Chapter Text
"Welcome to nowhere," the kid muttered, almost sullenly pushing Marco into the cell. The commander of the Whitebeards stumbled, his bad leg giving out on him until he managed to stabilize himself against the barren wall. The stones were cool under his fingertips, just inviting his fever-burning body to slide down. Marco barely withstood the temptation, refusing to show weakness in front of the Vice Admiral in front of him. Instead he turned in what he hoped was a lazy and relaxed manner and raised an eyebrow in silent question.
If the kid noticed, he didn't let on as he busied himself with locking the door. They were cautious, Marco had to admit, although locking him in while he was wrapped in so much kairoseki that he probably looked like black caterpillar – with an annoyingly debilitating bullet hole in his leg, no less – felt slightly overkill.
“Nowhere, yoi?” The least they could do was alleviate the boredom, Marco thought and resolutely ignored the gnawing uncertainty in his guts. The sense of wrongness had grown steadily as he’d been transferred from the three-masted galleon onto a smaller marine vessel, docked at a tiny winter island and been ushered into a facility that looked less like a prison and more like a forgotten garisson, complete with training yard and mess hall next to the entrance. As the kid grunted and glanced to the side, obviously evading the question, even the last mental alarm bells in Marco’s head began to wail.
“C’mon, it’s not as if I could tell anyone.”
“Phoenix…”
“Ace! Wait!” Marco yelled, raising his voice for the first time. He’d hobbled to the bars, which contained even more kairoseki, where did they get all that stuff?, and carefully leaned forwards as much as possible. His reluctant escort had stopped at the corner of the hallway, tension rigid in the line of his shoulders. He ripped a hand through his hair and cursed colorfully.
“I didn’t sign up for this shit!” Stomping back to the cell, his silver eyes bore holes into Marco, challenge sizzling like lightning. Anger clouded him like an admiral mantle.
“You really wanna know, pirate? They’re gonna make you dance to their tune soon, that’s what this is about,” he spat.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Marco asked calmly. Even though he should probably be worried about himself because of the ominous threat, in this moment the commander itched to reach a hand out to soothe the frustration boiling beneath the youth’s skin more than anything else.
“They’ll turn you into a marine. Their soldier. Or their plaything or slave or whatever.”
Marco couldn’t help himself, he chuckled, earning himself a very confused and agitated marine who started pacing in front of the cell door. An accusing finger was pointed at the prisoner.
“How can you be so chill about this?” Marco looked more closely at the kid, recognizing the vibrating posture for what it was: frustration so thick it was almost choking, honest curiosity mixed with a hint of worry. For his enemy, no less? Interesting.
Deciding to honor the gift he was given, Marco fixed the man with a stare of his own.
“Believe me when I say this, Vice Admiral. You don’t get to sail the waters of the New World for decades without seeing a great number of atrocities. I’ve seen the worst of the marine and the world government and I’m stil standing,” Marco replied with some confidence.
“Nothing ever breaks me.”
He'd taken countless hits meant for himself and Oyaji. Hell, he’d been tortured before. His upbringing as well as relying on his fruit abilities to heal impending damage had resulted in an astonishingly high pain tolerance over the years. Something Marco was increasingly thankful for since he was moderately certain that he’d need it soon. Imagine his surprise then, when the young marine smiled humorlessly and shook his head in a defeated manner. His freckles seemed black under the harsh light, his skin deathly white.
“They don’t need to harm you. Captain Hinaro ate the Recollection fruit.”
“Sōki Sōki No Mi?” Marco had heard rumors of the strange fruit, but nothing concrete. Nonetheless, what little was out there was enough to prompt an icy glob of fear slide down his spine. He suppressed a violent shudder, but the kid wasn’t done yet. Riled up, he pressed close to the bars, snarling.
“Yeah. Do you even get what that means, old geezer? They’re gonna rifle through all your memories and when they’re done, there won’t be anything left of you!”
In any other circumstances, Marco would have called the feeling on his opposite’s face desperation. The kid had been gripping the bars that separated them hard enough so that his knuckles had turned stark white, only releasing them after taking a deep breath. His whole frame sagged before he addressed Marco in a much quieter voice.
“So, Marco the Phoenix, Commander of the First Division of the Whitebeard pirates, any last words? I promise that I’ll deliver them if I ever meet any of your nakama again.”
Fuck. The kid meant it. He’d come to know Ace during his last few days as a captive on his ship, respected him for the fact that he wore his emotions on his sleeve and for his brutal honesty.
Marco swallowed slowly, clenching and unclenching his shackled fists. There were thousands of messages he wanted to transmit to his brothers and Pops, little things and big goodbyes if worst came to worst, yet he couldn’t find the strength to let go of hope. There was still a chance the Moby would find them here in the middle of Nowhere, that he’d be rescued before Captain Hirano unleashed the devil’s fruit on him. And if his family wasn’t quite fast enough, well, he’d just have to hold on long enough.
Still, this might be his last chance.
“Tell Thatch to leave my cabin alone or else I’ll kick him into tomorrow.” Marco decided, a slight smirk gracing his features.
“What?”
“He likes to prank the other commanders sometimes. Brothers,” he shrugged in a What-can-you-do gesture, surprised when a matching fond smile flitted across the marine’s face. Kind eyes lingered on Marco before the professional mask slid back into place.
“I’ll try. Now sit down before you fall down, old man.”
For once, Marco did as he was told, judging his ability to remain standing close to non-existent anyways. He couldn’t feel most of his right leg any more, just a horrible, pulsating mess of sharp cold and hot stabs beneath the heavy seastone. The grey tiles welcomed him, but his gaze remained steadfastly on the back of the Vice Admiral until he’d rounded the corner and his steps no longer echoed through the corridor. Only then did Marco allow the pained grimace to show, let the shudders of pain and exhaustion turn his body into useless pudding for a while.
One minute to ride out the pain, nothing more, nothing less. He had a breakout to stage, Marco promised himself grimly, letting his head fall against the dusty floor. Even though the prospects of getting out of the cell, let alone the base or off the island were rather bleak, he had to try. He owed it to his family, owed it to himself. Because if anything the kid had said was even remotely true, he was rapidly running out of time.
Marco the Phoenix clenched his teeth and got to work.