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“But it’s not fair!”
“Sure it is,” Franky sniggers, free hand poking the back of Paulie’s skull hard enough the shrimp’s goggles slip down from his forehead to perch awkwardly on his nose. “I’ve already got my muscles, if you want to work on yours then you’ve gotta lift something heavy every day!”
Both arms wrapped around a big sack of rice, all the teen can do is scowl. “Nuh-uh, you’re just being an asshole, making me carry this.”
“That too, yeah- YEOWCH!”
Funny how one tiny booted foot could stomp down hard enough to make Franky regret his bare toes. He swears, hopping away on one leg and trying not to drop his basket of groceries, while Paulie cackles and sprints away down the street. “You shitty little- get back here!!”
There’s a reason Paulie is Iceburg’s favorite brother and not Franky’s. Very good reason.
And yet.
When the two of them careen around a corner and are forced to pull up short by a line of men in black suits, it’s second nature for Franky to step squarely in front of the kid. “The hell? What do you losers want?”
“Ah, Cutty Flam, I believe.”
Oh great. THIS moron. “Buzz off, Spandex, we’ve got nothing to say to you.”
Loser in chief momentarily scowls. “It’s Spandam, you- well. Nevermind. You’ll learn proper respect soon enough.” Yeah right. Respect is reserved for the members of Tom’s Workers alone, not some idiot government lackey who tried to blackmail Franky’s boss with the fact he’d built the Oro Jackson almost a whole month after they finished the Sea Train and Tom was cleared of all charges. “Let’s get something very clear, Cutty Flam: I know good and well that fishman has the blueprints I’m looking for, and I will not leave this island without them.” Span-whatever narrows his eyes, looking slimier by the second as he smirks. “Even if that means resorting to, shall we say, less than savory methods of acquisition.”
The man’s gaze slips to one side, to where Franky knows Paulie is leaning around him to glare at the government stooges, and every hair on his body decides to stand on end.
“Paulie. Run.”
“Huh?”
“RUN!” Even as Franky roars the word, three of the agents leap forward. The grocery basket is sacrificed as a projectile, smacking one in the face and knocking him over, but then the other two are right in Franky’s face doing their best to hit him fast and hard.
Now, see, there are always all kinds of opportunities for a fight in the lower streets and back alleys of Water 7. Much as Tom and Iceburg and Kokoro have done their best over the years to keep him out of trouble, Franky does know how to take a punch and deliver some mean strikes of his own. He isn’t some squishy-cheeked baby or stick-thin office clerk, he can hold his own just fine.
Usually.
Usually, he can hold his own just fine.
Two stooges become four, then more. Reinforced gloves collide with his gut, his chest, his face. Hard-soled shoes slam against his feet, his shins, and then the rest of his body when Franky abruptly finds himself falling to the ground. His vision goes red, but that could be the rage or just the blood spilling from somewhere on his forehead.
“There we go,” that stupid slimy voice laughs up above him, when the world spins and there’s pressure gripping his arms and legs and then the rough sensation of rope being wrapped tight around his bare skin. “The first step in learning to be properly respectful of your betters, Cutty Flam.”
One final blow to the side of his skull, and Franky crashes into darkness.
A whistle blows.
Not directly next to his ear or anything, thank goodness, that would NOT be super, but more than close enough to jolt Franky awake. For half a moment, his mind whirls, baffled and questioning why he apparently decided to take a nap inside the Puffing Tom-
-and then the pain hits.
Ow.
Hissing rather than swearing at top volume, Franky tries a few experimental tugs against the ropes wrapped tight around his body. Nothing doing. Even Paulie couldn’t have trussed him up this good, for all the brat’s fascination with knots and ropework-
Paulie.
Shit.
He doesn’t know if the kid’s okay. Franky certainly isn’t, tied up from head to toe inside a box, ground swaying in such a way that makes it obvious he’s been taken out on the open water, rather than still being on dry land or even in the city’s canals. Open water, but- close enough to still hear the train whistle, so not that far from home-
Muffled words. Motion. The box is picked up, and turned, and Franky shouts as he hits the lid and it opens and he’s falling- SPLASH!
Fun fact, saltwater and open cuts do not mix well.
By the time gloved hands yank him back up into the air, Franky’s upgraded from being in pain to being in agony, with the fun bonus of coughing half the ocean back out of his lungs. A task which is made that much harder when he’s pushed to lay on his back, on top of two solid shapes, face just barely higher than the rolling waves.
“Excellent,” that same smug asshole is standing on the edge of a boat, smirking down at Franky. “And from the sound of things, that sea train is running right on schedule today: your mentor will certainly have to cut it close to get here in time.”
Eh?
...oh. Oh shit.
They’ve tied him to the train tracks.
Franky allows himself one moment to go perfectly still, processing this. And then he explodes, twisting and thrashing and straining with every adrenaline-fueled scrap of muscle he’s got to try and break free.
Span-whatever laughs. “Don’t bother, Cutty Flam. Between those Marine-quality ropes and how much blood you’ve already lost, you won’t be getting loose on your own. Best start hoping the fishman cares enough to come save you, hm? I’d have preferred to do this with the boy, but according to my sources Tom seems to regard all three of you with equal favor.”
Would’ve been stupid, doing this with Paulie. Kid knows his knots inside and out, he’d have fiddled with those sneaky little fingers and wriggled himself free in ten seconds flat. Franky, though, Franky’s better suited for metal and woodwork, making engines that he powers with cola, being delicate with gears rather than fibers.
Franky... is in a world of trouble, isn’t he.
Span-whatever talks a little more, promises to point Tom in Franky’s direction once he hands over Pluton’s blueprints, and sails off towards the train station laughing up a storm. It was mid-morning when Franky and Paulie went to the market - at this point, the sun has moved enough to be somewhere in the early afternoon, which means the sea train will be coming any time now for the 1:30 trip from Blue Station to St. Poplar.
Well, Franky figures somewhat hysterically, at least it’ll be the Puffing Tom instead of Rocketman...
“Kero-kero!”
“FRANKY!”
He does not shriek, thanks very much, if only because a bunch of water hits him in the face just when he opens his mouth to do so. Franky sputters, and coughs some more, as Yokozuna hops up onto the tracks next to him and Paulie slides off the big frog’s back to start frantically tugging at the ropes. “I’m sorry,” the kid gasps as he works, “Sorry, Franky, I should’ve- I didn’t- I’ll get you out of this, I swear-”
Another whistle calls across the water.
“Don’t-” Franky cranes his head up to take a deep breath, “Don’t damage the tracks-”
“Oh shut up-”
“Kero!”
It takes more like two minutes than ten seconds, probably because all the ropes are soaking wet and Paulie’s goggles keep filling up with furious tears, but the kid does get Franky fully untied, and then Yokozuna tows them both back towards the city swimming a perfect breaststroke.
It isn’t until he’s being hauled onto dry land that Franky catches a glimpse of Blue Station, and thinks to croak, “Tom- the plans-”
“They’re still hidden at the workshop,” Paulie says, cramming his scrawny frame under one of Franky’s arms to help hold him upright. “He’s gonna make a scene so everybody in the city knows this bastard kidnapped you, make it so no one’s willing to rent him a hotel room or sell him lunch.”
“Heh.” Franky’s eyes slip shut as he grins. “Good.”
“Hey, HEY, don’t you pass out, we’ve still gotta get home! Franky!!”
“Kero-kero!”
Yokozuna’s sturdy bulk behind him keeps Franky from falling backwards, but that just means he tips forward as his knees start to buckle. Both frog and teenage boy yelp, try to keep him from collapsing, and yet-
“Easy, Franky.”
-it’s the much steadier hands of his big brother that keep him from faceplanting.
“Iceburg, he’s really hurt,” it’s been a long time since Paulie last sounded this scared, not since the twerp stopped having regular nightmares, but Ice-for-Brains handles this just as smoothly as he did those.
“Come on, then, I’ve got a ride waiting, we’ll get him to the hospital up in the main city.” Rather than tip Franky over one shoulder, or carry him on his back, Iceburg scoops him up in both arms like he’s still a pipsqueak smaller than Paulie and starts running.
And as much as Franky still hurts, as much as he’s worried about Tom dealing with that government asshole, it’s reassuring enough he allows himself to pass out.