as the two metallic creatures crumpled upon the floor. 

However, before Itsumade could return to the unfinished fight with the Sun-Hatchling, a strong, imaginary hand grabbed it by its end of the bond it had with Mars and tried to yank the yokai back into the dark depths of unconsciousness. 

The yokai shrieked furiously, as it was forced to switch with its user. 

It didn't want to, but through the bond Itsumade could feel Mars’s fury clawing at its mind. In any other case, Itsumade would be delighted to feel Mars forcing his ire upon someone, but it didn’t like when itself was on the receiving end.

With one strong yank, the yokai cried out and all it knew was darkness.

Mars inhaled sharply, his eyes adjusting to the darkness of the room. 

Ignoring the corpses of the Holy Guards, Mars hurried towards Luffy's cradle as soon as the infant's cries reached his ears.

He immediately took the crying babe into his arms, coddling his small shape into his chest.

"Luffy—Luffy, it's alright now, it's alright, young one. No need to fear anymore, I am here for you," Mars said softly, his wrinkly hand rubbing the infant's trembling back in circles, trying to soothe him.

"It's alright now, I—The monster is gone, Luffy. It won't hurt you. I am here and everything's alright."

The infant's chubby hands kneaded the smooth fabric of his dark-blue suit, as if indicating that he didn't believe a word Mars just said.

Sweat glistened upon the Gorosei's pale, shriveled face. He pressed his broad back against a wall, watching with careful eye as Luffy's crying soon turned into much quieter sobbing.

Mars didn't expect the Itsumade to go this far. 

It seemed he was too lenient with his yokai, allowing the beast too much. 

Well, not anymore.

His lanky body slid down onto the floor in relief and exhaustion. 

Crossing his long legs, Mars sighed as Luffy's body stopped trembling, his sobbing now nothing but silent tears and lingering specks of fear in those warm, ink-black eyes.

"Close your eyes. Have no fear. The monster's gone, he's on the run and your daddy's here."

He was certain his voice was too raspy, too deep, and wasn't particulalry suited for singing, but he could care less now. The sight of Luffy's lips stretching into that wonderful, sunny smile of his made Mars's heart flutter in his chest.

By heavens, but was he adorable.

"Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy."

Wiping Luffy's tears away, he let a soft smile curl on his lips. The babe's chubby hands reached out to him, one palm brushing against his sunken cheek in innocent affection.

"Before you go to sleep, say a little prayer. Every day, in every way, it's getting better and better."

"Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy."

Mars stood up, sparing the corpses a single glance, before his gaze was upon Luffy once more.

He had to take Luffy away from the scene.

Mars didn't want Luffy to know about death at such young age, despite the fact that he may not understand what is going on, Luffy was too young to understand the concept of death, after all.

Still… no. He wanted Luffy to keep his innocence while he was still allowed to.

Once he and the babe stood outside, Mars summoned two slave women, both of which were dressed in all black.

"Take the armor and whatever clothing they had and burn it. Then toss the bodies onto the castle walls. Let the crows and sun finish the job."

They nodded without a word as they hurried to complete their task.

Mars continued singing again once he walked past a corner. 

"Out on the ocean, sailing away. I can hardly wait to see you come of age. But I guess we'll both just have to be patient."

"'Cause it's a long way to go, a hard row to hoe. Yes, it's a long way to go, but in the meantime..."

Mars walked through the long hallways, the sound of his sharp steps and Luffy's giggling bouncing off of the walls.

He felt Luffy's body snuggling closer to him, his head now comfortably resting against his shoulder.

Luffy succumbed to sleep once more, his eyes closing as they finally arrived at their destination.

Four Holy Guards that stood in front of the Room of Authority stepped aside, two of them pushing the double-winged door open.

Thankfully, the Room of Authority was empty. The other four had retired to their own bedchambers, or a lab in Saturn's case.

He sat down onto the green couch, back resting against the gold-gilded frame.

Crossing one leg over the other, Mars closed his eyes.

None of the Gorosei needed to sleep, not anymore, but a few hours of rest wasn't such a terrible prospect, especially if you had to deal with one obnoxious scientist in the next morning.

"Before you cross the street, take my hand. Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans."

"Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy.
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy."

Luffy's small body was curled up in his arms like a small ball. One chubby hand still held onto his dark-blue suit, fingers splayed right above Mars' heart.

He wished he and Luffy could stay like this forever, but it wasn't in his power to stop the inevitable march of time.

Mars knew he wouldn't regret watching Luffy grow up. He just wished it wouldn't happen so fast.

"Before you go to sleep, say a little prayer. Every day, in every way, it's getting better and better."

"Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy…"

Baltigo

Revolutionary Army's base

The tiny flame dancing within the safety of the oil lamp flickered, as another paper was stacked on top of an endlessly-seeming pile of paperwork. 

Baltigo was rather busy these days; new volunteers joined the Revolutionary Army and its noble cause every day, abandoning the treacherous World Government for freedom of all people.

Infamous leader of the Revolutionary Army, Monkey D. Dragon, sat by his working desk that could be only described as organized chaos; paperworks were stacked upon piles—or rather chimneys—just that were not combed perfectly, they rather messy piles.

Reports and files regarding spies that have been sent into Marineford. laid opened next to the bottle of ink.

Dragon stopped scribbling mid-sentence, his tilted eyes narrowing down.

Something was wrong.

Tilting his head towards the balcony, he listened to the winds' soft whispers.

Something was terribly wrong.

Standing up, with one breath, the flame was snuffed out, leaving only a faint trail of smoke and scent of melting wax.

Opening the door to the halfmoon-shaped balcony, Dragon stepped outside, the voice of the winds now clearer to his ears.

He breathed in the fresh air and scent of raging sea. It always managed to calm his raging nerves.

Closing his eyes, Dragon listened closely to the whispers in the humid air, to the broken words of the winds.

He managed to catch a few words the winds kept whispering. They sounded… worried?

Sun. East. Gone. Sky.

Dragon frowned.

'Sun, east, gone, sky? What does that mean?'

The winds grew restless, angry—frustrated, evenas it pushed his body towards east. 

Dragon grunted as his broad frame slammed against the thick blacony railing.

"East... East Blue?" his voice carried hint of confusion. "Winds, what are you trying to tell me?"

Sun. East. Gone. Sky.

The winds kept repeating the same four words over and over.

"The sun... is gone... from the sky? No... Not the sun, but the son—"

Dragon's eyes widened, and the whole world seemed to freeze before his eyes.

Luffy was gone.

Luffy was not in the East Blue.

Someone—no, the World Government took him from the East Blue.

Sky. Heaven. Marie Geoise.

Luffy is gone, Luffy is... is dead. Luffy is dead.

Dragon rushed back into his office, frantically searching through the shelves and cupboards. 

'Where are you? Where are you, you stupid snail?!'

He found the grey Den Den Mushi sleeping amongst the palm trees he had kept in the darkest corner of his office.

'He's not dead. He's not dead. He is NOT DEAD!'

It was a mistake, the winds were mistaken, that's all. Luffy was fine. Luffy... his Luffy. 

'Damn the wretched Government to the three hells!'

Dragon quickly grabbed the snail by its ice-blue and placed it on his desk.

He dialed the special number he kept on a smudged paper, which was hidden under his suit's right sleeve.

The Den Den Mushi started ringing.

"Come on, old man. Pick it up. Just pick it up. Please, old man."

Puru puru puru puru puru pur—Gotcha.

"Hi, this is Vice Admiral Garp speaking, what do you want?"

"Old man, this is me. We have a problem."

Somewhere in the New World

Ruins of an ancient shrine

The time has finally come. The day all those who praised the greatness of the Echo have been so patiently waiting for… it has come at last! The night when the Princess of Songs Eternal shall be born! 

The followers of the Echo stood in a wide circle within the center of the once great shrine’s ruins, naked as the day they were born—but nudity didn’t alarm them, no, that was part of the ritual, of their willing sacrifice. 

Twenty men and twenty women of various ages held their heads high, their eyes reverently cast upon the pregnant figure of the Lamb, a young lass barely twenty years of age with olive skin and glossy, silver-white hair that cascaded down her back, who laid upon the sacred altar of songs, her thighs spread wide open, ready to bring forth the child in her belly into the world.

“Brothers and sisters, the followers of the Echo, hear my words!” called out the shrill voice of an elderly woman.

She stepped out of the circle—which was swiftly mended by the rest—her shrivelled hands raising a large, golden bowl above her bald head. She walked towards the Lamb, her pace measured, trained, as if she were in a theater and the others were her audience. She stopped in her step the moment the golden bowl loomed above the woman’s belly.

“Three thousand years we have been patient, endured within the shadows of those who blaspheme against our teachings, hiding from those who would seek our demise! But no longer, my sisters and brothers! Our time of hiding is over, for the prophesied day of the ritual has arrived! And it is our sacred duty as the Church of the Echo, to release the Princess of Songs Eternal into the world, and our god shall reign supreme!”

There were no cheers or applause, just a silent, solemn inevitability that came with the elderly woman’s frantic words.

“All hail the great Echo!” said the elderly woman, as she spilled the bowl’s contents upon the pregnant woman, the crimson liquid, blood, splattering upon the young woman' s belly and her thighs, dripping down the altar.

“All hail the great Echo!” echoed the followers.

“The time has come! Let us sing the world anew!” the elderly woman's lips curled into a maniacal smile as she threw her hands up, wide, crazed eyes glaring up at the full moon, once silver-and-white now coloured purple-and-red. 

“Let us sing for our Master, our god and his child, the Daughter of Hell!”

The men and women opened their mouths in unison; so began the song of demise and decay, the terrible sounds that came out of the worshipper’s lips a symphony of discord. High notes mingled and clashed against the low ones, the words of the sacred text but a mere buzz of noise within the chaos.

The Lamb upon the altar howled in pain as she went into labour…

...The ruins that were once a great shrine within the island of Anihilia were gone, forever lost to the stupidity of mortals who were playing with magic their feeble minds could scarcely comprehend. Only a giant crater, a sizzling hole of molten lava and burning corpses was left behind. Well, not the only thing.

 The woman—nay, the angel, who sat upon a cloud, looking down upon the result of the terribly executed ritual, held a small babe—a little girl—against her chest. 

The ritual worked, and only because they’d been granted access to the Echo’s Soul—which was given way too easily for the angel’s taste. For a god to let mortals gaze upon their soul with such ease… 

…No matter. The child was born in almost perfect physical condition, another successfully created Avatar.

With a flick of her wrist, the angel conjured up a treasure chest. Opening the lid, the wooden box was already gleaming with treasures no mortal could resist. She placed the sleeping babe upon a conjured up cushion and closed the lid with a soft click of the lock.

The angel grabbed the chest into both hands, and as she descended down towards the blue seas, she couldn’t help but wonder if the Echo’s precious Figarland was aware that he unwittingly aided in creation of a god.

Chapter Text

1 week later

East Blue

Dawn Island

The Doggy Voyager sailed through the somewhat calm sea, the warm waves rolling against the ship's belly; pushing it closer and closer towards its final destination.

It was just around four in the morning and the sun wasn't peaking above the horizon yet, but Garp was already awake anyway, standing tall and proud on his battle ship's dog-shaped figurehead. His light-blue eyes solemnly gazed at the nearing grey spot floating in the sea, the island of his childhood, the cradle of the Hero of the Marines.

A week has passed since he received the news from Dragon, and they were… alarming. Garp has been on edge ever since; his thick brows bent in permanent frown, full lips pressed into a severe line, broad shoulders tense as if he was waiting for some imaginary battle to begin.

Garp didn't want to believe that Luffy was gone—he didn’t want to think of the word dead at all—that this was just some hoax, a badly transmitted message or a really fucked up joke on his son's part.

Luffy couldn't be gone. 

Not his little Luffy. 

Not his darlin' grandson.

He was bothering Sengoku in his office, talking about the newest batch of recruits; weak baby seals that couldn’t even fight against gorillas in forests! Hah! Even Ace knew how to do that by now! 

That’s when his Den Den Mushi buzzed, going all puru puru, interrupting Garp as he shoved photos of baby Luffy into his best friend’s face; gushing and showing his Senny pictures of Luffy sleeping in his crib, his tiny fists clenched or couple photos of Luffy drinking a large milk bottle for the first time—it was hilarious, Luffy drank it all in matter of seconds!—and photos of Luffy in a white seagull onesie. Garp bought that one himself, he remembered proudly.

But now, it scarcely matters. His grandson was gone, and he knew that Dragon would never joke about something as serious as this, not that humour was ever his son’s strong suit. Luffy was Dragon's brat after all! 

But still, Garp had been… 

…Well, he wasn't doing well, everything was just so… it was all too much for him, but he didn’t want to admit it. Nope, he was fine, completely, totally fine and nothing, nothing was wrong with him.

Dark circles appeared under his eyes due to lack of proper sleep (and occasional nightmares), but Garp was never the type to sleep much, besides the occasional  blackouts from time to time. He ate only two meals per day, three if Bogard was around, and drank a lot more of that cheap South Blue's booze that tasted like piss, staying more drunk than sober.

He wasn’t drunk this morning, perhaps because he was already nearing Dawn Island and didn’t want to let the village’s folk—his folk—see him in such pityful state.

Cold, northern wind pushed against the broad, white sails, painted with the white sigil of the Marines, pushing the Doggy Voyager closer and closer.

Something cold and dreary stirred within Garp’s stomach. 

He didn't pull the Marine coat tighter around his shoulders, letting the gush of wind ruffle his hair and uniform. Shiver ran down his spine, but he ignored it as he ignored the strange chill that was not custom to these parts of East Blue.

Garp crossed his arms against his chest, squinted eyes observing yellow lights flickering in the distance. The Foosha Village was awake and with it its denizens. 

Garp had been rummaging through the countless explanations and apologies he wanted to repeat to the folk and Makino, especially Makino; rehearsing the lines like a skilled actor, over and over. 

All of them sounded so… bland and fake, not even worthy of putting them into words. They withered on the tip of his tongue like poorly preserved wine, all of the excuses and miserable half-truths nothing more and dust and old man’s shame.

The already cold wind grew freezing, puffs of silver-grey mist appeared with each sharp exhale from Garp’s lips, the cold piercing his lungs like hundred needles. Garp’s teeth started chattering. The Marine could no longer ignore the cold, and pushed his coat around his shoulders, tying up the buttons to keep himself warm.

Garp had felt this unnatural cold before, recognizing what it meant. That thought alone only deepened his frown, and he offered up a silent curse to the lazy sea waves, still pushing his battle ship forward with hostile indifference.

From the corner of his eye, Garp could see the air shift beside him; the wind started swirling, molding all the cold and dread into a very blurry shadow, something that could almost be referred to as a person’s silhouette if only it hadn’t been so terribly misshapen and gangly, barely resembling the person it was supposed to be. 

Garp didn't have the emotional capacity to deal with him now, but he cared very little for Garp’s comfort and emotional state.

Closing his eyes, Garp took a deep, steady breath before in, letting out a low sigh of defeat.

“Hm, a fine mornin' ain't it, Garpy?” the Voice—it was just a voice in his head, nothing more, nothing less!—sing-sung as it (he will not give the Voice the grace to give it a sense of humanity) walked towards him, the footsteps ringing in his ears like gunshots. It took a good chunk of Garps self control not to flinch.

(One went straight through his left shoulder, leaving a clean wound, blood soaked into the black captain's coat. Second shot his right knee, a much messier wound that was. Garp can never get the sound of shattering bone out of his mind, always lingering there. And then the third came, that one went into his stomach and then fourth and fifth and sixth and seventh and…)

“It's rather poetic, ain't it? Ya really keep failin' yer family o'er and o'er, choosin’ yer precious Marines o’er them every. single. time.” the Voice cackled, its wickedly sharp mouth twisting into a wide cheshire grin. 

“Aren’t ya tired of pretendin’ family matters more to ye than yer job? Ye’ve never been the best liar ‘round, y’know?” 

Garp clenched his jaw as a vein slowly bulged on his sweat-slick forehead. 

He will not give into the Voice's taunts, it was just a product of his imagination, not a real living (dead) human being.

"First ya failed me, then ya failed Shiro, then yer grandbrat… " the Voice started counting on its long, twisted fingers that swirled with the cold wind, spiralling, just like the rest of its odd body. The Voice’s silhouette grew sharper and the sound of its raspy howl of a voice grew louder, like a chiming of a church bell.

“I haven't failed my grandson. Luffy isn't dead,” Garp snapped, head twisting towards the tall figure, its visage now sharper, more realistic. “And ‘is name’s Dragon now, you lost the right to call him that name when you—”

"Don't ya dare to tell me what I can or can't do if it involves my family, Garp!" the Voice bellowed, its chapped lips curling into a snarl.

The edges of the Voice’s silhouette shimmered and bristled like a furious cat’s fur, the sharp colours of its existence growing sharper and more eye-punishing.

The Voice stomped towards Garp, until it towered over Garp’s evidently shorter form, its blurry shape casting a long shadow over the elderly Marine; the strange angle gave Garp the impression that the Voice was now a giant.

"Ye took Shiro away from me! Ye stole my son away before I even got to meet him!" 

The Voice's words choked at the last three words, its imaginary teeth scraping against each other like two sharpened daggers. 

The Voice bent over, leaning incredibly close to Garp's stunned face, its own visage shielded by a shadowy mask of unfiltered rage.

“Ye stole Shiro from my wife's dying arms, like a sneaky thief and ran away, ye cunt. And I'll never forgive ya for that. Ever," it sneered, wide pupils narrowing to serpent-ish slits.

“I did it to protect the boy, you idiot! Your foolhardy ambition would’ve gotten you killed—and it did, s’my point stands!” 

Garp snapped back, growling at the Voice.

“What do you think would’ve happened if the boy was discovered on your ship during a Marine raid? Or seas be merciful—in God Valley?”

Garp felt a tiny stab of satisfaction as the Voice’s features stiffened, its mouth gaping wide open.

“None of the fighters were pullin’ punches, there wasn’t even a scrap of mercy, especially not within the Holy Knights!"

Garp's voice grew louder the longer he spoke, his Haki crackling around his clenched fists, pushing and pressing against the Voice's own nonexistent Haki signature.

“What do you think would've happened if any of them decided t’use the boy against you? I know atleast three people who would've liked t'see you and your—our son dead, and one of them scarred Edward fuckin' Newgate!”

Garp closed his eyes, his chest heaving with each laboured breath he took. 

In much quieter voice, he added: “If he had found Shiro then you and and your fucked up ambition and nonsensical dreams would've been burried six feet under right there and then!”

Garp wheezed out a sharp breath—when did that migraine appear?—as he finished his ranting. His pale-blue eyes were ablaze with hurt, fury and contempt for the Voice, who kept simply staring at the Vice-Admiral with a blank look, which Garp knew all too well.

The silence around them grew heavy and thick with tension, as their now restless Conqueror’s Haki signatures kept dancing around them, bloodlust that was barely contained bristling around them, clawing and hissing at each other with voices that their shared willpower never had.

'How long has it been since I and he talked like this?' Garp pondered, still trying to catch his breath.

Ages upon ages, Garp didn’t bother to count.

The first time the Voice approached him was almost a year after God Valley, when Garp was slowly waking up from his grief-stricken coma, healing the mental and emotional wounds the death of his archenemy brought him. 

His Soul has never been the same; unable to heal completely from the aching scars, diminished of its other half.

Unfortunately for Garp, that was the day Sengoku and Fleet Admiral Kong wanted to discuss Garp's promotion to the rank of Admiral, which was about a month after Zephyr left the Marines for good.

To say that Sengoku and Kong freaked out after Garp started arguing with a wall would've been an understatement.

After that… incident, Garp was forced to visit the Chief Medic at the Marineford’s Hospital Wing, who prescribed him some awfully tasting pills and told him to “do yoga” or some crap like that. Garp wasn’t listening to the old hag anyway, so why would it matter.

The Marine was also forced to have daily three-hours therapy sessions with Tsuru. 

His condition started improving after that time, but only with slow, measured steps.

And now it was back. The "illness" he had supposedly suffered back in the day. 

Garp didn't believe it to be schizophrenia. 

No, the Voice was more than just whispers in his head.

It was real, its Haki was real. The Voice was—

“What ‘bout, er… What ‘bout Teach? He’s… He’s fine, right?” the Voice was the one to break the silence, its tone sounding grave—sad, even, if Garp’s ears were to be believed.

Garp managed a curt nod. 

“Aye, he was with Newgate the last time I saw ‘im.”

“Newgate, huh? Well… could’ve been worse.”

“Hm,” Garp agreed. 

“Y’know, yer grandbrat might be dead after all. The Cypher Pol agents—if it were the Cypher Pol agents, of course—are really great killin' machines. Persistent fuckers, those arseholes are,” the nasty, not-so-happy grin that splitted the Voice's face stretched into an inhuman lenght, as two rows of pearly whites glittered right before Garp's face.

“Luffy. Is. Not. Dead,” Garp said through clenched teeth, shaking his head as he stared at the great shape of Dawn Island only six or seven miles away.

He hoped Luffy wasn't dead. 

The Vice-Admiral wanted to believe that the sweet ray of sunshine that was his darlin' boy wasn't gone, because seas be merciful to the World Government if they dared to lay their filthy hands on Garp's treasures once more.

This time he won't simply sit quietly and watch as they take another of his loved-ones away.

“If you still dare t'call yourself Shiro's father, then I guess you need t’be reminded of the fact that Luffy is your grandson as well. And related by blood nonetheless,” Garp crossed his arms against his chest again, not bothering to pay the Voice's blurry form any mind.

“Well, if I had been alive then I could call him my grandson too; but guess what, smartarse? I'm dead! D. E. A. D.”  the Voice jabbed its finger through Garp's chest, for its body was just an illusion.

“I can't get involved in his fuckin' life! O', I wonder who's responsible for that ?”

“Bah! Just get outta here! I don't need t’listen t’your senseless yappin' all the bloody time!” Garp shooed him away with a flick of his hand.

The Voice scoffed but didn't make another snarky remark. Instead, its silhouette shimmered and started paling before Garp’s eyes, shrinking until it popped out of existence with a soft pop!

The Vice-Admiral was left standing on the figure head of the Doggy Voyager alone once more, only the cold wind and calm, blue-and-green waves keeping the grizzled Marine company.

Dawn Island

Foosha Village

Makino stood at the head of the large crowd that awaited Vice-Admiral Garp's arrival.

She watched with contempt as the Marine ship with a silly-looking dog as its figurehead finally docked in the Foosha's quay.

The atmosphere within Foosha was quiet, solemn and oppressive, just like the thick blanket of grey clouds that covered the blue sky, thunder rumbling like trumpets announcing the arrival of a king—or Mother Sea be merciful—of a Tenryuubito.

'It will be raining soon,' Makino mused to herself, her sunken face growing ashen. ‘I don’t fancy rain these days.’ 

When Vice-Admiral's ship finally settled amongst the fishermen boats, the villagers greeted Garp and his twenty men with glares that could, and pardon me for saying this, reduce the so-called Hero of the Marines and his lackeys in white to cinders and heaps of molted flesh.

The villagers’ eyes, sunken and hollow, woved violence and calls for Garp’s blood, bloodlust dancing in their depth. 

Makino’s own eyes drew daggers through Garp's bulky body.

Garp halted a few steps away from Makino, eyes boring into muddy ground, not daring to raise his gaze and behold her misery.

He looked terrible, Makino noted. The sagged shoulders, the circles under his eyes, the new grey hair lining his ears… Makino couldn't begin to imagine what the man was going through right now.

'Serves him right,' the little voice in her head grumbled. 'He should've used what little he has left of his brain for once in his life, and give his grandson to someone of age.'

On that, Makino could only agree. 

The major blame should rightfully befall on Garp, which she secretly hoped it would. Makino wasn't petty nor cruel in nature, her mother raised her better than that, but this time Garp deserved it. 

What was the fool thinking, giving up his grandson to a fifteen-year-old? And what was Makino thinking when she accepted? Did she really think she could take care of Luffy all alone, just by herself? That she could protect the sweet child without going through any physical training in her short life. That she could raise Luffy without actually knowing how to raise a baby?

“Garp!” 

Mayor Woopslap called out, his voice sharp and laced with disgust, his thick, East Bluesian accent giving his already deep voice a harsher tone that didn’t sit right with his feeble, short body.

“How dare yo’? How dare yo' think so low o' us?! Do we really look like bunch o' scoundrels to yo'!? To snitch on yo' boy to the World Government's officials, eh!? Do we? ANSWER ME, YO’ COWARD!"

Ah. 

So this is what had sent Mayor Woopslap on a terrifying rampage throughout the entire village since he found out that Garp was coming to Dawn Island. 

When Makino asked from whom he received such information, Mayor Woopslap spat the word 'bandit' like a curse. 

The bar maid didn't delve deeper into this issue. Her Mother always used to say that being nosy would only lead to trouble anyway. And she had been right in a certain way.

“Mayor, I—” Garp's effort to speak up was cut when Miss Norringham; the sweet, chubby lady with prosthetic left hand and more cats then one could deem normal, who owned a pretty flower shop near the southern end of the Foosha village, pushed her way through the crowd, raising her  good hand, already clenched in a fist.

“No! We ain't here to listen to your excuses, you fuckin' dipshit!”

Makino bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from laughing out loud. The old lady was well-known around these parts as the quote-on-quote filthiest mouth in Foosha.

It seems that today Makino would get a lesson on vulgarity.

Miss Norringham approached Garp, her sturdy boots leaving ominous thuds echoing through the village’s quay. 

The moment Miss Norringham finally reached Garp, a loud CRACK reverberated against the walls of the butcher shop and the houses of fishermen that lived there. 

Garp grasped his left cheek with a bewildered look.

“You revoltin' sack of fishguts, what were you thinkin' with—your shitty arse, I suppose!—when you left your fuckin' grandkid in a care of little girl? And not even botherin' with tellin' any of us? Are you mad? She could've died there with your brat!” 

The Marines let out astonished gasps before pulling out their rifles and swords, barrels and tips of steel pointed at the angry mob. 

With one silent glare from their leader, Garp's batch reluctantly lowered their weapons, stepping aside to give Garp some sort of space.

Miss Norringham looked positively terrifying when she glared up at a man thrice her size, threatening him with another smack. The first one left a fine, pinkish print on Vice-Admiral's cheek. 

Makino hoped it would stay there for a little longer, just as a reminder, of course.

“Makino-chan is barely old enough to run her business, you old cunt! Have you any idea what kind of trouble you've caused her because of this? How much the entire village worried for her?! DO YOU?!”

Garp's Adam apple bobbed as he gulped his fears and fatigue down. 

“All I wanted t’do was  t’protect my grandson from being hunted down and killed, or worse, used against ‘is father, Dragon.” 

Garp’s words faltered mid-way through, as if realizing that no matter the number of excuses he would’ve conjured up, they wouldn’t save his skin from this one.

“Leavin' him here in Makino's care was meant t’give ‘im peace and security he desperately needed,” Garp's voice was calm and firm (he must have practiced this speech for a long time) despite the inner and outer turmoil that played on his scarred face.

"I didn't want my grandson t’be brought in and raised in Marineford, because I knew that the World Government would do anythin’ t’assure that Dragon's spawn didn't take after ‘is father. Not even I, despite my reputation, would be able t’keep ‘im safe… Not for long anyway."

Makino's heart ached. She remembered Vice-Admiral's words all too well from that night. 

They would find a way to get rid of him. Send him on some suicide mission. Or create an accident. They'll never stop hunting him.

“That still doesn't explain why yo' didn't tell anyone else! We could—we would have helped and yo' know it!” Woopslap interjected, the knuckles on his shrivelled and spotted hand that gripped his walking can growing pale.

“Leavin’ us out of this was a mistake, Garp. A mistake you dearly paid for," Makino shivered at those ominously sounding words.

Garp simply nodded, his eyes growing grief-struck. The first time Garp had visited Makino after he gave Luffy to her, the elderly Marine clearly ordered her not to mention Luffy anywhere around.

He was visibly worried that the Cypher Pol agents might have finally caught up to Luffy's trail. Garp had said that he overheard a conversation he and his colleague named ‘Senny’ (who would willingly name their child Senny?) held over a Den Den Mushi with someone named ‘Kong’.

Garp had mentioned that this Kong-guy held great authority over the entire Marine organization, and that meant this Kong-guy was in touch with Cypher Pol agency as well. That put him on Makino's already growing list of suspects as well.

“Luffy's not dead. He is just missing. I will believe he is dead once I…" Garp’s words trailed off, his voice fading into whisper. He didn't dare to finish that sentence.

“Garp,” Mayor Woopslap began, his tone gentler but his grey, usually kind eyes still hard as steel. “The boy is surely dead. After Makino woke up, she told us all about what yo’ two talked about when Luffy was brought into Foosha, and… And I believe that if the stories regarding these assassins are true, then Luffy is dead. Without a doubt. I… I am sorry, Garp. For yo’ loss.”

“I don't believe that. I know Luffy's alive, I know it. He is in hiding, somewhere and I don't know where, but I know that he's alive, Mayor," Garp's words were filled with strong conviction that his grandson might still be alive.

It hurt Makino, for she knew that Luffy had no chance of survival if that . . . that creature was one of them.

“We should head inside, Garp-san," Makino offered him with a cool look as the first rain droplets fell onto the paved ground.

“A great storm is comin’, and I have so much to tell you.”

Foosha Village

Makino's Party's Bar

Most of the angered mob dispersed and decided it would be only wise to retreat to their warm houses and await the next sunrise. Even Miss Norringham, who somehow managed to curse Garp's entire bloodline went with the crowd’s decision at the end.

Makino was only glad it didn't end with a fight and bloodshed.

Even Garp's Marines went back to tend to their vessel, the Doggy Voyager (what a silly name, to be honest) and wait there for Vice-Admiral's further orders.

The ones that stayed behind were Makino herself, Mayor Woopslap who decided that whatever Garp wanted to discuss better not involve any more exceedingly stupid decision-making; otherwise he would strangle Garp right there and and then, Vice-Admiral Garp and Garp's right-hand man who introduced himself as Bogard. 

The mentioned individual was slouching on a bar chair, leg crossed upon the other as he leaned against the Party bar’s wall, the grey fedora that crowned his head shielding his eyes. Despite being not a very talkative fellow, he at least had some sense of fashion style, that much Makino was willing to give him.

"So,” Garp began, sitting across Bogard, his face serious as he looked at Makino, who was standing at the counter, pouring liquor into glass mugs, “Tell me about that night. Everything you can remember.”

“Is this truly necessary? Can't yo' see she's still feelin' unwell?" Mayor Woopslap groaned, shaking his head in disdain.

Makino shot him a look, but who would be truly intimidated by a fifteen-year-old? 

“I will help Garp-san find Luffy, Mayor Woopslap.”

Everyone else but Garp believed Luffy to be a goner. Even Makino was starting to have her doubts (not that she ever fully believed Luffy was alive from the start), but she tried to put up a strong front for the grieving grandfather, to try her best to delve into that sweet delusion he tried so hard to weave into his consciousness.

Makino served each man his ordered fill before she sat down between Garp and Bogard. She nervously fidgeted with the skirt of the flower-coated dress she wore today, trying to remember everything from that horrible night almost two weeks ago.

“The night was dark, but warm; a late July’s night like any other. I was cleanin’ up the glass mugs after the last of my customers left, without sayin’ good night, mind you, before placin’ them back up the shelf reserved for empty mugs…” Makino bit her lower lip, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m rambling off—”

Garp shook his head, swatting her worries away with a semi-warm smile. “Nah, it's okay, go on.”

“Right, um, so… so after I finished cleanin’ up the bar I walked up the attic towards me and Luffy’s shared room. He was awake and already hungry, and I believe I promised to get him some milk, and so I did.”

“I walked down and from a large box of milk flasks I pulled out some… I can’t remember the exact number, but the milk was still pretty warm, so I was relieved I wouldn't have to warm it in a microwave—because I don’t have any in the first place.”

“Can you tell us what time it was when you closed the bar?” asked Garp.

“I usually close at eight, but these gentlemen, all drunk out of their minds, left sometime in between half past ten and eleven o’clock. I’m sorry, the Party's bar doesn’t have a clock so I suppose my testimony shouldn’t be taken so seriously…”

“It’s alright, Makino-chan, yo’ doing great,” Mayor Woopslap patted her shoulder, his smile soft and caring.

“What happened afterwards?” asked Bogard, speaking for the first time in Makino’s presence.

Makino pursed her lips, trying to delve deeper into her memories.

“I remember feedin’ Luffy and then throwing the empty milk box into the large bin outside the bar. The blasted box occupied me for some time; the bin was too tall and I had to stand on my tip-toes to push that heavy thing into the opened bin. A piece of work, I’m tellin’ you.”

“And then?” pressed Bogard.

A lump settled within Makino’s throat, and as she opened her mouth to speak, no words came out, only a broken cough.

“Don’t pressure her, Bogard,” said Garp.

The Vice-Admiral turned his head back towards Makino.

“It’s alright, you’re doin’ great, take your time.”

Makino nodded, her eyes darting from Garp to Mayor Woopslap, before she felt comfortable enough to speak again.

“After I returned back to the Party's bar, I… I was met with something cold. Very cold.”

Garp frowned, Mayor Woopslap blinked in confusion and Bogard only hummed in thought.

“Cold?”

“Aye, it was… everything from then on was so cold.”

“...go on,” said Garp, leaning towards Makino.

“The sudden cold was like a disease; the kind of cold that creeps up your spine like a crawling insect before wrapping around your throat, stealing your breath away, whilst that terrible feeling seeps into under your skin and into your flesh, spreading through your body and it hurts.”

“It hurts to breathe, to walk, to think. It hurts to even exist, because that thing, that unnatural cold that just appeared out of nowhere didn’t allow me to and I had to fight tooth and nail to stay alive, because if I closed my eyes; and I knew that exhaustion of bein’ surrounded by the cold was gettin’ to me… if I closed my eyes, I was beyond certain I would’ve died.”

“I heard Luffy cry, the piercin’ sound ringin’ against my skull as I made my way upstairs, forcin’ my legs forward towards the room, tellin’ myself: ‘Do not fall asleep, do not fall asleep. If you do you’ll die, and if you die then so will Luffy.’ and so I kept going, hoping to reach the door.”

“Hoarfrost bloomed upon the hallway’s walls, paintin’ everythin’ with hues of pale-blue and white, the patterns, I remember them, they were so… beautiful, like frozen flowers drawn upon a wooden canvas. When I reached the door, I was barely conscious; my head spun and ached with a dull throb, my teeth chattered, my body kept shiverin’ from the cold, and most of my fingers and toes were numb and reddish.”

“I grabbed the doorknob, which too was coated in hoarfrost, and twisted it with all my remainin’ strength, eagerly waitin’ for it to open—which, in the end, it did and I stepped inside.”

Mayor Woopslap—when did he manage to get her a glass of water?—pushed the said glass towards the now quivering Makino, adjusting Garp’s Marine coat to fit her shoulders better—when did that appear on her?—making sure she was as comfortable as the situation allowed.

Outside the Party’s bar, the storm kept drumming against the windowsills; to Makino, the beat of the falling droplets sounded like the applause of an invisible audience.

With shaky fingers, Makino grabbed the glass and took a small sip, before carefully setting it down onto the crescent-shaped bar counter.

“After I opened the door, I… I came to face a monster, a livin' corpse more dead than alive.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Makino-chan! The dead can't walk in the world of living! That's simply absurd!” Mayor Woopslap exclaimed with an aghast look.

His walking cane tapped a slow tap tap-ta-tap, ta tap-ta-tap against the dustless floor.

“What do you know, Mayor? You weren’t there.” snapped Makino, her face a mask of fear and indignation.

Makino took a deep breath to steady herself, before mumbling an apology.

“Hm, Makino-chan might be on t’somethin'. This fella could've been a devil fruit user," Garp hummed as he walked behind the crescent bar counter and took a bottle of fine rum, popped it open and started drinking.

Makino will forgive him for such crude behavior just this once.

“Cold you say? Hm, I know someone who’s devil fruit is all ‘bout ice powers but… No, Kuzan wouldn't do it, not after what happened t’Ohara. But I can't exclude him until he gives me a good alibi, either. Besides, there are others who might possess similar devil fruits; and you said somethin’ ‘bout undead beings, right? Hm, well, we’ll look into it.”

Garp handed the opened bottle to Bogard. The queer Marine  took it with a silent nod of gratitude before taking a large swig. He then placed it onto the spotless surface of the crescent bar counter, staining it with a few red-and-brown droplets of pungent liquid.

“I screamed at Luffy, who was awake and cryin’ at this point. I… I have never been so terrified before in my life, never. But looking at that sword, the sharp blade aimed at Luffy, I… my body moved on its own and I lunged forward, but that thing was faster. I… I couldn’t see it move, in a split second it loomed over me and I knew I was goin’ to die and then I felt a sharp stab against my spine and I just… my vision swam and it all went black.”

Makino's lower lip wobbled, as the young lass tried to suppress the large tears that threatened to fall. Her slender body started uncontrollably trembling as the terrifying sight that plagued her nightmares seeped through her mind  once more, the vivid images of two glowing eyes and that accursed sword pointing at Luffy forcing a choked sob out of her.

“I hated it, y'know? Feeling so helpless and so, so small. I couldn't even protect him!” Makino choked out as hot tears ran down her flushed cheeks. “I was told to take care of him but I—I couldn't. I was too weak!”

“Makino, it isn't your fault, I—” Garp began but was cut off by Makino who had enough.

“I know it isn't! I know it, but it still haunts me! Luffy's cries, that… that creature's sword, aimin’ for his head, the constant sense of never ending cold always around me! It’s drivin’ me crazy!

Makino whimpered as Mayor Woopslap pulled her into a tight embrace. She wrapped her shaking arms around his paper-thin body, before she started crying into his bony shoulder.

“I was so scared. And I still am,” admitted Makino, her weak voice muffled by the Mayor's thick, woolen sweater.

“But I don't want to be scared forever, I don't wish to be helpless forever!” Makino’s hands balled into fists. “I want to help the Vice-Admiral find Luffy and bring him back home.”

"Bwahahahaha! You would make a great Marine, Makino-chan! Tsuru would've liked you a lot, y'know?" Garp laughed, a wide D-shaped grin spreading on his wrinkly face.

“Makino-chan…” Mayor Woopslap sighed helplessly as he watched the young girl get ‘recruited’ by the Fist himself.

“But alright! I can use another helpin' hand in my investigation! And a choreboy! Welcome aboard the Doggy Voyager!”

“Wait! Garp-san, I never said I'll be joining the Marines!” Makino protested with a terrified look in her eyes as she glanced at the jolly Marine across the Mayor’s shoulder. 

Garp simply grabbed her and pulled her back on her feet, before roughly smacking her back; just as hard as he did back then when he brought in Luffy. Makino already knew it would leave another bruise on her poor back. 

“Too late for that now, ain’t it? You're already part of my crew, and I don’t take no for an answer!" Garp laughed once more, throwing his head back in mirth. 

Makino couldn't help but feel that things just might get better from there on.

She just hoped Luffy was still alive.

That night

Makino’s Party's Bar

It has been a week since Makino last saw the scarlet-haired boy, her dreams—well, nightmares, really—were now entirely focused on that terrible night; sometimes, the sword managed to cleave straight through the babe before Makino could reach him, splitting his head from his thin neck and silencing his cries that drilled themselves through the bar maid’s skull. Sometimes the sword would be first plunged into her own chest, blood soaking her nightgown, Luffy’s ceaseless crying accompanying her through death.

Each time she dreamt of that horrible night, she awoke screaming until her throat ran sore and weeping waterfalls of salt as she did so.

Now, standing on board the red-hair’s ship, Makino felt safe. Warm. In peace. 

She could clearly recall his warm embrace as it were yesterday; how solid and real he was, unlike any other dream she has experienced before in her life. He ran his fingers through her hair, his soft rise and fall of his chest and strong heartbeat that could’ve been the sound of war drums soothing her worries until they disappeared.

Now they stood side by side upon the ship’s figurehead, which looked like a red dragon, their eyes cast upon the endless sea before them and the golden ball that was sun melting upon the horizon like ice cream, painting the sky in orange and purple hues.

The scarlet-haired boy opened his mouth, trying to speak, but only choked up as he managed to cut through the silence, no words, not even a syllable.

His bushy brows furrowed and shoulders slumped in clear defeat, as he shook his head in bemusement.

Makino found their inability to perform any sort of speech endearing and so she threw her head back and laughed, the merry sound, clear as daylight seemed to lift up the lad's sour mood.

Now that she thought of it; this was the third dream where Makino met with this strange boy. She found solace in his company and he seemed to like her well enough to somewhat tolerate her presence—although his merry, outgoing nature might even indicate he truly liked her, but who knows?

The lad looked down at her and grinned, a crooked yet earnest, bright thing as he extended his hand towards hers, waiting for her to grab it.

Makino smiled in return, a shy smile, but honest from all sides. A strange sort of warmth creeped up her cheeks as the boy clasped her smooth hand into his, their fingers now entwined. His hand was rough and calloused from work, but warm and real, just like this ship, just like she herself was real.

Makino gasped in surprise as the scarlet-haired boy pulled her down, and together they jumped upon the deck and Makino tried to keep up with the boy who gleefully ran across the entire complex just to reach the staircase that led to the lower deck where he and his crew—she supposed he must have a crew to manage such a ship—had their cabins. 

He dragged her down and left and right until her head spun and he laughed and laughed, the sound like a breeze that flies through the Foosha’s beach, the one that pushes sailors’ sails forward towards the sea. Warm, rough, but kind.

The boy abruptly stopped running and Makino accidentally bumped.into his back. He gave her a side glance, eyeing her up and down before nodding to himself. 

Oh. He was checking if she was alright? Um… that’s nice, actually. 

The door to the red-haired lad’s cabin opened and both youngsters stepped inside; it was just as Makino remembered it. 

The cabin’s most notable feature was a large table that stood proudly in the centre of the rather plain-looking cabin; its rugged and dusty surface filled with charts of seas and islands she did not know nor recognize. One map had written Elbaph upon it, so perhaps that’s where the lad was from? Or maybe that’s where he was headed next? Broken quills and empty ink bottles stood around the maps and empty papers, lining the edges.

Right next to the door on the left stood a hanger stuffed with shirts and long coats, and in the farmost right corner stood the bed Makino remembered the most, the safest place where the young lad hugged her so warmly, as if she were his friend he knew since time was a thing.

There was one window, right opposite the door and there were three chests standing under it and upon the first chest from the left, stood like an ancient crown of kings and queens, the paling straw hat that the boy wore the first time they met. 

She didn’t even notice the red-head leave her side, or to see him pick up two semiclean sheets of paper, two quills and a bottle before he gently tapped her shoulder.

Makino tilted her head in puzzlement, before he nudged towards the packed up table.

Makino’s eyes brightened, she understood what the lad wanted and—threw hells, why hasn’t she thought about it sooner? This was such an obvious solution that could've resolved their speech-related issue sooner.

She helped the boy clear up some space for writing; the empty ink bottles and broken quills were promptly thrown out of the window, before they placed their equipment down.

The lad stopped her with a raised hand, before he ran out of room and returned as fast as a lightning bolt, now even with two simple chairs.

He offered Makino one and she took it with a grateful smile before she sat down, the boy taking the opposite side.

He immediately started scribbling something onto his sheet. Makino waited for him to finish with curious eyes. 

After a while, the lad put down his quill, sat up and proudly shoved his paper into her face.

Startled by his brash action, Makino slowly pried it from his death-tight grip and read what was written there with a… 

…Well, it was adequate penmanship.

ᴴⁱ! ᴹʸ ⁿᵃᵐᵉ ⁱˢ ˢʰᵃⁿᵏˢ! ᴵ'ᵐ ᵃ ᵖⁱʳᵃᵗᵉ! ᵀʰⁱˢ ⁱˢ ᵐʸ ˢʰⁱᵖ, ᴿᵉᵈ ᶠᵒʳᶜᵉ! ᵂʰᵃᵗ'ˢ ʸᵒᵘʳ ⁿᵃᵐᵉ?

Shanks, was it? It was a silly name, but he was a good fellow and all good folk she knew had silly and witty names, so it sat quite with her. 

She tried it out on her tongue: Shanks.

Shanks, the pirate.

Makino liked him.

She grabbed herself a paper sheet and a quill and replied to him.

нєℓℓσ, му ηαмє ιѕ мαкιησ, ι αм ƒяσм єαѕт вℓυє. ηι¢є тσ мєєт уσυ, ѕнαηкѕ.

Shanks nodded eagerly and wrote Nice to meet you too, back.

They started writing back and forth between each other, which turned out to be a fruitful conversation. He even taught her new swear words, which was fun!

Makino found out quite a lot about this Shanks.

He hailed from North Blue, his home being an island called God Valley. 

Makino replied she never heard of such an island and he said that it was destroyed by the World Government when he was but a babe, and in order to save him, Shanks’ mother (for Shanks never mentioned his father in the conversation once) hid him in a treasure chest, which was then found by the late Pirate King himself, Gol D. Roger (Makino called him Gold Roger, but Shanks corrected her, saying the Marines wanted to cover up his real name).

After that, Shanks was taken in by his, now former Captain and father-figure. He  and his other friend, technically brother, Buggy—another silly name!—became choreboys and served under their Captain 'till the day Gol D. Roger died. Then they went separate ways and Shanks hasn’t seen Blue ever since.

Makino could see sorrow fill his eyes, tears gathering until one or two ran down his cheeks. He didn’t move to wipe them away, instead, Shanks embraced his sorrow, before he wrote in a rather shaky hand of the day his Captain was executed:

ᵀʰᵉ ᵐᵒᵐᵉⁿᵗ ᶜᵃᵖᵗᵃⁱⁿ'ˢ ʰᵉᵃᵈ ᶠᵉˡˡ ᵒᶠᶠ, ⁱᵗ ˢᵗᵃʳᵗᵉᵈ ᵖᵒᵘʳⁱⁿᵍ, ˡⁱᵏᵉ, ᵃ ˡᵒᵗ! ᴱᵛᵉⁿ ʰᵉᵃᵛᵉⁿˢ ᵗʰᵉᵐˢᵉˡᵛᵉˢ ᵐᵒᵘʳⁿᵉᵈ ᵐʸ ᶜᵃᵖᵗᵃⁱⁿ, ᵗʰᵃᵗ'ˢ ʲᵘˢᵗ ʰᵒʷ ᵍʳᵉᵃᵗ ᵒᶠ ᵃ ᵖⁱʳᵃᵗᵉ ʰᵉ ʷᵃˢ! ᴬⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵉⁿ, ᴵ…ʷᵉˡˡ, ᵐᵉ ᵃⁿᵈ ᴮᵘᵍᵍʸ, ʷᵉ ᵗᵃˡᵏᵉᵈ. ᴵ ˢᵃⁱᵈ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᴵ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'ᵗ ʷᵃⁿᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵍᵒ ᵃᶠᵗᵉʳ ᴼⁿᵉ ᴾⁱᵉᶜᵉ, ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᴵ ʷᵃⁿᵗᵉᵈ ᵗᵒ ʷᵃⁱᵗ ᵃⁿᵈ ˢᵃⁱˡ ᵃʳᵒᵘⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵉ ᴾᵃʳᵃᵈⁱˢᵉ ᶠᵒʳ ᵃ ᵇⁱᵗ, ᵍᵉᵗ ᵐʸ ᵒʷⁿ ᶜʳᵉʷ ᵗᵒᵍᵉᵗʰᵉʳ! ᴵ ᵉᵛᵉⁿ ⁱⁿᵛⁱᵗᵉᵈ ʰⁱᵐ ᵗᵒ ʲᵒⁱⁿ ᵐᵉ, ᵇᵘᵗ... ᵇᵘᵗ ⁱᵗ ˢᵉᵉᵐᵉᵈ ʰᵉ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'ᵗ ˡⁱᵏᵉ ⁱᵗ. ᴴᵉ ˢᵃⁱᵈ ᴵ ʷᵃˢ ᵃ ʲᵉʳᵏ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵃ ᶠᵒᵒˡ ᵃⁿᵈ... ᵃⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵉⁿ ʰᵉ ʳᵃⁿ ᵃʷᵃʸ. ᴬⁿᵈ ᴵ ʷᵃˢ ᵃˡˡ ᵃˡᵒⁿᵉ. ᴵ ᵗʰⁱⁿᵏ ᴮᵘᵍᵍʸ ˡᵉᵃᵛⁱⁿᵍ ᵐᵉ ᶠᵉˡᵗ ᵗʷⁱᶜᵉ ᵃˢ ᵍᵘᵗʷʳᵉⁿᶜʰⁱⁿᵍ ᵃˢ ᶜᵃᵖᵗᵃⁱⁿ ᵈʸⁱⁿᵍ. 

Makino reached out with her free hand and gently brushed her fingers across his tanned wrist, before she wrote something like I am sorry for your loss and I know how you feel. 

And so, even to Makino’s own surprise, she wrote a long letter detailing the reason why she’d been crying that night more than a week ago, going into more gruesome detail then she would’ve been normally comfortable with, but Shanks’ calm and understanding look made her keep going until she wrote the last dot upon the now fully written paper.

Shanks read it all, unhurried and with strength in his outward appearance that indicated strong spirit and willpower and good nature, for he did not pity her or coddle her; he simply stood up, walked over to her before hugging her tightly, his light embrace replacing the words I hope you’ll be successful in your search as if he too believed Luffy was alive, despite not knowing anything about the babe.

They stayed that for a while, before Makino decided this kind of intimacy with a boy, merely an acquaintance, was simply too improper, and so she returned to her writing when Shanks gave her a second blank sheet. (He was fast, Makino could give him that.)

ωιℓℓ уσυ тєℓℓ мє αвσυт уσυя α∂νєηтυяєѕ, ѕнαηкѕ? ι αм ѕυяє тнє ℓιƒє σƒ α ριяαтє ιѕ ƒιℓℓє∂ ωιтн мαηу ιηтєяєѕтιηg α∂νєηтυяєѕ! ι ωσυℓ∂ ℓιℓє тσ нєαя αвσυт ѕσмє, ιƒ ιт ρℓєαѕєѕ уσυ!

Shanks' carefree spirit seemed to light up at the mention of his pirate adventures. 

He quickly grabbed his quill, inkstained fingertips gently wrapping around the feather’s slender throat, before he started scribbling something whilst kicking his feet against the table’s legs like some lovestruck girl who wrote in her diary, making up terrible  poetry and drew smudged pictures of the pretty boy she met the other day. 

It was endearing in a certain light.

Makino waited patiently until he finished writing. Watching Shanks get so excited over the possibility of telling—well, writing about his adventures made her tummy tingle, as if soft wings caressed her insides.

He reminded Makino of Luffy. The childish innocence he was harboring, the warmth of his smile and grip that could crush a mountain… She knew she was being silly, Shanks was a pirate after all, but still… There was something Luffy-ish about him that made her want to stay close.

Shanks was like the sun, existing just out of her reach, but still close enough for Makino to be able to bask in his radiance. Well, if he was her sun then she was his Icarus, soaring the heavens on her wax wings, the burning desire in her chest growing like inferno—until she fell, her wings melting off, unable to escape neither his fiery embrace nor the bonechilling cold of the sea of reality laid out below her. 

But that was just it, she hadn't tried to reach out to him, and neither did Shanks harbour any intention of letting her burn. They were like two lost butterflies in a meadow, dancing and flying around each other, making no contact… Or perhaps she was just letting her mind wander, and this was just a silly girl’s delusion.

Shanks put the pen down—threw it, would be more accurate wording—and handed Makino the paper with a proud grin. 

She mouthed a silent Thank you before she settled herself down onto the deck beside Shanks and started reading about the first adventure he and Buggy had experienced, called The Lost Neverland.

Makino leaned back against her simple wooden chair and began to read.

Next morning

sacred land of Marie Geoise

Pangea Castle

The Chamber of Flowers 

Mu watched with half-lidded gaze of his bestial form, as his little brother crawled around their garden, babbling indistinguishable nonsense with eager look in his large eyes, whilst he chased after Mu’s pointy, devil-like tail; which the King managed to keep out of Luffy’s grasp with a lazy flick, harboring no desire to see Luffy get injured upon their small yet sharp spines. 

With a low growl that could be compared to a mountain shifting, Mu slowly coiled their tail around Luffy’s small form, pulling him close to towards the muscular thigh of their massive hind leg. 

Luffy turned his head towards Mu’s leg, a toothless smile stretching across his round face, his eyes squinting as reached out to pat the onyx hide of the beast, his chubby hands beating against the thick scaly armor.

Mu lowered his massive head, twisting his long neck backwards into an unnatural angle, before the great behemoth gently pressed their warm snout against the crown of Luffy’s head, reptilian nostrils flaring up as they greedily drank in Luffy’s unique, not-quite human scent, letting it mingle in their mind.

Mu’s maw twisted into something that might’ve been a terrifying smile that did not sit right upon its twisted, demonic face; or a wicked, animalistic snarl, as he shown of his long and sharp, jagged teeth, the ivory daggers glinting in the early sunlight that basked the grand space in warm colours, the ever-present scent of lilies, grass and aging wood mingling in the air with dust.

After some time, Mu decided they wanted to shed this form, and so begun the great twisting of their body, as the great demon changed; the great beast turning into a human-appearing being with fair face; fairest of all human kind that could even rival the striking beauty of the Empresses of Amazon Lily, great robes of black mists that coiled around their short figure, covered it whole, then a tall crown of black metal grew like a tree upon their slender brow, glimmering with rubies and sapphires shaped like flowers. This time, there was no veil to cover up their holy visage, for there was no need for it.

Luffy seemed slightly disappointed at the loss of his elder brother’s strange shape, his lips pursing into a pout.

Mu bent down and gently raised Luffy into his arms, tucking his head under Mu’s chin.

Mu’s thoughts wandered as he gazed down upon his brother, his sharp, crimson eyes unblinking as Luffy returned their gaze without flinching, the pout slowly dispersing into a bland look.

There is a great possibility that ages might come and pass 'till Nika's fruit will dare to reveal itself, but Mu was a patient god, they were willing to play the long game—they have been doing masterfully so far, and had no intention of stumbling in their pursuit. 

Mu wasn't in dismay when it came to gambling with gods, not when his little brother—nay, when his two little brothers were involved in this high-risk gamble. 

However, Mu had to keep their cards close to their chest; there were many players that Mu was certain of, who were searching for Nika’s fruit as well, and some of them were gods, just like he was.

The Echo was a likely adversary, but the last time Mu had received any news of the Demon King, the World Government was merely a seed not yet planted within the minds of Mu’s followers.

But for what the King knows, none of the other members of the Pantheon made their way to find and destroy Nika's prison to either free or kill the Dawnbringer.

But none of the other gods (or mortals, but Mu was less worried about those) were in possession of the greatest triumph, a so-called ace in the deck that were Mu’s cards; a Joyboy.

The hundreds of years worth searching and chasing will end now, now that he has Luffy as a chess piece, the perfect bait; which Nika will not certainly anticipate.

Mu was terrifyingly certain with themselves that Nika wouldn't be able to resist and lay a claim upon another Joyboy—another friend.

The first vessel was a failure; a crucial decision that almost put a stop to Mu's grand plan, but was inevitably the perfect setting stone for the founding of the World Government, with only minor drawbacks that were nothing but mere nuisances in the back of Mu’s endlessly spanning mind to sometimes come and bite them in the ankle.

Besides, Luffy wasn't yet tainted by the Sin of the filth that lived Down Below. Aye, he wasn't pure either, born from a rotten seed of the very wretch who dared to raise arms against Mu's perfect world order…

…Yet, what he managed to register within Mars' thoughts, the Warrior God of Environment already played the part of a doting father—not a shock from his side, he was always such a fatherly figure to all children, even towards the slave ones.

If the other four decide to join in and put some effort in raising the babe, then Luffy could—should become the perfect vessel for his little brother to possess and inhabit, preferably for ever. 

Naturally, Mu would have to make Luffy immortal first, but that was still far in the future, and Luffy was still a mindless babe. Mu still had time to spare and think of the details.

Now, all Mu needs to do is wait, wait for his long lost friend to show her face, to grace this world with her radiant presence and heart kinder than anybody’s, before they can reunite, just like it was during the Age long gone and behind them.

With her by their side, no one will be capable of standing in their way, in the way of the perfect world he and she had envisioned under the star-lit sky centuries ago.

This time, there will be no Joyboy to meddle with Mu’s schemes; this time, there will be no war, no sunken continents and kingdoms lost, no broken oaths of love and equality and no dying flowers withering in the devil’s shaking arms. 

This Age will be the final era of senseless pain and bloodshed, of terrible suffering and ever threatening hunger, and the awaiting death; before the Utopia the two children have dreamt of within the sand gardens of Alubarna will finally be realised.

And the three great warriors will be finally reunited, the three great rulers forever bonded together by blood, bone and unbreakable vows, stronger than ever before.

The Soldier.

The Poet.

The King.

A squeaky noise which Mu recognized as Luffy’s voice pushed the King away from his thoughts.

Mu glanced down at Luffy, who happily writhed in his grasp, kicking and punching his little fist against the air, before his eyes focused on Mu.

“Mu!” Luffy said out loud.

The addressed god blinked, for the first time in days, clearly taken aback.

“Will thee repeateth thine words?”

“Mu!” Luffy gladly obliged, clapping his hands together.

“Again,” ordered the King, as if his ears were deceiving him.

“Mu! Mu, Mu, Mu… Mu!”

Something… something new twisted and clenched within the tyrant’s chest as he gazed down at the babe’s gleeful face.

Oh.

Chapter Text

Two days later

The World of Dreams, a magical realm created from the minds of those who weave tapestries of wonder in their sleep, was a very somber and colourless place full of cold, unwaveringly still silence that cut through one’s sleeping consciousness like the sharpest of swords. 

Translucent tides of milky-white mists swirled within the vast, constantly shifting space of jarring, nonsensical patterns that would melt one’s brain and force one’s eyes to roll back into their skull, so strange, upsetting and all together too much they were to the human mind. 

And within the weird dull place hundreds of thousands of doors of all colour, shape and size floated aimlessly within the impossibly full void of this world, the only constant objects within this everchanging kingdom of Slumber, bearing the names of those who now dreamed.

“Heretic,” the whispered word sunk its imaginary teeth into Nusjuro’s skull, who now stood—was he standing or floating? he himself couldn’t tell—well, he was very still now. There. Satisfied? 

Nusjuro whipped about, his narrowed eyes searching for a shadow, a simple semblance of life within this otherwise dead place. Nothing. Yet, the Gorosei tensed up; his posture was rigid, shoulders squared, chin held low as he kept his body still as a statue.

The milky-white mists that were disarming with their calm, almost-eager innocence grew far more tangible than he would’ve liked these certainly not-real mists to be, now spiralled and twisted around his feet, licking his ankles like starved dogs, just waiting to pounce.

He clenched his strong jaw as a biting chill of the all too real touch of the rather slimy, wet things that were now up to his waist, sent a wave of goosebumps down his body. 

“Heretic. We see you, heretic,” came once more the ominous whisper. “Cannot run and cannot hide, tonight the Nightmares ride.”

“Your lukewarm threats don’t move me,” said Nusjuro, glaring down at the mists, his upper lip downturned in a sneer. “Now step aside or I’ll send your mistress a package of crystalline skins.” 

The milky-mists froze, literally speaking, before they crawled—yes, the mists crawled away from him—allowing Nusjuro a peak of unnaturally pale hands with fingers as long as his own blade, their crystal-like skin glimmering as they scurried under the cover. 

The Nightmares rarely allowed even as much as that. To see the true forms of the realm's guardians was a certain suicide. Even Nusjuro himself, no matter how great was his regeneration, wouldn’t have been able to overcome them, neither physically nor emotionally.

Under the guise of the mists, the Nightmares bared their teeth and whispered poison that only pushed Nusjuro forward, each step leaving the terrible creatures of the World of Dreams behind.

“Thousand eyes and thousand teeth, watch the heretic scream and bleed.”

The hair on the back of Nusjuro’s neck stood upright, and the cold, something that was so unlike his in all shape and form, became unbearable. 

Nusjuro’s mood grew sour the longer his waiting lingered. 

Where was he when Nusjuro needed him? Ryuma spare him, was Nusjuro the only one reliable within their group? 

“You swore a sacred oath and still chose another. Bearing the Traitor’s mark, you betrayed our Mother.”

The whispered words turned into a haunting tune, and deep down Nusjuro knew they were mocking him with their tongues, he could almost see those little shits smile as they sang in accursed rhymes.

“Your Mother abandoned my people when the grey-scale plague fell upon my country and did not look back,” said Nusjuro with more steel coating his tongue than he’d liked to. “Master would’ve brought Wano to greatness, the Kozuki clan would’ve—”

He bit his tongue at the last words, stopping himself before it was too late. 

The Kozuki clan… was he once a part of the Kozuki clan? Nusjuro couldn’t—the memories they were… were blurry. Jumbled and unfocused and wrong, he—No matter. 

It doesn’t matter. 

Wano doesn’t matter. The Kozuki clan doesn’t matter. And Ryuma—

“Ryuma would’ve been alive,” finished the Nightmares, their voice taunting. “But your dragon slayer was oh too loyal, wasn’t he? And he left you. And you couldn’t bear it. And so you—”

“He died of illness!” said Nusjuro, his voice cracking at the last word as some invisible hand squeezed his chest from within.

“Well that’s all right then!”

Nusjuro turned around ready to retort, but that’s when he was hurled across the entirety of the World of Dreams, flying through the queerly-composed structures, shapes and colours in speed of light.

The push came from behind the mist-hidden Nightmares. He had expected it, but the bone-crushing impact which sent him flying like a cannonball made his bulging eyes tear up as he spat out blood—it felt like being punched to the gut and Warcury was not gentle. 

Nusjuro learned a long time ago that even attempting to fight against the Pull of a Dreamwalker was a fruitless effort, considering what they were capable of doing to your sleeping consciousness. Unless you were a Dreamwalker yourself, naturally, that way you could stand some chance.

There was no wind to accompany him on his journey. No smell to compare this strange abstraction to, no sound beside his wild heartbeat that resonated against the already all too loud and real existence of the doors that… hummed back. 

No, it wasn’t humming, those were drums.

Ta-da-da  da-da-dam da-da-dam 

Ta-da-da da-da-dam da-da-dam

This place was thrumming with charged energy and life, breathing and Nusjuro didn’t like it one bit.

The swordsman was slammed—or did he finally land?—against something cool and thick, the feeling of smooth, lacquered wood was pleasing against his calloused hands.

“There you are. You certainly took your time,” Warcury's voice rang through the whole place, tone accusing, before it smoothly slid into something that only a delusional creature would call amusement. “Did you enjoy your flight? I hoped the landing was pleasant, it would've been a shame if you broke your kneecaps, hm?”

The swordsman stood up; back straight, shoulders square, jaw held low as he adjusted Shodai Kitetsu within the wooden scabbard. Nusjuro tried his best not to think about murdering anyone, not when Warcury was in complete control of his dreaming consciousness. 

The Gorosei wasn’t sure how far Warcury’s capacity of controlling this… this realm reached, but he wasn’t keen on finding out, via his unguarded thoughts or otherwise.

“I will not apologize,” said Nusjuro, rubbing his forehead. 

He took three steps back, eyeing the obstacle that stopped his fall.

A shabby black door with thin silver framing stood before him, countless thin marks, as if the wood had been cut by a sword, curved across the lacquered wood. Were those marks always there? Strange, he didn’t feel them before. 

Nusjuro could see a name float above the door frame, written with silvery flames. 

It was his own.

“I still don’t understand how you are capable of doing this. Is Slumber aware of you trespassing through her domain, walking around as if you owned it? Your presence is tainted by the Master's touch… So why is she blind to your presence when you dwell within her domain?” 

“Traveling through one's dreams… It was a rare gift in Wano, if I recall correctly. Only a handful of priestesses were blessed by Dreamwalking, and most of the time it was forced through the aid of magic and evil rituals.”

"Dreamwalking is an ability I was born with, and not even Slumber—a powerful goddess she may be—can prevent one of her own choosing to not roam freely within this realm.” 

Nusjuro didn’t flinch as his colleague appeared right beside him, the air around the door shifting and slowly growing into something solid and real—something full of sarcasm, alcohol and repressed grief that oozed out of Warcury’s Haki when he thought no one was watching.

A sense of wrongness wrenched Nusjuro’s gut as he watched the Warrior God of Justice’s thin lips twist upwards, possibly into something that was meant to be a smile, but the sharp curve came out all crooked and false with too many teeth glistening under his thick mustache—all of them sharp and thin.

Warcury never smiled. It was as if he was allergic to joy—any emotion at all, really, the former judge was as expressive as a boulder in a jungle.

He gave off the feeling that if he smiled he would’ve surely died on spot right there and then.

“It took me ages to master my abilities… And yet even now I cannot use Dreamwalking to its full potential. A shame, truly,” Warcury sighed with a slight frown, his creepy smile thankfully dissolving into his usually severe line. 

Dark eyes wandered towards Nusjuro’s door. The way he assessed each thin mark, each swirl of the wood was like a prosecutor reading the defendant’s testimony, searching for any discrepancies within the file he had already memorized to the T. 

Nusjuro’s eyes never left Warcury’s face. 

He looked different in this place, not in any specific way, just that. Different.

Younger. Free. Alive.

Slightly taller, more in control of his own posture—not rigid or guarded like Nusjuro’s, but straight and confident, a posture of someone whose single word could change the course of an entire country.

His now full head of blond hair was neatly combed backwards—he probably took his time to stylize it properly, or at least enough to cover up most of his birthmark.

Even his suit; black, crisp and tailored in sharp angles which he always wore, was replaced by loose, black robes of humble cloth, layered in ways that cloaked his entire figure. White-and-silver collar was tightly wrapped around his neck like an unspoken oath.

“Still attached to your past, hm? Is the ruthless Warrior God of Justice starting to feel sentimental?”

Wacury gave Nusjuro an apathetic look: “Supreme Judge or Warrior God of Justice, it matters not. Whatever I say goes for I alone am the law.”

Nusjuro hummed, low and sly, like an invitation for a duel.

“Careful now, you don’t want to get blood all over your pretty robes. Remember who the true paragon of justice is before your arrogance gets you punished.”

“I am the Hand of God, Nusjuro. Lord Imu's words are sacred to me. I am but a mere vessel through which his divine will is preached.”

“Now you sound like a priest.”

A dark shadow passed Warcury’s face. “Don’t remind me.”

Nusjuro reached out and grabbed the wooden handle, it fitted right into his hand, as if it were shaped by his grip—it probably was, considering this was the door to his dreams.

The cold burned against his palm, but he didn’t loosen his grip. 

He twisted the handle and opened the door.

There was nothing but a starless void glaring at him from the other side, or so it seemed at first glance.

Nusjuro stepped through the door, Warcury walking right after the younger Gorosei, the soft click of his tall boots following Nusjuro like a thunderstorm.

The door closed behind them with a heavy thud. 

“What in three hells—!”

The sudden flash of light blinded the swordsman, the sharp light forcing him to shut his eyes tight. 

He grunted in irritation, hand raised high to shield his light-struck eyes before they managed to adjust to the insufferably bright sunlight.

He could hear Bakotsu neigh in frustration, the skeletal demon digging its front hooves against imaginary ground. His dislike for sunlight was mutual, it seemed.

“Here again?” Warcury tilted his head as he assessed their newly conjured up surroundings. “I thought you’d forsakened this place after your… ah, breakup?” 

“Hn? …oh.”

The two of them stood on a grassy hilltop, the long, green blades gently swaying into the opposite direction as a gush of warm, summer breeze pushed against his white kimono, the faint scent of cherry blossom dancing in the air. 

Far above their heads upon a light-blue sky a silvery blanket of puffy clouds opened up to reveal the golden orb of molten light, like a grand curtain revealing a great battle within a shadow puppet show, and for a mere moment, Nusjuro could hear the sun laugh.

The Gorosei shook his head, pushing the sudden prickling sensation away. Fear had no place within the heart of a samurai… Not even a disgraced one.

Nusjuro raised his gaze towards his colleague whose attention seemed to be singled out on a nice wooden cottage nestled in between two moss-coated roots of a gigantic cherry blossom tree, which stood ever-so-proudly on the very peak of the hill, its lush pink crown basking in the warm sunlight.

Nusjuro wasn’t sure with himself if the cherry blossom tree that now stood before them is what the real cherry blossom tree upon that tall hill looked like. 

He wasn’t sure if it was still there. Someone must’ve… Or perhaps it burned down, struck by lightning. Or it simply grew old, withered and tired of living. Perhaps it went ill.

Nusjuro sucked a sharp breath through gritted teeth.

Why couldn’t he be dreaming about a nice bar right now? Something akin to one where they found the babe—that one was nice, homely, stuffed with expensive-looking liquor. 

He wouldn’t mind a sip or two right now.

Nusjuro sighed, his shoulders sagging as he ran his hand across his face. 

He was so tired. 

“We don’t have much time, so I’ll be brief,” the voice of his colleague pulled Nusjuro out of his emotionally charged stupor.

With a lazy wave of his left hand, Warcury conjured up a simple table and a pair of equally plain chairs out of thin air. 

The two men sat down; Nusjuro rigid and stiff as if he’d been summoned for questioning, his hands placed upon his lap, back straight whilst Warcury sat upon the chair like it was his throne, one leg crossed over the other, his fingers tapping against the armrest with cold patience.

“The boy has grown onto Mars, as I’d anticipated,” Warcury said in an impassive voice, as if the fact that a member of a D. clan—and an infant no less—managing to woo a Gorosei was no great deal at all.

“If the boy is anything like his father or grandfather, then he may prove to be unmanageable in the future, too wilful and stubborn to control. And if Mars keeps this attitude of his towards the boy…”

Nusjuro’s brow arched. “You believe Mars would choose the boy over us? He isn’t as soft hearted as you believe him to be. I’ve seen him kill children before, for lesser offenses than carrying the blood of a war criminal.”

“Mars is parental in nature, but his affection for children is not the prominent weakness he carries, we both know that, on the contrary. It is thanks to Mars we managed to acquire such a vast spy network within the sacred land. The Little Birds are not to be taken lightly,” said Nusjuro.

Warcury huffed. 

“This isn’t like those slave children, Nusjuro. Whatever Mars feels for the boy, and believe me he does feel some form of kinship towards Dragon’s son, can be compared to his feelings for Peter.”

“And I suppose we don’t want another potential Peter-esque case,” said Nusjuro.

Warcury shook his head, both hands now still upon the armrests of his chair. 

“Peter is Mars’s only son, related by blood or no, he adores Peter and love can be… weaponized. Wars have been waged because of love. Countries, entire civilizations have been wiped off of the map because of that treacherous flutter in your stomach. Can you imagine it?”

Dry chuckle slipped past Warcury's lips.

The swordsman’s left hand absentmindedly brushed against the long, ancient mark slithering across his left hip up, fading somewhere upon his chest.

It ached, especially now.

Nusjuro casted a small glance at the wooden cottage, listening to Warcury’s ramblings only half-heartedly.

‘I wonder if he’s inside. Is he waiting for me? Will he be happy to see me again? Don’t be foolish. This Ryuma is not real, he… it’s just a dream, Nusjuro,’ he scolded himself, dark eyes softening just for a moment.

“…and now Saturn wants to get involved with the babe, because of course he does! And—”

Nusjuro’s eyes narrowed, gaze piercing the green blades of grass with such a revulsion the thin blades shivered, as if sensing the disgraced samurai’s ire.

“Saturn wants to get involved?” he asked slowly, his tone dangerously soft, tongue a sharpened steel.

Something… wretched settled in his stomach.

“You know how Saturn and Mars are with each other,”  said Warcury, waving his hand as if trying to swat an invisible fly, “Nothing but petty schoolgirls, those two.”

“We can’t let Saturn set a foot near the babe, he will kill it! Or worse…” Nusjuro shuddered as his voice trailed off, thinking about some distasteful possibilities that made bile rise in his throat.

Aye, there are worse things than death, when you consider Saturn in the equation.

“I will talk to him, see if I can influence him somehow, though I doubt it…” Warcury shook his head, “Jay can be stubborn as a mule when he wants to be,” something akin to fondness slipped into Warcury’s tone, his unemotive eyes flickering with warm light before it was harshly snuffed out, and the ruthless judge returned.

The silence that settled between them was… far heavier than Nusjuro would have prefered. 

Crossing his arms against his chest, Nusjuro huffed in irritation, lips pursed in displeasure.

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop playing with your ring.”

“I am not playing with my ring,” said Warcury, tone absent-minded as his thumb brushed against the heavy, golden ring placed upon his index finger.

“You play with your ring for three reasons. One, you are bored—and I would know if you were, you have that funny tick in your eye when dying of boredom. Two, you are worried Saturn will blow up Marie Geoise if left unsupervised in his lab—”

“—He would and intentionally, both of us know that.”

“—and three, you know that something went terribly wrong and simply don't want to tell me. This,” Nusjuro pointed at Warcury, “was your ‘something went wrong but I won't tell you’ voice. Go on, tell me, before our master finds out and we’ll both end up with our organs rearranged.”

Warcury coughed into his clenched fist as a bead of sweat appeared on his temple. 

“Do you recall the Cypher Pol agent who gave us a report about Dragon, what was his name?—Mos… waba… Moswingo? Moruya? Ah, never mind—his door, the door to his dreams... It’s missing.”

Nusjuro frowned. 

Their eyes met. A cold, calculated exchange.

“The agent is dead, we watched it happen. Lord Imu made it happen,” said Nusjuro. “The door, the—the dream door or however you call them, are they supposed to stay here, in the World of Dreams even after said person dies?”

“Aye,” came the curt answer. 

“And if the door isn’t here, then… what? The agent’s not dead? But that’s impossible. Peter checked his pulse and we even searched for any sign of his Haki signature, it wasn’t there.”

Nusjuro rubbed the bridge of his nose as a vein bulged on his temple.

“Are you even sure the door really isn’t out there? I mean, you could’ve missed it by chance. There are billions of other doors, if we count the ones belonging to the dead.”

“Aye, I’ve checked. The door is missing,” and with a softer voice, he added: “And the agent’s Soul as well.”

Warcury gave Nusjuro a cryptical look, one that he often had when something was horribly wrong and Nusjuro didn’t like it, not one bit.

“So where is it, then? The door and the Soul,” Nusjuro asked, his throat dry and tongue as rough as sandpaper. 

The Warrior God of Justice went eerily silent, before he spoke out once more: “Hell is one possibility.”

Nusjuro sucked in a sharp breath, his right hand instinctively reaching towards the wooden scabbard that held his Shodai Kitetsu.

“Which realm?”

“Could be any of them, really. The Great Three aren’t picky about what Souls they choose to grant the entrance to their domains.”

“If any of them find out about the child's existence…” Nusjuro really didn't want to know if any of the Demon Kings already knew.

“We can only hope they won’t, but that is merely wishful thinking. I don’t think it is an if but a when.”

There was no reply.

Warcury’s figure started to grow blurry and twist in odd angles, curling like the mists which his dream body was sculpted from. 

“It seems my time has expired. Well, this has been quite the productive chat. I’ll try and warn Lord Imu about the last topic, perhaps they’ll know what to do about it.”  

Warcury’s voice grew muffled and distant, as if he was flying further away. 

“Sweet dreams. Oh, yes, and give your dragon slayer my regards. Don’t let him break your back yet, you’ll need it later for paperwork,” 

“Talk to Saturn, will you?” Nusjuro grumbled one last time, ignoring the way the cheeky remark set his skin ablaze.

Warcury didn’t manage to respond, as he was swallowed up by the silver mists, evaporating with a soft poof as his misty silhouette burst into hundreds of tiny specks of starlight, dispersing in the air.

Nusjuro scoffed with a light smirk: “Show off.”

Right upon Warcury’s departure, Nusjuro’s dream seemed to burst with life. Everything was set in motion,  as if someone pressed pause on a record player and allowed the world to breathe once more.

“Nusjuro!” a familiar voice, rough and sharp like steel and warm like sake on summer afternoons, called out to him from the top of the hill, “Oi! Nusjuro, is that you over there? Came here for the usual, ey? Hahaha!” 

Nusjuro allowed the cheerful words burn into his memory, the obviously foreign accent tumbling with the Wanoese one, the syllables all too soft in the wrong places. It was funny, the way he spoke. But by his name he missed it… missed him so. 

Warmth blossomed in the icy cold of his chest, the tingly feeling setting his nervous system ablaze with thrill only duels, good sake and Ryuma could provide him.

For the first time in a decade, a genuine grin stretched across his face; a true, merry smile that would put even the moon to shame as he turned around, his tilted eyes landing on a tall figure waving at him.

Nostalgia swept over him like a tide of melancholy as he took in the man’s wide smile, the curve of his lips, the wrinkles around his eyes as his cheeks stretched… 

…The sun seemed to burn brighter as Nusjuro stood up (the table evaporated into thin air). 

He walked towards the waiting man at an unhurried pace, his right hand resting comfortably on the sheathed hilt of Shodai Kitetsu.

“Hope you saved some of the good stuff for later, because tonight I’ll be drinking to my victory!” he called right back.

Nusjuro’s swift step turned into a sprint, the sudden burst of speed giving him the needed second to unsheath his blade as he charged right at his rival, his laughter carried by the breeze-turned-wind.

They dueled in his dream just like they used to do so in the waking world, a long, long time ago.

Iron clashed against iron, the red-and-yellow sparks of the impact bursting everywhere as they danced around one another, their Haki colliding, pulsing, resonating like two synchronized heartbeats, and for a moment Nusjuro imagined his rival alive and well, full of his boisterous laughter as he taunted him, his eyes, grey as the steel of the blade his wielded twinkling with mischief and bloodthirst alike.

Midday turned into afternoon and afternoon turned into evening. 

The horizon was soaked in warm shades of orange, turquoise and red, painting the heavens above them in otherworldly shades.

Nusjuro laughed; loud and free.

For once, everything was perfect.

For tonight, he was allowed to live a swordsman’s dream.

That night

The Red Force

Shanks’ cabin

“Please… please, Uta, stop crying already,”  Shanks begged the tiny baby, who was nervously shifting  on his knees, the tiny face scrunched and pink as the babe wailed, kicking and screaming, demanding… demanding what, Shanks had no idea.

“I fed you, I changed you, I gave you a nice bath—with bubbles no less—and… and I played with you, what else do you want me to do!” Shanks hissed in frustration, teeth gritted in a forced smile, his left eye twitching in barely suppressed anger.

It’s been two days—two fucking days—since he found this annoying yet absolutely adorable babe within a treasure chest (which did not remind Shanks of anyone, thank you very much) and decided to take her as her own, just like Captain Roger did for him.

He named her Uta, and she was his daughter now. She was his responsibility now, his little bundle of joy and other completely normal baby things.

Shanks was not having a good time.

The captain of the Red-Haired Pirates huffed in frustration as he stood up and strode towards his bed, his darling straw hat placed reverently upon on a pillow beside Shanks’ own.

“If I sing you to sleep, will you promise you’ll stop crying?” he asked with a hopeful, yet desperate look in his wide eyes.

Shanks groaned in pain as Uta pulled on his cheek (wow, her grip was really strong for a barely two-days-old newborn). 

He wished he had Buggy with him at the moment. Blue would’ve known what to do, he always did in these types of situations. He was the brains, not that Shanks wasn’t clever himself, he was very smart of course, but Buggy always had a… sixth sense for these things.

Uncomfortable tightness squeezed his chest, but he forced it to disperse.

The sound of wild laughter and loud, cheerful music resonated through the whole upper deck, the party they’d started in the early afternoon still raging on in full speed, just how his crazy crew liked it.

Shanks knew—or, at least he’d hoped—that if he ordered them to stop, then maybe Uta would stop her insufferable wailing, but he didn’t want to ruin his crew’s fun at the expense of one baby, that would be mean.

And so Shanks sat down onto his bed, the mattress creaking under his weight, as he searched through his memory, trying to find a nice song that was fit for a baby's ears. 

Of course, Shanks reasoned with himself that even if he sang a crude sea shanty to her, Uta wouldn’t understand a word, but… 

‘Agh, parenting is so hard!’ the pirate captain thought with frustration, ‘How could Captain manage with us back on the Oro Jackson?’

Shanks adjusted Uta in his grasp, now holding her with one arm as he stretched out his free arm and grabbed a guitar, which he’d bought about a month ago on some market in Paradise, that hung on the wall right above his head.

It was a good-looking instrument, painted dark brown with white-and-red flowers here and there, on the neck or on the pear-shaped back of the guitar.

Putting Uta onto his lap, Shanks tried to ignore the all too knowing look he got from the tiny girl as he started tuning the keys. 

“In a minute,” he muttered as if feeling his daughter’s impatience.

Only after he finished his preparations did Shanks realize he was humming something, a melody, a very old one at that. 

‘Now I remember… This one came before Captain,’ he thought.

Yes, yes now it all came back to him. Shanks started humming louder, tapping against the dull wood as the song, so old and so far gone returned to him like a lost memory.

He started playing, testing out the cords as he tested the words on his tongue. 

In the back of his head, Shanks could faintly remember sitting on someone’s knees, the blur of red, gold and black coming back to him like a hazy fog coating mirror, the image unclear yet so close, the outline of the figure too hazy to make out. 

And there was a voice, deep yet soothing and so tired, trying to lull him and the warm bundle of red cramped up beside him to sleep.

His fingers started drumming against the cords in an apace beat, and the humming in the back of his throat turned into words.

“C’est dans neuf ans, je m’en irai. J’ai vu le loup, le renard chanter.”

“C’est dans neuf ans, je m’en irai. J’ai vu le loup, le renard chanter.”

“J’ai vu le loup, le renard, le lièvre. J’ai vu le loup, le renard chanter.”

“C’est moi-même qui les ai rechignés. J’ai vu le loup, le renard, le lièvre.”

“C’est moi-même qui les ai rechignés. J’ai vu le loup, le renard chanter…”

Shanks watched with a relieved smile as Uta’s crying was tuned down until it completely went away. Her big purple eyes closed as she laid down, resting her head upon Shanks’ knee.

Upon finishing his song, the pirate captain placed the guitar back on its rightful place.

He tucked Uta under the light blanket, kissed her cheek in goodnight and headed out towards the still ongoing party. 

“I need some good liquor to boost my spirits up,” said Shanks, yawning, “And maybe a good spar or two. Hehe, aye, that would be nice…”

The Elegia Kingdom

The Echo was hungry, always so hungry. The gnawing sensation of being naught but an abstract concept trapped within this filthy thing; no vessel to possess, no physical form for him to use since their brat of a nephew 

S T O L E 

             it from him.

The Echo wanted to see Figgy again. Oh, he'd bet Figgy would've been absolutely delighted upon hearing the news!

Well, the Echo had been very, very displeased—those stupid humans used that ugly, wretched ritual to create an Avatar, and all in Echo's name, oh! how dishonorable—and they used Figgy's blood, his Figgy's blood without the Echo's permission! 

Echo wanted to devour their Souls after they came knocking against the gates of the Echo's realm, but Ochello talked him out of it—what a clever little thing!

And yet, it was a shame, really. He was very hungry as of late, and it the literal sense! Few Souls wouldn't have been be so bad...

But alas. Here we are. Locked in a fruity prison with odd swirls and endlessly spanning dance floor. The Echo tried to count all the pink swirls once! He only managed to reach number fourty three before growing bored of this dull game, sulking upon his throne, just as he was now.

The Echo didn't know if he was going insane.

Oh, oh, wouldn't that be fun?

He could try it once he becomes Figgy! 

But then again, sanity and insanity were terms of mortal kind, just as good and evil—

"Master..." a voice; sugar-coated soprano of an angel, so smooth and soothing was that voice, called out to him.

"Your little Avatar has been found by the younger of your chosen's offspring—the pirate one—two days ago."

"Oh, What A Delightful Tune For My Ears! I Am Simply Excited For Figgy's Reaction! Does He Know Yet, Does He?" the Echo asked eagerly.

"I am not certain, Your Grace, but I believe not. However, I bring forth more news."

The Echo cocked his head to the side.

The unnatural smile turned sharper then steel, something ancient and dangerous lurking beneath that cheerful face.

"Oh? Do Tell!"

"Ochello managed to discover the whereabouts of Nika's fruit, Your Grace! What shall we do?"

For the first time in eons, the Echo laughed.

Chapter Text

Gods had no need for sleep; twas but a mere concept conjured up by the exhausted minds of the mortal kind; a hex created by Slumber of some sort, perhaps? 

It numbed the flesh and pried one’s mind from the confines of its mortal shell, letting the Soul drift through the vast waters of the World of Dreams. 

Mu despised that realm with religious passion just as much as he despised the one who governs over it, a mummer who dared to mimic their brother’s powers through trickery and lies woven by her hands.

And yet, Mu found themselves dreaming. 

No.

That was an incorrect term. 

It was no dream; for the eyes—no, only one eye, which the King had been granted to see through, was not his own, and Mu’s Soul was caged within the mind of the one whose prowess and cunning rivaled their own.

And through that lone eye, Mu could see colours of the oddest, most eyesore shades swirl all over the endless space; magenta, neon-yellow, dark-purple, cyan, rose-pink… Too many to count and very little to name, and all of them sung in voices ethereal and unholy, it was surely a dream.

And then there were the well-known swirls, patterns both big and small, twisting and dancing in circles with the colours for there was music thrumming in the air that was poisoned with the presence of the owner of the lone eye. 

There was always music when he was around, and this time, the melody was the commanding notes of a waltz, firm and sure, real and terrible. 

The waltz hummed with total control.

Slow, deliberate, the round patterns moved within the walls, the floor and the ceiling like lumps of flesh, squirming and pushing, the noise positively revolting to one’s ears. 

It was like watching chess pieces move upon a board; each squirm was filled with purpose, each imaginary step confident and true.

Mu could give credit where credit is due; the Echo knew how to properly entertain oneself, despite being sealed within an indestructible fruit-shaped cage.

“No Prison Is Eternal, Nephew, You Should Know From Your Own Experience That All Things Unravel And Decay With Time,” whispered the god whose voice could only be described as a choir of false paradise.

Mu couldn’t reply, only watch in helplessness, for the King’s physical form was not here wherever here was, and despite the relieving knowledge that Mu was free and the Echo was not, Mu’s Soul was still somewhat under the Echo’s control.

“The Time Is Slowly Upon Us. Unraveling Thread By Thread. Possibilities Are Snipped By Scissors Of Time, As My Plan Bears Fruits. And In The End, Only A Singular Timeline Shall Remain. My Timeline.”

Mu could feel that headache of a laughter bubbling at the back of the Echo’s throat, but no sound escaped the forever present smile that was forced upon the face of the Great Conductor.

“I Bet You’ll Be Glowing With Joy Once I Free Myself Of This Tiresome Cell! Oh, Oh!—Maybe I Should Pay You A Visit! In Flesh This Time!” the Echo said with a mad glint in the single eye, but that glint dimmed until it was snuffed out like a candle’s flame.

“Oh, But Where Are My Manners? Allow Me, Nephew—” 

The Echo clapped his enormous hands together and the endless drone of waltz music ceased to be, and with it the squishing and dancing of the fleshy spirals.

The prison of the ancient god grew pitch-black, save for one conical-shaped column of bright light directed right at them. 

It reminded Mu of a stage light within an opera house. 

Lili used to love the Shellhouse Opera with burning passion.

After each performance was finished, she would give her favourite singer of the time a blue rose or two as a token of her affection. 

Mu pushed the memories of Lili deep, deep back into his mind. 

He will not allow the Echo to pry into those memories; not that the ancient god would’ve needed to do so, with Mu’s Soul unraveled upon a metaphorical silver platter…

“Now, My Little Disharmony; It Has Been Quite Some Time Since We Last Spoke To Each Other, And I Am Feeling Very Generous Today—Tonight?—Now! Oh, The Wonders Of Time!”

His voice dropped into a conspiratory whisper, as if what he was about to tell Mu was a well-kept secret he’d decided to reveal only now. Perhaps it was. Perhaps it wasn’t. Mu will determine the worth of the information by himself. 

“So, Pay Attention, For I Will Not Be Repeating Myself Ever Again!”

And Mu, for the first time in eight hundred years obeyed an order, bowed his head and listened carefully to each word that poured past the Echo’s smiling lips.

Mu carefully listened to the Echo’s tale, assessing each word, each hitch of breath, each pause and each sour tone like a Cypher Pol agent would handle classified information, choosing what breadcrumbs should be safely hidden in what kind of a file.

And as the King listened to the entrapped god’s tale, hundreds of emotions stormed their way into the Mu’s heart; most of the queer feelings couldn’t be described, such was their complexity, but only left Mu wondering if this is what an average mortal had to suffer through each day for the rest of their short, miserable lives.

After the Echo’s mouth stopped moving and the prison was filled with naught but silence and stillness of a hurricane that came to pass, Mu was too numb to feel anything at all, the kind of numbness that overwhelms one’s brain, and lets the rot that settled within it grow and infest, and destroy. 

But memories of the emotions lingered, and through those memories, the King knew all even if they wished to not to know, or to feel.

Exasperation.

Woe.

Contempt.

And even joy, albeit faint—like moonlight trying to pierce the thick cover of the clouds gliding through the night sky—managed to worm itself into their not-quite-physical chest, the uncomfortable tightness and treacherous thud of their not-quite-physical heart beating like drums. 

It took some time for the King to awaken from his hazy stupor, but the Echo was ever patient, letting the King to recollect himself.

The Echo hummed an ancient song, a merry tune full of flowers and rivers and dancing ghosts; the song was from an age that has been long forgotten, the records of that time already burnt and decayed, the memories trampled under hooves of industrialization and development, and steam.

The Echo’s long, slender fingers, particularly suited for piano, tapped against the thick armrest of his throne to the rhythm of his humming, the tips of his fingers twisting and bending as if they were dancing.

Mu blinked with the one eye he was given.

‘Why?’

It was the first question that crossed Mu’s mind.

And the Echo, in a parental tone full of good-naturedness and tender care that made Mu’s not-quite-real skin crawl more than anything, answered: “Because You And I Desire The Same Thing, Don’t We, Mu?”

The sickly-sweet purr that drew from his lips as he said the King’s name almost made Mu retch, but he couldn’t. He had no stomach to empty and only a Soul entrapped in a body that wasn't their own. 

“We Want To Free Nika.” 

In a far distance, somewhere beyond a non-existent horizon of a place that had no end, Mu could hear the energetic beat of the drums rolling like tens of thousands of marching boots of a great army, the very sound sending tremors through the ground.

And with the drums joined the passionate music of the hunting horns that shrieked like banshees of the folk tales, the terrible sound accompanied by a devilish chorus of hauntingly beautiful voices.

“But I Have No Desire To Make An Alliance With You, No, That Is Boring! And I Despise Boring Things! So, I Came Up With A Game!”

Mu felt an invisible hand snatch his Soul and pull downwards, the Echo violently pushing the King out of his mind and back into his physical form. 

It was a manner so violent it was only a miracle that kept Mu’s being intact after the Soul joined in with their body.

“Whoever Finds Nika First Will Be Declared Victorious!” 

The Echo’s voice chimed out, the drumbeat and banshees still present in Mu’s head.

“May The Odds Be In Thy Favour!”

sacred land of Marie Geoise

Pangea Castle

Luffy’s bed chamber

Mu woke up panting, the dying scream of rage snuffed out like a burning flame within a forge upon his waking. 

The King’s chest heaved with irregular breaths, the god’s heart pounding against ribcage like a frightened bird that set its mind upon escaping. Sweat glistened upon Mu’s brow, filthy remnants of the Echo’s presence still sent shivers down their spine.

Mu blinked twice, their vision adjusting to the dimness of the cold place, as he tried to collect his thoughts. 

He’d been laying upon the hard floor of Luffy’s bed chamber, the painted constellations, the sun and the moon greeting him from above with smiles no celestial bodies possessed, except one, but Nika was not here… wasn’t here… what is this?

Mu’s head thrummed with dull pain, sharpened by the ringing in his ears and the coppery taste upon his tongue—

—Someone's warm hand patted his cold, fair cheek, chubby fingers caressing his skin with an odd care.

Mu slowly lowered their gaze; crimson clashed with ink-black, tear-filled and terrified, but not for himself.

“Luffy,” Mu said, sighing as he sat up. “Mu is well, thee needn’t worry for the elder’s wellbeing.”

The King slowly picked up his crying brother into unsteady hands, before gently pressing him against their still heaving chest.

‘This is wrong,’ thought Mu with a deep frown. ‘We should’ve been at the Chamber of Flowers, that was…’ 

Cold realisation dawned upon the King like the first rays of sunlight that have ever graced this planet.

‘The Echo; this was his doing.’

Mu sprung to his feet like a whip, turning about with a wide gaze, frantically searching for anything that would’ve seemed unordinary, or out of place; an item of any kind, a scent that shouldn’t linger in the crisp air, even a brief whiff of magic belonging to the Echo, anything that could put an end to Mu’s relentless pursuit for answers.

Nothing.

Mu’s jaw clenched, as his hold upon Luffy grew tighter, more possessive; like a dragon guarding its gold and all gems safely hidden within its nest.

‘That leech was true to his word… No prison, god-made or otherwise, is everlasting.’ 

For a second, Mu’s mind flashed with a picture of a purple fruit with swirls, before it fixed itself upon the matters at hand. 

He can worry about those implications later.

One thing at a time, Mu, one thing at a time.

‘The devil fruit’s powers must be weakening. For the Echo’s touch to pierce through the god-made cage and manipulate with reality even to this extent is… disturbing. Just how much of the Echo’s essence has leaked through the cracks already?’

Mu slowly walked up towards Luffy’s crib, his eyes fixated upon his little brother’s flushed face. It took Mu some effort to lull the babe to sleep—he was still unfamiliar with the way of raising a mortal babe, but they were slowly getting to it. Then, he gently laid the sleeping boy down, after placing a goodnight’s kiss upon Luffy’s brow.

Mu clasped their hands behind their back and started pacing around the room, already plotting his next move.

One of the Great Three has begun the elaborate game, and it was only time—an essence Mu wished to be plentiful, but knew that it was scarcely a handful of sand already strewing out of his clenched hand—before the other two would join in, and Mu knew at least one who’d be brash and proud enough to compete for Nika’s fruit, even if it was out of sheer spite.

A drag of an invisible pawn against the chess board, wood scraping against wood, before it settled with a soft thud, so final—like a swing of an executioner’s sword.

The horns of war had been blown

The game was set.

And Mu aimed to win.

With a click of their heels, Mu ceased to mindlessly pace around, the only sound that accompanied the King’s own heartbeat being Luffy’s soft breathing, regular and undisturbed as he slept through the night.

Closing his eyes, Mu imagined five silver strings, all wrapped around fingers of his left hand, digging into their smooth skin. The strings were thin, coiled and long, as their reach did not end by fading into the darkness of the horizon.

With gentleness and precision of seamstress, Mu pulled at three of them, twisting his fingers in ways resembling a pianist. 

By tugging said strings, the King awakened his sleeping servants, forcing them to bend their will and turn their attention to their Master’s thoughts, ready to serve.

Mars. Ju Peter. Nusjuro.

The three Mind Strings were set aflame, bubbling with energy and rush of emotions. 

Mu silenced them at once with a sharp thought and even sharper words.

‘The great wait is over. The hunt has begun!’

Next morning

 sacred land of Marie Geoise

Saturn’s laboratory

It is a truth universally acknowledged that all scientists in possession of a laboratory would be in want of a dining table; or, at least, that was the case of the venerable Gorosei, Saint Jay Garcia Saturn, who now sat behind such a table, his broad back hunched over the plate with his meal.

The Gorosei’s long, spidery fingers held the cutlery in a manner a surgeon might hold his scalpel, cutting through the well-done steak with vile intent of a man who might be cutting out a still beating heart of his adversary, whilst maniacally giggling from pleasure.

But Saturn was no surgeon and the meal was no adversary, yet the slight curve of his noble brown and the shadow that veiled his judgmental gaze spoke of his displeasure no words could describe.

The meat upon his plate was soft and juicy, the texture crispy on the outer part whilst the taste of the inward melted on his tongue, alongside the metallic taste of blood, the sweetest nectar worthy of a god. Saturn liked his meals bloody; the taste of its suffering and fear which often lingered a delicate symphony to his senses.

The Yoncooks certainly outdid themselves this time, their culinary skills worthy of praise—despite being of the lower cast. 

Their recent trip was around South Blue, if recalled correctly. 

Hm, a delicious feast.

But as it had been mentioned earlier, the scientist was in foul mood, the shadow lurking in the depths of his eyes growing darker by each passing moment; not even the delicate taste of meat, or the crunch of the salad, or the earthly scent of well-baked potatoes and the mind-dulling liquid within his glass could soften the slow turning of his stomach.

The silence within the laboratory was deafening. 

Only the clinking of cutlery against the porcelain and laboured breathing of Saturn’s latest experiment bound against the autopsy table could be heard within the vast room.

‘That arrogant, old, avian-brained fool,’ thought Saturn, bitterness coating his every word. ‘The miserable peacock thinks he’s cleverer than everyone else. If he thinks that I am blind to his machinations then he is sorely mistaken!’

Saturn took a bite from the steak, imagining himself chewing upon Mars’ torn off eye.

‘That feral lacerta’s been trying to gain Master’s favour by raising Dragon’s spawn, hoping for a boon in the future! Hah, as if I would ever let that happen!’

He angrily folded the cutlery upon the empty plate once he was finished dining, and took a long drag from his wine glass in a manner unfitting a god. 

Saturn sat the empty glass down with a silent finality. 

He pushed the chair, a handsome woodwork from the North Blue, aside and promptly stood up.

He adjusted the tall collar of his white lab coat, smoothing out any wrinkles upon the rough material, before he walked towards the sink on the opposite side of his seat and washed his hands.

To give you, the reader, a proper vision of Saturn’s laboratory, allow me to describe it to you as follows:

Imagine a mickle hospital room with a floor of polished blocks of white marble you are capable of gazing into your own reflection—that’s how clean the floor is, not even a speck of dust upon the smooth surface! 

Now, this room had four walls, all of them painted white, each of them without windows or pictures; only cabinets, thirty they were, and all of the same grey wood hanging upon said walls. Some were crooked, some were straight, and all of them wore yellowed labels, each cabinet tagged by numbers or letters, never both, written with barely visible red ink. 

In the centre of the room, under the noble light of a golden chandelier, stood the already mentioned autopsy table—a polished steel-crafted desk supported by only three straight legs, the fourth bent in half from a failed experiment that occurred long ago; now occupied for an indefinite amount of time. 

Next to the autopsy table—next to the feet of the bound creature, who was an unfortunate experiment of Saturn’s—stood a cart bearing the most awful tools of all shapes and sizes, all of them rusty with time and disuse, and filthy with dried blood of countless victims that had once found themselves in their misfortune bound against the autopsy table. 

This sole revelation should paint a picture of a torture chamber disguised in its cleaness and order as a hospital room, but it was anything but, due to the horros that were endured there, and the dozen of ways death claimed the lives of those who entered and never left.

Now that I gave you, my dear reader, quite the heavy description of the unsightly place, let us resume our story for there is much to tell.

Saturn grasped his cane from where it was leaning against the lonely sink, ready to depart his laboratory, but was stopped by a raspy voice, thick and frail from the constant screaming. 

The voice called out to the scientist in a pleading tone.

“Water… please… I beg of you.”

Saturn turned around and walked back towards the autopsy table with a lazy pace, as if he were taking a stroll within the many of Pangea Castle’s gardens, the tip of his robust cane clicking against the floor like a pocket watch.

Precise. 

Inevitable.

The final click echoed like a rumbling thunder right besides the experiment’s scarred head.

Saturn’s shadow, dark and misshapen black blotch, stretched across the poor wretch, cloaking the quivering man, whose wrists and ankles were shackled up, in darkness. 

His eyes drilled into the skull of the poor soul, and the terror that his presence inspired only enhanced the cruel amusement coiling in his chest. 

“How greedy your kind is, to shamelessly demand something from your god in such a tone,” answered Saturn in an unemotive drawl, the noble arch of his brow furrowed in disappointment.

“Have I not been a thoughtful master? Have I not given you great comfort, eased the burden of bloody labour off your frail shoulders? Have I not fed you, clothed you and allowed you to rest your weary head when exhaustion was threatening to consume you?”

Saturn shook his head with feigned hurt, as he tutted at the poor Fishman, not a speck of remorse or guilt etched into the sharp lines of his face.

“I have… have not drank in—in a week—" rasped the Fishman, his large eyes beginning the cruel man looming over him.

“Five days,” corrected Saturn in a matter-of-fact tone. “And that is hardly my concern.”

And so the mask of a human fell from the behemoth’s face, revealing the devil that dwelled upon this earth for eight centuries, and all the crimes and terrible acts he’d committed in the name of the greater good now shaping his visage into an abhorrent nightmare only the strongest of spirits could face head on.

“But you don’t deserve my kindness nor mercy, do you? No, you spat at my open palm with disgust and recoiled from my divine light, scurrying to the shadows like a blind sewer rat. And yet you still have the audacity to beg me for water which you’d spurned with curses and hate. You, the Fishmen, the race of hypocrites deserve naught but anguish for your sins; to be left within hellish a pit and boil in the sea of your own blood, unable to repent but only scream as you perish like ashes in the wind.”

The Fishman paled from fright as the scientist’s eyes changed from pale-blue to dark amber, round pupils shifting into thin slits resembling those of a goat, and as great shadow settled upon the Gorosei, more eyes alike to the original pair opened, glowing in the darkness—eigh there were in total, eight terrible eyes sizing up the Fishman like a black widow might size up a fly.

The Fishman wanted to scream, but only a stifled whimper managed to claw its way out of his widely opened mouth.

In a blink of an eye, the dark shadow and glowing eyes with pupils of a goat vanished, and so it was once more that the human pretender donned the mask of a frail old man, now only with one pair of narrowed eyes that gleamed with sadistic sort of satisfaction.

“Perhaps we’ll manage to reach a compromise after all,” said Saturn with a kind tone, his lips curled into a half-smile. "You'd been such a fateful subject after all, and make no mistake—I do reward obedience when it is earned.”

His voice dropped into a whisper.

“And what not; I am to believe congratulations are in order. I would like to toast to the health of your wife. She is such a delight to look upon.”

The Fishman froze, his already ragged breathing hitching in the back of his throat. His cat-shaped pupils shrunk in terror as his mouth twisted into an ugly parody of the tragedy mask, large eyes tearing up as an agonized howl escaped through his clenched teeth.

“No, no, no, NO! You get away from her!” howled the Fishman, despair and woe thickly laced in his tone. 

His body—once a great bulk and muscle, now but a skeleton with loose skin—trashed upon the table, his wrists and ankles wriggling against the shackled scraping his flesh as he tried to make his escape, but to no avail. 

And whilst he writhed upon the table, he kept screaming the same words over and over, like a broken Den Den Recorder: “No! No, don’t touch her, don’t come near her! Leave her be! Leave her be!”

Saturn gave a slight nod to himself, satisfaction blooming in his wretched soul as he turned his back upon the wailing, broken husk of once a proud soldier of the Ryugyu Kingdom.

Saturn walked a few steps away from the autopsy table and with a mechanical motion of his left hand, he summoned the Abyss, his bony fingers wiggling like legs of a dying spider as the great, black five-pointed star appeared under his feet.

With a blip of black lightning, the Gorosei vanished.

Grey was the morning that settled upon the sacred land, the maze-like complex of queer hallways still shrouded by last night’s cold shadow, not a ray of sunlight in sight. Only the torches bound against the thick walls, burning with orange-and-red flames, gave the vacant hallways some warmth and semblance of life, that and the venomous presence that suffocated the air around its bearer, loud click click click of a cane reverberating against the walls.

Saturn, still cloaked in his laboratory coat, reappeared within one of the hallways near the Throne Room, which was a very long walk from his living quarters, but Saturn as of late started preferring long walks within and outside the castle, only if to avoid a certain someone on his way. 

And so that is precisely what he was doing now, strolling through the impossible hallways as if he owned them, which in his own way, he did.

It took Saturn about an hour (and I, dear reader, am being very generous here) ‘till he reached the exact tower, the exact floor and the exact door that belonged to his bed chamber—sometimes shared, oftentimes not. 

And within said hour, he managed to come in contact with six Holy Guards, one pair being the replacement for those who’d been guarding the babe’s bed chambers, now, unfortunately rotting upon the walls of the Inner City for their incompetence and Mars’ inability to control his own yokai, and three slaves, one of which were one of Luffy’s nursemaids.

He stopped her in her tracks; she was a plain of face with hair coloured hay and calloused hands that smelt like lavender soap, and ordered her to bring the babe into his bed chamber, before he sent her off, watching her run as far from his as it was possible with amused smile.

That encounter happened around half an hour ago, now with Saturn standing in front of the door to his bed chamber, which was unguarded (who’d be so foolish as to dare and harm a Gorosei in their own turf?) and unlocked, for Saturn held no dear possessions within his bed chamber, none that the scientist would hold in high regard. 

Those were hidden somewhere else. Somewhere where it mattered. 

Saturn went inside, quietly closing the door behind him, and a great weight left his shoulders as the wood clicked against stone, and he was alone in his sanctuary, before his eyes assessed his room with a critical eye, checking if any changes were undergone during his absence. 

To Saturn’s relief, he found none.

Everything was just the way he left it the day before he departed for the laboratory: the great hearth built within the coldest corner of the bed chamber was still cradling the same tall, lime-green flames within its charred belly as the day before, letting the cracking tongues of inferno colour the all-too-dark space in soft, green hues. 

Two gilded armchairs proudly faced the hearth; the poor, roughened up seats were left in a state of organized chaos; unfinished papers and stacks of reports that were yet to be read sat idly within the cushioned embrace. 

Similar fate had been dealt upon a small, round table that stood in between the arm chairs, the roughened up woodwork had seen better days, now slightly bending under weight of books and glasses of rich white wine, its three legs barely keeping up.

The great library; a complex of rows of shelves stuck to bursting with books both new and old, stretched across two walls like a serpent, the scent of crumbling paper and freshly printed volumes mixing with dust and cobwebs that settled within the corners of the high ceiling.  

Aye, everything was left just the way it should’ve been—wait. Wait a moment. 

Oh. 

Oh no. 

No, no, no—

—Sitting upon an octagonal rug (that certainly wasn't  amongst Saturn’s favourite) was a jolly baby boy, ogling his surroundings with those large, innocent eyes; his entire being radiating with pure goodness that a man like Saturn would never be able to comprehend nor understand.

Saturn cleared his throat to make his presence known, and it worked for the babe turned around, fixing his gaze upon the Gorosei.

The babe’s eyes widened—either from fear or awe, Saturn was not quite certain—as he tried to stand up onto his two wobbly feet; needless to say that the first two tries were unsuccessful. 

But at the third try, the babe managed to stand upright, his chubby arms outstretched towards Saturn, as he carefully placed one foot over the other, walking towards the scientist with silent determination that Saturn would admit was remarkable, considering he was only one-year-old.

Saturn didn’t move an inch from where he stood, allowing the babe to make his clumsy way towards him as something akin to curiosity crawled its way into his mind, letting him wonder…

…But before he could wonder and allow his insatiable curiosity to fester, the babe was already in front of him, arms wrapped around his left leg, head tilted in an almost painful angle—but what would Saturn know with his limitless regeneration?—the boy’s lips twisted into a wide, rubbery smile.

Saturn blinked once.

“Spuh… Spah…” the babe sputtered.

Saturn tilted his head to a side, his vertebra cracking from an unnatural angle; his light-blue eyes flashing amber as he regarded the babe with an arched brow.

“Spah-duh… Spaihduh… Spaiduh!” the babe giggled at the last jumbled up sound, his hands pulling upon the hem of Saturn’s black trousers.

Saturn’s tongue clicked with irritation, as he said: “It’s pronounced spider, boy. Spider.”

“Spai-duh?” 

“No, spider. You have to pronounce the ‘r’ at the end, like this: spider.”

“Spai-dur?” the babe’s brow furrowed as the ‘r’ rolled under his tongue, landing dully upon the end. 

Then, to Saturn’s dismay and astonishment, the babe  tried again. 

“Spai-dur,” he tried again. 

Spai-dur!” 

Saturn pinched the bridge of his nose.

A pained expression grew upon his face, as he tried stifling a low groan that threatened to rise up from the back of his throat. 

“Why am I even entertaining the idea of him calling me names? This is absurd, he is just an infant.”

The scientist slowly raised the occupied leg, bent in the knee in a perfect ninety degrees angle, before he gently (or as gently as he could manage) pried the babe off of said leg with his free hand, grasping him by the scruff of his soft onesie like a stray kitten. 

Saturn looked the giggling babe dead in the eye, before proclaiming in a stern tone: “We all agreed to not engage with you or be a part of your life whatsoever until you reached your sixth birthday.”

“But seeing one of my—how shall I put it kindly, ah, yes—one of my more frivolous colleagues thinking it is acceptable to break our vows and see you despite your… you,” Saturn said the last word whilst pointing at all of the babe.. 

“I found myself contemplating whether or not I shall do the same and break my own part of the oath. I did. And so here we are.”

The babe babbled something in his infantile speech whilst—once more, very incorrectly—pronouncing the word spider.

“That’s Lord Spider to you, Little Guinea Pig,” Saturn corrected in a very serious voice, but he couldn’t keep a small smile from curving his dry lips, as the babe—now renamed Little Guinea Pig—bursted into a fit of giggles, kicking his tiny feet against the formless air.

The joy and laughter of Little Guinea Pig was outright contagious, and even the terrible scientist couldn’t help but let out a chuckle, his shoulders shaking lightly, before he threw his head back and burst into a fit of laughter; something all too good-natured and free, which couldn’t come from a throat of someone so blatantly evil; and yet it did, as it carried itself out of the door and down the stairs, echoing through the nearest hallways like whispers of the dead.

After Saturn’s laughter ceased, he walked towards the king-sized bed and gently placed Luffy amongst the great turquoise cushions, before he turned and in three steps or so stood before a wardrobe—a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, made from wood of the Adam Tree, the highest quality known to man.

Saturn opened the wardrobe’s double-winged door and began to change; shedding his laboratory cloak like a snake sheds its skin, the scientist went on and took of the black upper waistcoat and red tie—two pieces of his daily wear which he always kept on, even in his secluded time within the laboratory. 

He hung the waist coat and laboratory cape upon coat racks, and neatly folded his tie before placing it upon the pile of his numerous red ties stacked within a shelf inside the wardrobe. This left him only in his frilly, white shirt with six silver buttons and low-cut collar, broad-cut trousers, finely tailored from smooth, black cloth—the second half of the daily-wear suit—and his favoured fez like a crown of shadows atop his head.

He closed the wardrobe’s door and instead made his way towards the ancient library, his long, pale fingers reaching out and gently tracing the hard spines of the stacked books caressing the great knowledge each scripture possessed with a reverent look within his eyes. 

Then he stopped, and grabbed the first book that matched tonight’s fancy and gently pulled it from amongst the perfectly cut out line, swiping any dust away with a swift wave of his wrist.

The book was small and light, bound in hard, light-green and light-blue cover, the title of the book and its author written in golden cursive. 

Saturn hummed as he reached the bed, and Little Guinea Pig, gaze thoughtful as he regarded the book with queer interest. 

As he sat down upon the kingly bed, the two layers of mattresses gave in under his weight, pulling him into their comfortable embrace whilst he rested his tired head against the head of the bedpost. 

Crossing one leg over the other, Saturn settled the lively babe down into his lap, before placing the opened book in front of the babe, resting its spine against his bent knee.

“If you have to be brought up under this roof, then I demand you to be brought up properly; good manners, gentlemanly speech and way of thinking, proper education. And what better way to enhance your already curious vocabulary than reading?”

Saturn cleared his throat against his clenched fist, and began to read out loud, his deep voice carrying through the room like a crumbling stone: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…”

…Saturn was woken up by a strong, firm hand squeezing his shoulder in an oddly gentle manner considering the strength (which Saturn was strongly aware of) said hand possessed. 

The familiar scent of tobacco, freshly fallen snow and burnt out matches prompted Saturn to open his eyes, glancing to his right as he came fact to face with Saint Topman Warcury, who orderly placed the book Saturn read to Luffy before abruptly falling asleep and Saturn’s black fez upon the nightstand.

A sheepish smile stretched across Saturn’s pale, old face as he regarded the standing man with a sleepy look in his eyes; the other half of his mind was still wandering in the World of Dreams. 

Like a lazy cat during a warm summer’s day, the scientist stretched out his arms and legs, the feeling of life and action returning to the stiff muscles was just as, if not more satisfying than oiling up a rusty mechanism within the rusty engine of a—a… huh. What was… 

…Never mind that thought.

“You petty menace,” declared Warcury with the untomost affection a icy-hearted man like him could provide. “You just had to have your way, didn’t you?”

“Hello to you too,” replied Saturn, before he carefully sat up, adjusting the still sleeping baby boy against his chest.

“The fact you haven’t eaten him is in itself miraculous,” said Warcury in a dry tone, as he pierced Little Guinea Pig with a scrutinizing gaze.

Saturn gasped with a dramatic wave of a hand. “I would never. Little Guinea Pig is an important piece within Lord Imu’s grand scheme. Only those of uncouth manners would be capable of such atrocities!"

Warcury’s eyes narrowed, before he buried his face into his hand in frustration, an agonized sigh escaping his lips as he muttered into his palm: “He already gave him a nickname. Just wonderful.”

“What happened to our ‘we mustn’t grow attached, he is just our weapon’ mentality?”

“It was scattered into the wind like ashes of our enemies the moment Mars taught him how to walk,” said Saturn, his voice dead serious, before it melted into a charming smile.

Warcury rolled his eyes at the younger man’s childish antics, his own eyes growing warmer.

Warcury went on, his tone firm and resolute: “Anyhow, I bring forth news, good I hope, as they have been given to me through Peter during today’s meeting: Nika’s fruit has been found.”

Saturn spared the sleeping babe a brief glance, before he fixed it upon the other Gorosei once more, as a sigh—of relief, or was it something else?—left him, head slumping against one of the plush pillows neatly arranged against the bedpost.

“Well, Lord Imu’s plans are going smoothly, that is always a joy to hear, but I must wonder why haven’t we all been informed?”

“That is irrelevant; all you need to know is that Mars had dispatched some of his Little Birds into the Down Below, spreading his eyes and ears into all corners of the world to search for… threats, whilst Peter sent out Cypher Pol agents from CP-1 to CP-8 to retrieve the fruit.”

Saturn stroked his beard with a thoughtful hum. “They must act with haste, lest the fruit escapes our clutches once more. Speaking of the fruit, were you informed of its current whereabouts?”

A shadow passed Warcury’s face, his hands balling into fists. He looked down at Little Guinea Pig with such intensity, as if the baby boy was solely responsible for all evil upon this world.

“Are you familiar with the Isle of Zirith-Undol?” 

The dying embers within the great hearth burst into life. The sickly green light no longer brought any comfort to the scientist, as the shadows of the objects and two men stretched and shortened however they pleased, and the atmosphere grew oppressive and sickly sweet, like devil’s ambrosia. 

In the back of his head, Saturn could feel the Gyuki snarl in pain, scurrying back into the shadows of its own design, as the name of that evil place instilled fear within both the yokai as easily as to its own master.

Saturn opened his mouth to speak, but was unable to, for a tight lump settled in the back of his throat, and not even the smallest of sounds managed to pierce the heavy silence.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Why there? Why Nika?” asked Saturn, his eyes wide-struck with terror unlike anything he’d ever felt before, his clenched teeth chattering, his own body curling into itself from fright… even his head was bent low, the once proud man shook to his very core by the terrible revelation.

“What insanity prompted the Sun God’s fruit to travel all the way to… to that place? No sane man, god or otherwise would travel there, and yet we are sending so many Cypher Pol agents to retrieve it…” Saturn’s quaky voice trailed off.

“That place; it will devour them,” Saturn choked out, and not because he felt any remorse towards the soon-to-be trampled lives; no, it was still the fear of the Gyuki that consumed every cell that spoke for him. 

“I saw it once, Warcury. Once. And that one time was enough for all lifetimes I can endure, for even a glimpse of it strikes terror into my heart.”

Saturn laughed bitterly, his face growing sour. 

“And how can I not be terrified of a creature so powerful even our master resents it and fears it in one breath?”

Warcury didn’t respond, didn’t try to conjure up any false hopes or meaningless reassurances, didn’t try to whisper “It’ll be alright” or “The plan will go smoothly, trust in Lord Imu’s judgement”.

None of these words were uttered and there was nothing, no lifeline for Saturn to latch onto, for meaningless words and empty promises were not the sort of things to shape the character of the Warrior God of Justice.

And so the silence stretched and the stench of death was upon them.

Until Little Guinea Pig woke up, bringing forth dawn with his large, honest eyes and striking joy to the hearts of men, no matter how rotten or corrupted, for no one could escape the feeling of security that cloaked his grandson’s shoulders, which he freely gave to all those in need (unwittingly, even).

Saturn slumped against the bed with a relieved sigh, as if all thoughts and emotions that once burdened his shoulders were lifted off of his body, leaving nothing but comfort in its trail.

“Well, now that he is awake as well—” Warcury cleared his throat, “—Lord Imu wishes for you to deliver Dragon’s son to the Chamber of Flowers as a penance for your absence during today’s meeting with Sengoku.”

“Hm? That was today? What a shame,” Saturn muttered under his breath, his attention glued to Little Guinea Pig who clapped his chubby hands against Saturn’s own, giggling as if he’d committed a war crime.

“I have to make you look at least somewhat presentable, lest Lord Imu will have your hide.”

Warcury made a gesture towards the carpet-covered floor: “Now, sit down so I can take care of you properly.”

Saturn, who’d usually complain about such suggestions—he is a Gorosei and he will not sit on the floor like some hooligan!—said no such things in protest, and so, Saturn sat down, bracing his back against the sturdy edge of the bed.

Warcury’s short, calloused fingers were gentle as they combed through Saturn’s undone curls, now naught but a lion’s mane of pale silver and gold cascading down towards his shoulder blades. 

His motions were precise. 

Mechanical. 

Even as he untangled each knot, both big and small—and there were lots of them, Saturn could feel them all—Warcury was patient with the efficiency of a man who was constantly occupied with hoards of paperwork, dealing with problems of lesser beings.

The three of them fell into comfortable silence, disturbed only by the crackling of the now-wakened hearth, the occasional cooes and giggles of Little Guinea Pig and Warcury’s humming—a slow, somber tune  Saturn now knew by heart but never the words, 

Warcury vehemently refused to sing it to him, no matter how sweetly the scientist pleaded.

Saturn once joked that he was ashamed due to having untrained vocals. 

Warcury neither confirmed nor rejected that idea, possibly to stop Saturn’s endless pestering and to hide the truth crawling underneath the surface.

“Would you like me to braid it for you?”

Saturn blinked. Once.

“You never offered to do that before.”

The question “Why now of all times?” hung in the air, but Saturn didn’t voice it.

“No reason.”

“Alright.”

Saturn’s eyes shifted from the baby boy in his lap towards the lime-green flames dancing upon the ashes. 

The thoughts of Zirith-Undol still plagued his mind, the uncomfortable sensation of being watched now creeping upon his spine, crawling underneath his skin and seeping into his bones.

He sent a silent prayer into the flames, hoping for a miracle that would allow the World Government to claim this not-so-small victory.

Otherwise, death would’ve been considered mercy.

That day

East Blue

aboard the Doggy Voyager

It has been two days since Makino left Foosha Village.

She only packed things she deemed necessary; clothing for all types of weather, her favourite red shawl with yellow sunflower pattern, and a pair of old, worn sandals to walk around the deck when she did her chores.

Turns out, everything she’d packed—or, rather, most of them—were considered useless by Garp, who, without her agreement, had prepared a Marine uniform for his new choreboy—a position Makino declined at least five times before she boarded, but Garp simply said: “I refuse your refusal!” and life went on.

Now she ran around the deck of the Doggy Voyager barefoot (her sandals were eaten by a the Lord of the Coast after it wanted to gobble her up for a quick snack), donned in only a pair of dark-blue shorts, which fitted the other Marines perfectly, but were too baggy for her, and a large, white, buttoned-up, sleeveless waistcoat that was too breezy for her, considering her petite figure.

When she asked Garp if there weren’t any uniforms  of smaller size, Garp simply waved his hand and told her: “Bwahahaha! Don't worry, you’ll grow some muscle and after two or three months the uniform will sit with you just right. You’ll see!”

And so it came to Makino’s training, which she herself initiated even back in Foosha, she was well aware, but… She couldn’t have known just how brutal Garp could be as a teacher.

“Again!” bellowed the Vice-Admiral, standing atop the figurehead of his ship, arms like tree trunks crossed against his chest, frowning down upon Makino who stood in front of a gigantic cannonball that served as a punching bag.

Makino would rather not ask Garp where he found it and how he managed to pull it up onto the deck, because no matter what arguments she’d made in her head, the notion was simply impossible.

Makino nodded.

Taking a deep breath into her lungs, she let the sea salt and ocean air fill her lungs for ten seconds, before she slowly exhaled, her large eyes focused upon the obstacle before her.

“Raise your hands up, Makino! Remember: always protect the face! And bend the knees a little—aye, aye, that’s it!” 

From the corner of her eye, she could see Garp making a motion with his fingers aimed at her legs. 

“Your footin’ is too rigid, stand firmly on the ground! You mustn’t let your opponents overwhelm you, Makino! Do you understand? Lose your footin’ and you’re as good as dead!”

Makino, listening intently to Garp’s instructions, corrected her stance to fit the Vice-Admiral’s expectations. 

She has been punching this cannonball since breakfast, her chores—which Bogard assigned her yesterday evening—thrown into the arms of others. She will apologize to them during supper, or, if Garp lets her, that is.

Now she stood under the setting sound, her body drenched in layers of sweat, her hair once neatly combed, now tasseled looking like a mossball. Her hands were flushed and covered in bruises, many if not all fingers broken and swollen, and her knuckles scraped to the bone, blood dripping onto the floor beneath her and smearing the smooth surface of the ball of black steel towering over her.

She took a step forward and swung with her arm.

Left. 

Right. 

Left. 

Right.

Over and over, and over until she could barely register the pain coursing through her, the adrenaline pumping her blood to the boiling point, her chest heaving with each accelerated breath that poked her lungs like needles. 

Makino’s jaw clenched as she swung again, pushing the pain in the back of her mind. She harbored a vague knowledge that this will bite her in the ankle sooner than later, and that taking no break from the crack of dawn ‘till the rising of dusk was a foolhardy notion of false bravery.

And yet, Makino kept swinging punch after punch, determined to leave at least a small dent before calling it a day, and Garp hovered above her like a great, brown bear, nodding his head in satisfaction as a D-moniker smile graced his aged features, pride flickering in his eyes.

And so the days passed in likewise fashion; Makino woke up alongside the first rays of the sun, when the skies were still coloured grey and royal-purple and ate breakfast in the small cantine under the deck all alone, before she was hurried up by Garp above deck where her punching bag (a literal cannonball; a fact that still baffled the young barmaid) waited there, polished and pristine, no dent visible, and still towering over her like shadow of death.

Makino’s training began each morning and ended with each evening in similar fashion—punching a cannonball until her bones broke whilst Garp watched, grinning from ear to ear.

Three weeks after Makino parted Foosha

Grandline: Paradise

Marineford 

Garp always admired Sengoku from certain points of view.

For instance, Senny was smart. Really, really smart. But don’t be fooled, Garp wasn’t an idiot, but he wasn’t as well-educated as the Fleet Admiral of Marine Corps, who sat poised by his desk; broad shoulders squared, his spine coiled up, bearded chin held high as he regarded Garp with those eyes, black as charcoal piercing the Vice-Admiral through the thick lenses of his glasses.

Garp munched on some rice crackers he’d found in the cupboards of Kuzan’s office, when he made his way to Sengoku, something delicious (and they were freshly made! oh, what a bliss!) whilst he was spending some quality time with his best friend, who, despite holding his dignity and image of a perfect Marine, looked like Sea King’s shit.

Despite Sengoku’s commanding presence and soldier’s grace, he’d seen better days.

His usually brown skin was sickly green, as if he’d been constantly sea-sick for the past week and there was a deep wrinkle set within the corner of his downturned mouth, and oh! OH! Don’t let Garp start on the absolute hideousness that were Senny’s dark circles. 

Garp knew Sengoku had a screwed up sleeping regime, but by seven seas—it was like the goat-loving moron was allergic to words ‘sleep’ and ‘bed’ and ‘healthy lifestyle’.

Not even Garling would be so stubborn as to go thus far and that says a lot, because it’s Garling and mister I’m-too-hot-to-care-for-your-opinion-peasant never listened to anyone’s suggestions and reminders; that, oh, hey! If you don’t want to die by the age of fourty, you should get proper sleep and eat proper food, and touch some bloody grass!

“—arp. Garp. GARP!” Sengoku’s booming voice fished Garp right out from the whirlwind that were his thoughts.

“Whoa! Oh… oh, hey! Senny! You were sayin’ something?” 

Sengoku huffed at his friend’s antics, shaking his head, before he opened his mouth to repeat his ignored words: “I asked you: “Why is that young girl injured and where did you find her?” assuming you’d come from East Blue recently, she must be from somewhere in those parts, right?”

“Well, you see, Senny, I’d been trainin’ her ever since she came aboard the Doggy Voyager! She has improved a lot durin’ those weeks! Two days ago she managed t’leave a large dent upon the cannonball, and—”

“—I’m sorry, did you just say cannonball?” Sengoku sputtered, exhausted eyes wide in shock, before he slumped down, groaning softly into the palm of his hand.

Garp simply nodded with increased enthusiasm. 

“Aye, a cannonball! But not one of the regular ones, no! This one was one of my largest ones! A fittin’ punching bag for beginners!”

Sengoku let out a strangled choke that sounded more akin to an injured seagull, his scarred hands balling into fists as he tried his best to keep himself steady and not to punch some common sense into Garp, even if he was in dire need of it.

“Did you at least give her medical treatment afterwards?” Sengoku asked with a flicker of hope in his voice.

Garp graced his best friend with the most innocent smile he managed. “Yeah… Or no? I think she did. Yeah, she probably did. She never complained about the pain, so she must be fine by now.”

Sengoku stared at Garp for a long, long time before he whispered in a tone so venomous and exasperated it sounded wrong even to Garp’s own ears: “I'm going to strangle you one day.”

Garp simply threw his head back and laughed, spittle and crumbs of rice crackers falling from his mouth.

“Bwahahaha! Have some faith, Senny! She’s one hell of a lass, she’ll manage!”

Garp finished the rice crackers and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smiling gingerly and satisfied. 

“She’ll be alright now. Makino’s diligent and has a good-heart. Aye, she’ll be doin’ here just fine.”

“Garp,” the tone in which Sengoku called out his name, forced the Vice-Admiral to meet his best friend’s serious gaze with stunned silence.

Sengoku carefully placed his hands upon his desk, entwining his fingers together as he searched Garp’s face, trying to figure out proper words.

“Garp, I’d received summons from the Gorosei some weeks ago and… and they told me that—”

“—Spit it out already, Sengoku,” Garp hissed, his eyes narrowed as he leaned forward, his hind barely seated upon his chair.

“Garp, I am sorry, but I was ordered to announce to you that your grandson and son of Revolutionary Dragon, Monkey D. Luffy, is dead.”