Chapter Text
The Red Force cut through the water like a blade, sails full and snapping in the wind. The path ahead was clear, course charted and set as the crew milled about doing their own work. It had been a quiet day so far, the ship so far out at sea that not even gulls flew overhead leaving them in a world of peace as waves lapped against the hull of the ship. Shanks and Beckman stood at the railing, conversation light as they discussed their plans of where to head next as the crisp air kept his lulling Captain awake. It wouldn’t be long before the red-haired man would be found in his normal spot for this time of day, taking his afternoon nap in full bask of the high sun.
All in all a quiet day.
That was what set Beckman on edge first as nothing with this group stayed peaceful for long. He stood near the rail, rifle resting against his shoulder, eyes narrowed as he scanned the horizon. The last ship they had seen had passed three days ago. It had been small, hardly worth the effort with little more than basic provisions aboard coming back from a delivery route. He thought he had heard something earlier off in the distance, a loud roar like a thunder clap in a storm, but nothing seemed to come of it.
Then from high above in the crows nest Yasopp’s voice rang out.
“Ship ahead! Marine flags!”
Heads turned, a sense of excitement building among the crew at the prospect of a fight. Something to break up the monotony that they had fallen into. It was like blood in the water with them, especially when they had gone too long without anything to keep them occupied. Any Marines this far out should be more than capable of putting up at least a decent fight. Even Beckman himself found his pulse quickening at the words.
But that excitement quickly turned into confusion as they approached, plums of smoke becoming more visible as smoke cut through the air.
All Marine ships generally followed the same formations. Practical, predictable, but reliable. That's nothing like what they found here as they got closer. There was no formation. No movement or even cannon fire. No flag flying proudly With the stark symbol of the World Government proudly displayed. Only the wreckage of a single ship.
By the time they drew closer, it became clear the Marine ship was already destroyed. Its hull was split, half-sunk with only the front quarter left even remotely intact, debris scattered across the sea like bones after a storm. What wasn't already burned or splintered was charred and blackened. A number of uniforms floated by in the water, though Beckman didn’t give them too much mind. No chance they were alive. He was instead focused on what little remained. Anything that was potentially salvageable as his eyes scan the wreckage.
Snake let out a long, low whistle.
“Looks like someone got here before us. Seems they really did a number.”
Hongo snorted, gesturing to the scared marks along the sinking hull. “More like the fools didn't know how to properly keep their gunpowder.”
Floating planks, broken masts and torn sails lay in the water around them. Easy picking, even if he wished they had been able to put a bit more effort into getting them.
“Wait,” Lime muttered, leaning further over the railing as he and the rest of the crew joined their captain and first mate. “Do you hear that?”
They strained to hear anything, starting to think that he had only been imagining it, before a faint sound reached their ears.
Shouting. The buzzing of multiple voices overlapping each other, becoming increasingly clear the further they drifted. So it seemed there were survivors after all.
Beckman’s gaze sharpened, eyes honing in on movement as they passed the ship into view of more wreckage.
There, on a massive slab of drifting wood, figures were dancing about. Fighting. Three Marines clung desperately to the splintered platform, soaked and exhausted even as they moved about the edge in pursuit of another who seemed to be filtering from one side to another in an attempt to avoid the treading militants. They themself looked a bit more rough for wear, barely steady on their feet as the wood floated rock back and forth.
A fist slammed into one Marine’s jaw. A foot drove into another’s ribs, kicking him away as he attempted to climb aboard. The third tried to grab them, only to get shoved back so hard he didn’t come back up for a few moments.
The crew stared, all previous thoughts of fighting and bloodlust put on hold, now replaced with a sort of amused confusion.
Beckman leaned forward slightly, watching with interest. They weren’t just winning, they were calculating. Every movement was efficient. No wasted energy or panic. Just raw, stubborn survival.
Then he saw it. Metal flashed in the sunlight.
Cuffs.
Heavy, reinforced Marine restraints locked around the fighter’s wrists. A hindrance of course, but not one they seemed to pay too close attention to as one of the men boarded the float while the figure was occupied on the other side. He saw one of the men board the float with the clear intention of ambushing them only to have the chains of the cuffs wrapped round his own neck the next moment. The figure quickly pivoted using momentum to toss him over their shoulder and back into the ocean with the others.
“They’re cuffed.” Beckman murmured to himself.
That earned a few startled looks, everyone now leaning over the railing to try and get a better look.
“Seriously?” Shanks laughed, hand shielding his eyes from the sun as he squinted.
“Then how the hell-“
The question went unanswered as the shouting of the Marines increased, the battle reaching its crescendo.
--------------------
“Get them off!” one of the Marines, eyes filled with fury even as his voice spoke with desperation, rough from choking on smoke and saltwater.
It was exhausting running back and forth across the small platform of wood but there was little else you could do. Not when you were stuck in the middle of the ocean. Thinking back it hadn't been the best idea you had ever had for an escape plan, but there was little else to do. Not when they would be rendezvousing with the larger fleet in just a few short hours. Drastic times called for drastic measures. Even if you had died it would still be better than whatever they had planned for you once you were taken into custody. It wouldn’t be painless. You had been assured of that at the very least.
It seemed your remaining captors had grown tired of the game of chicken you played. No longer were they trying to climb aboard, and it was only too late that you realized what their new plan of action was. Instead they leaned, putting their full weight onto one end of the drift. The massive slab tilted slowly under their combined weight, falling to your knees as the wood ground beneath you shifted.
You froze trying to decide your next move to keep out of their hands. No doubt they would simply try to drown you if they caught you in the water. An easy feat with their combined strength and your current restrictions.
With a final shove the platform tipped completely. But instead of falling down towards the awaiting hands of the Marines as they had expected, you instead turned and with all the force you could muster ran up the opposite side, using the elevated end to push off and gain as much air as you could, traveling a good dozen feet before splashing into the water.
Waves surged as debris bobbed around you, a maze of potential concussions. You stayed under for as long as you could, kicking your feet and keeping your arms close to your body in an attempt to counter the weight that held them down. You were forced to come up for air, lungs burning, and as soon as you broke the surface shouts chased after you while the sound of splashing could be heard quickly approaching.
“Fuck.” You curse, rewarded with a mouthful of seawater.
You swam desperately, unevenly. Driven by pure instinct. You didn't look back, only forward as your eyes darted about and then attempted to look for anything that could help you. You were no weak swimmer by any means but the cuffs metal was heavy. It was all you could do to keep your head above water, the salt of which burned your nose and lungs as you unintentionally swallowed mouthful after a wave passed overhead.
There was little left apart from small pieces of driftwood. Nothing as sizable as the small ship you planned to claim for yourself after the explosion. You might have been able to manage on that if not for your unexpected guest getting in the way and allowing the small vessel to be dragged away by the current. They must have been on the far side of the ship, just as you were to have survived the explosion.
A dozen feet away, half-hidden among floating debris, a battered barrel rocked gently on the waves. The kind that the cook would keep in the kitchen to hold spices. Watertight. Just what you needed.
You quickly changed course, legs disturbing the water behind you in a flurry of bubbles as you propelled yourself towards the barrel.
You drag yourself up, coughing violently and eyes burning, water soaking your clothes and weighing you down. Every muscle screams in protest. Your arms shake as you cling to the rim before collapsing against the barrel.
Your vision swims, chest burning from all the water you had inhaled, lungs feeling like they’re on fire. Everything hurts, from your ears to ankles. You should probably be more alarmed at the lack of feeling in your toes but can’t muster the energy. The water was cold after all, and it seemed your fingers were inclined to suffer the same fate. But there is no time for respite now.
‘Move!’ you scold yourself, hearing the approaching sound of others in the water. Their splashing was anything but elegant, slapping through the water like bulls in their haste to catch up.
You crawl, slow and painfully up the side of the barrel. The lid is heavy, nearly impossible to open as your nails sink into the seal, barely managing to separate it from the bottom as the shouting grows louder, and half-fall inside. There’s not much left in it thankfully. Just a few oranges that squish under your weight as you curl inward, gasping and throwing up water. It burns as it emerges from both your nose and mouth, collecting in puddles at your knees.
You can still feel the warmth of the sun coming in from the top as a large wave sloshes over the edge. With the last of your strength, you reach up and pull the lid shut.
‘Thunk.’
Darkness. Only the sound of your own ragged breathing in the confines of the wooden walls. Your hands shake with adrenaline, the dull thrum of fear coursing through your body fighting to stay on the surface. Not a moment later you hear banging on the outside but find it in yourself to muster the energy to care. Certainly not enough to notice when the voices shout out in surprise, screams quickly cut to silence.
Inside the barrel, everything blurs. Your own little sarcophagus of wood and tar. Passively you recognize that’s what it will be. Nobody friendly passes this far out. The Marines already had plans to kill you and pirates weren’t known for playing passenger ship.
You would float endlessly, no land in sight. Buried at sea. Or maybe a Sea Beast would find you before then, swallowing the barrel whole in a single snap with its razor teeth. Maybe by then you will already be gone, spared the fate of being dissolved in stomach acid.
Darkness presses in from all sides. The air is damp, stale, and heavy with the smell of salt, citrus, and old wood. Every breath feels like work in the stuffy space. You barely notice when the barrel bumps against something.
Then again.
Voices filter through the wood, muffled and distorted, like you’re underwater all over again. You only catch a few words, head swimming and the sound muffled by the well-insulated wood.
“-over there.”
“Watch it! Don’t let it hit the hull.”
A thud, followed by a rattling shake that leaves you keening as your body is jostled about.
The barrel scrapes against something solid and the distinct feeling of bobbing around in the water disappears as gravity is reintroduced.
You flinch weakly, fingers twitching against the inside of the wood, too tired and empty to move. Instead you drift in and out, uncertain of what is real and what isn’t. Hell, maybe you’re already dead for all you know. The Marines would get what they wanted even from their own watery grave.
Sometimes you hear footsteps. Sometimes laughter and shouting. Another time, something metallic clinks nearby. At some point, the barrel is lifted and your world is tilted sideways as your stomach lurches.
You groan softly, the sound barely more than breath, before sinking back into the haze.
_______________________________
You’re not sure how long passes.
Minutes? Hours? Days?
Time has no meaning anymore. Only exhaustion. Only the dull ache in your wrists where the cuffs rub raw against your skin. You’re barely aware of anything when light explodes behind your closed eyes. Fresh air rushes in as the lid creaks open.
A shout is what finally draws you from the final dregs of sleep. Not your own. One deeper and full of surprise. It sends adrenaline coursing through your body, sore joints creaking in protest as your muscles second the complaint, trying to stand. The lid is off preventing you from giving yourself a concussion but the surprise and panic only leads you to knock over the barrel.
It's a scramble as you half tumble to the floor. The shouting has stopped only to be replaced by a string of curses as you look up.
A pair of goggles peer back at you, their owner a stout, rotund man that stares as if he’s seen a ghost. The lid remains firmly in his grasp, held in front as if a shield from a monster. It wouldn’t be hard to believe you looked like one. Weeks at sea with only a damp towel thrown your way every once in a while to clean. Even you could smell yourself after the first few days, and your captors only seemed to relish in your miserable state.
It wasn’t blindingly bright, which you were thankful for, but the oil lamps along the wall gave enough light for you to surmise you were in a kitchen of some sort, crates of preserves stacked around and a pot of something that smelled heavenly bubbling on the stove. There was definitely something with shrimp boiling away in a sea of spices.
That must make this guy the chef. Not too dangerous, you thought to yourself. He looked sturdy as most sea-fairing hands did but chances were you could outrun him if need be. That was until you glanced back to see him pulling a gun from his waistband.
Fuck.
Jerking back, wood by your leg shattered in a million pieces as the ear-splitting scream of the gun sounded. The second nicked your ear as you spun, still on the ground, getting your feet beneath you and stumbling away. A ringing follows, leaving you off balance for a moment longer than necessary. Already you can feel the warmth of liquid iron trickling down your neck.
The obstacle of the barrel only gave you a few moments to get ahead but already you could hear him yelling behind you for others. If the gun wasn’t enough to draw attention then that sure was. Another shot rings off, barely managing to duck in time for it to burst through the wall next to you.
The wood was warm underfoot as you tore through the dim halls, unsure as to where to go but unable to stop for a second as you heard more shouting and footsteps behind you. It was clear you were on a ship judging by the sway, and nothing else would have been able to find you where you were. That means another daring escape. Hopefully this time there was at least a lifeboat that you could swipe.
Then, up ahead, you spotted a concentration of light.
The exit.
You burst through the doorway and onto the open deck, blinking as sunlight floods your vision. Wind whips through your hair, salt stinging your skin. The sky is a deep blue, nearly blending into the ocean as the sun approaches its descent over the horizon. A few stars have managed to wiggle their way out from between clouds, barely visible.
There's no doubt that you're on a ship now if there ever was one before. Sails snap in the wind and though you don't get a good look at it, you catch a glimpse of a Jolly Roger painted across them. They flow in the wind gleefully. A sharp contrast to the rattling metal of your chains.
Pirates. Of course it had to be pirates. Only marginally better than Marines. At least they didn't have as much of a personal grudge. Your death would be swift if they caught you. Maybe they would just toss you back overboard.
Lifeboat. Lifeboat. Where’s the-
Off to the side, you spot the familiar pulley system that tells of a boat docked to the side of a ship. It's small enough that you should be able to outmaneuver them even if they are hot on your trail. For half a second, hope flares in your chest for just a moment before another shout calls out.
“They’re out here!”
Your heart drops as a man steps in your path. Boots thunder behind you. Voices overlap in a flurry of confusion and chaos. You veer left, sprinting past stacked crates and coiled ropes, mind racing.
A shape lunges into your path, larger and burly with a pair of sunglasses and a mean snarl.
“Gotcha!”
You barely stop in time, skidding between his legs just a fraction of a moment before they snap shut like a steel trap. It's pure instinct that's driving you now as you run. With your previous escape plan cut off you pivot, racing to come up with something new. Not the easiest task as you duck around bodies that seemed to come from everywhere.
The stairs to the upper deck loom ahead, free from obstacles. Not ideal, but maybe still enough to give you time to think of a new plan.
You take them two at a time even as your legs protest, still sore from the cramped space you had just been freed of, the taste of freedom already on your lips only to jolt to a halt as a figure appears on the top step. His cloak billows in the wind, red hair blazing in the light of the setting sun and making it appear as if he’s on fire. His face shows no concern at your sudden appearance. If anything, he seems relaxed. Almost amused even as the grin of a predator greets you.
He stands blocking your escape like he’s been waiting there the whole time. His eyes quickly survey your stance, taking you in from head to toe and lingering on the cuffs that still hold your hands together, identifying you as being wanted by someone and likely with a price to be paid for your delivery. An easy cashin.
“Well now,” he says cheerfully. “You’re fast.”
Your stomach twists in dread at the aura around him. You can be reckless, sure, but you're not stupid. Everything about him screams danger, your body refusing to get an inch closer.
Spinning on heel you nearly trip over yourself in haste to get away only to be greeted with a blond man just four steps down. You can’t make it back the way you came up, and the way forward is now blocked.
So you jump.
You grab the banister and throw your weight sideways, sliding down it in a blur. Polished wood scrapes against your clothes as you pray to not get a massive splinter. Sparks of pain shoot through your ribs at the action but you push it away, a problem for a later you.
Hands reach for you, twisting mid-slide, barely avoiding the blonde’s grip. His fingers graze your wrist, missing by millimeters as you feel his skin brush against yours.
You hit the deck hard with a force that nearly had you blacking out from the pain, roll, and scramble back to your feet. The tumble has you dizzy and breathless yet you still move onward, calculating the quickest way to make it through the maze of bodies that have emerged on the deck. Not as many as there had been on the Marine ship but enough to still give you pause in your current state, less than optimal to fight.
Laughter. Warm, loud, and full of joy that feels out of place for the situation, erupts above the chaos. You glance up to see the red-haired man casually leaning against the banister, hips cocked out as he leans over the railing, tears in his eyes from laughing.
“Oh, I like this one,” he says, voice carrying easily over the noise.
“Looks like we’ve got a rat scurrying about men!”
You don’t hear the shot go off, only feel it hitting its target and nailing you in the shoulder, sending you careening backwards. Your mind calculates the trajectory, spotting a man up in the crows nest, still holding the smoking gun as his eyes gleam with satisfaction.
The crew roars in response as your blood spills. Cheers, whistles, and boots pounding as they spread out, forming a circle and closing in like a pack of wolves.
Your chest heaves, eyes frantically darting every which way looking for even the smallest of gaps. Your wrists ache inside the cuffs and you wonder how many you can bash with them before you're taken down. At least one surely. Maybe two if you’re lucky.
Every path is blocked. Even if you weren’t cuffed it wouldn’t look good. Each and every one of them look rough and mean with an air that would have you stepping aside to avoid them at any port.
Teeth grinding together, a low growl escapes you as you survey, looking for a weak link. It’s then that one breaks away from the group. He’s big, just as they all are. Broad shoulders and large hands that easily fit around the stock of the gun he carries. The same hands raise as if he's surrendering. Or more likely, calming a wild animal.
Dark eyes, sharp as any blade, are fixed on you, his casual stance telling how much of a threat he thinks you to be.
“Stop running.” he says, calm, almost tired. You don’t move, frozen like a hare as even the sea seems to watch the exchange.
“You’ve got nowhere to go out here.” He's not being mean. There's no malice or condescension in his voice. No arrogant bluster. Only a stark candor to his words that has your shoulders slumping under the weight as you pant.
He seems to take it as a sign of surrender as he reaches for you, and all you can imagine is them wrapping around your neck with ease, squeezing until there’s nothing left.
You don’t think. You react, planting your foot and doing a full three-sixty, driving the heel of your unshoed foot as hard as you can with a frustrated huff. The weight of the cuffs gives you a bit more momentum with their counter balance, adding just a touch of extra umph.
You kick, hard, and are rewarded with the give of flesh to bone. He may be a wall of solid muscle, but there’s one place all men are vulnerable.
“Hngh!”
There’s a split second of stunned silence.
The man stumbles back with a sharp gasp, crashing into a crate as it splinters under his weight. The rest of the group seems equally as stunned. Even the man up top watches with wide eyes, mouth agape as if he can hardly believe what he just witnessed.
“Did she just-”
You don’t wait to hear the rest, making a break for the opening left by the giant. It’s another mad dash. Not toward the sides or back below deck, but straight for the front of the ship. The only place that there’s not an obscene amount of people at.
Wind whips as you sprint past ropes and rigging, heart pounding so hard you’re sure it’s about to come right out of your chest. The bow looms ahead, the massive carved figurehead standing like a guardian, snarling at the sea as if daring it to rise to the challenge.
A dragon. Its wooden jaws are open wide, frozen in a roar ready to devour. It likely strikes fear into the hearts of all who approach. A foreboding omen of destruction, to wreak havoc just as its flesh and blood counterparts do in the skies.
You don’t hesitate to scramble up the railing, hands slipping on smooth wood only made that much more so by the spray of water as it hits the hull, and wedge yourself into the hollow of its mouth. Your back presses against the curved interior, knees tucked tight to your chest. It’s a tight squeeze, one you can barely manage, but force your body to contort anyways.
Hidden from prying eyes, yet trapped once again all the same. You’ve managed to get away for the moment but at what cost? There was nowhere to go from here, forced to the edge of the only solid space in sight. Wood presses against bruises as you lean further back in the mouth of the carving, staring at nothing but open ocean as far as the eye can see. You recognize your safe haven for why it truly is. A dead end.
You feel sick, head pounding and stomach churning at the situation you’ve put yourself in. The waves themselves seem to taunt you, crashing against the hull and spraying a light mist across your skin before receding. If you were to fall in it would be quick to swallow you whole. If not by its own force then the undertow of the ship heading on at a respectable pace.
Boots thud closer, their vibrations traveling through the wood of the ship as they approach. There seems to be their own internal scuffle, cursing as you can hear them debating on how to get you out that doesn’t involve damaging the ship.
”You’re all overthinking this.” A voice huffs, followed by footsteps that stop just above. A shadow falls over the water from where they stand, moving against the stillness of the others.
A hand reaches down. Not as big as the other man's but it’s as callous and resolute, bent and clawed as it grabs.
“C’mon, don’t make this hard-”
Panic explodes in your chest as they brush your arm, fingers groping. Your hands won’t do much from where they’re gripping one of the many teeth in order to stay balanced, feet braced against the lower jaws to push you as far back as possible. Instead you lunge forward and bite as hard as you can, imagining the hand instead as a leg of meat, stomach grumbling at the thought.
Teeth sink into skin, jaw locking in the space between thumb and pointer finger. The flimsy webbing gives way easily as you bite. The man yelps, jerking back with a curse. You taste copper. Sharp, metallic, disgusting.
For half a second a stupid, distant thought flickers through your mind wondering if the man had any diseases he could pass through the liquid dripping from your lip. The thought makes your stomach twist but there's not much to do now. Not like you had very many other options.
You spit instinctively, pressing yourself farther into the dragon’s mouth, trembling.
“Dammit, they bit me!”
“Seriously? Are they feral or something?”
The rest seem to hesitate. No one wants to be the next to try. Good. You’ll take the whole hand next time.
A sharp whistle cuts through the air, drawing the attention of the group. You watch as their shadows disappear, one lingering longer than the others and leaving you in fear that they’ll try again, before slipping away.
There’s the muttering of voices far away, too distant to pick up what they're saying no matter how much you strain to hear with your one good ear, the other now flooded with your own blood as you shake your head to rid yourself of it. Your shoulder aches as well, the wound streaming with its own steady production of crimson that stains your clothes.
Too soon the steps return as you press further back. There’s only one this time it seems. One was all they would need in your current state, weakened and light headed. No grabbing hands or peaking faces. Only a deep, vaguely familiar voice.
”You’ve got nowhere to go. Come out now and Captain will show some grace.”
You snort, suspiciously something that sounds like a laugh, eliciting a sigh from the figure above. The wood whines, leading away from you and back towards the main body of the ship.
”Fine. Have it your way.”
And with that they retreat once again, leaving you alone, stuck on the front of a pirate ship and heavily bleeding, rethinking your life choices. You sit alone, staring out to the endless ocean in front of you, the faint scent of citrus clinging to your knees from where they had crushed oranges to a pulp in the barrel. Not enough to get a taste from, but enough to remind you of the burning pain in your stomach.
_____________________________
Sunlight glitters off the endless blue sea, sails full and steady, the Red Force cutting smoothly through the water. It should be a peaceful afternoon. A time for them to relax a bit before that hit rougher waters that the Grand Line is known for, yet true ease escapes them. Not when half the crew keeps sneaking glances toward the bow, where the massive dragon figurehead has become the most closely monitored spot on the entire ship.
Shanks leans against the railing, arm folded loosely across his chest, lazily watching the horizon. His attention occasionally flirts to the dragon’s open mouth. Beckman stands beside him, rifle resting against his shoulder, a figure of relaxation that does nothing to betray the alertness that holds him.
“Had to chew the guys out again.” Beckman mutters. “They’re gonna forget how to swab the deck at this rate.”
Shanks exhales quietly through his nose, stretching like a cat, head tilting to catch more of the sun.
“Hard to blame them.”
They both glance forward. Still no movement from the highlighted location. No shifting. No sound. Nothing but a shadow inside the carved jaws. They could almost believe that you had died if not for one detail.
Beckman adjusts his grip on the rifle, ready to shoulder at a moments notice should you come back into view, moving to light his cigarette. He takes a heavy drag, watching the end burn just a moment longer than normal.
“She tried something.”
Shanks hums, gaze drifting to where their latest addition still lay hidden.
“Early morning.” Beckman says. “Slipped out just before the sun was up. Grabbed some rope that was lying around. Took spare fabric from the repair supplies.”
Shanks’ eyebrow lifts slightly.
“Resourceful.”
“Almost got away with it too.” Beckman continues. “Then Yasopp spotted her. Chased her halfway across the deck yelling like the world was ending. Woke up half the crew. Of course he didn’t manage to catch her, saying something about how he was worried about getting bit.”
“I was wondering what that was,” Shanks says, grinning. “Thought someone fell overboard.”
Beckman shakes his head, gaze still focused on the font of the ship, thoughtful.
“Captain, why don’t we just force them out?”
They could wrangle you out of the space even if it would be a pain to do without some damage to the ship. You were in shape to fight, that much was clear. Likely even worse off now. Shanks turns to him, an amused twinkle in his eye that promises trouble.
“Force them out?” he repeats. “Where’s the fun in that?”
. “Fun?” Beckman raises a brow. What would be more fun is being able to snap on the deck without having to worry about you being attacked by a stowaway.
“C’mon,” Shanks says, waving his hand. “The lads already placed their bets. First time in weeks we’ve had decent entertainment. Besides, they’re not much of a threat to us.”
Then, thoughtfully, he adds with a hum.
“Well. Maybe to your future progeny.”
Beckman doesn’t have time to respond before Shanks glances towards his waist, still sore and tender. Still very much aware of where that kick had landed.
He clicks his tongue. “Gotta admit I didn’t see that one coming.”
Beckman’s lips twitch despite himself.
True, you weren’t much of a threat. Not to seasoned pirates like them. And yet that was exactly how you’d managed to catch them off guard.
“She’s got a fire to her, that’s for sure.”
“I thought that’s how you liked them.” Shanks teases, elbowing his friend.
“Yeah, but a bit less bloody. Limejuice is trying to get out of anything to do with chores. Claims the girl has rabies or something and he needs at least a week to recuperate. Hongo says he’s just being dramatic.”
Shanks straightens slowly, gaze drifting away from the bow and toward the distant horizon. The sky stretches wide and flawless. A perfect blue that no gem could ever compare to. Not a cloud in sight to cover the warmth from above as a steady breeze blows in their favor. The kind of weather sailors pray for.
He stares at it for a long moment, then speaks quietly, almost more to himself than Beckman.
“I’ve got a feeling there’s a storm coming.”
Beckman follows his gaze, studying the sky, not seeing anything wrong. But he also knows better than to doubt his captain.
The ship sails on and inside the dragon’s mouth, hidden in shadow, you keep holding out.
For now.
_________________________________
The storm doesn’t come gently. It crashes down on the ship like the sky itself is trying to break it apart, ripping and screaming as it tears at everything it can get its hands on, rocking the ship violently.
Rain lashes against the wood as wind screams through the rigging, the once caressing breeze turning to claws that pull at everything they can. Waves slam into the hull so hard you’re sure at any moment it’s going to split in two. Shouts from the crew can be heard as they maneuver the waters. Lighting streaks the sky like a monster threatening to tear you from hiding, it’s rumbling thunder reverberating through the ship.
Inside the dragon’s mouth, you cling to the curved wood with numb fingers. Everything is soaked. Your clothes. Your hair. Your skin. Your thoughts. It’s all drenched to the point it stiffens, hardened by salt and wear.
Half the time you’re choking, or more so gagging as you all but vomit what feels like buckets of saltwater. At this point you may as well be a fishman, water filling your lungs like air.
You lose track of when you’re breathing and when you’re drowning. Lose track of where you are. Who you are. If this is even real. At some point you’re pretty sure you black out. It seems there’s no end to it. There’s no way for you to keep time with what’s happening. By the time the flow slows and your stomach isn’t rolling with the ship the sun is dipping back below the horizon, providing only a few rays to recover with.
Sometime later- minutes, hours, you don’t know for sure- you slip. It’s a stupid mistake. One you would have never made at any other time. But you’re just so exhausted, fading in and out of consciousness.
Your foot slides on slick wood, grip failing as your body pitches forward into weightlessness.
You tumble out of the dragon’s mouth, body pitching forward into open air. The ocean rushes forward, still dark and churning, its maw open to consume you.
Your arms snap back above your head, tearing a howl like a wounded animal from within at the pain of the sudden stop, feeling as if you’re being torn apart at the joints.
The rope. The one you’d tied around your cuffs and anchored inside the figurehead fearing you would nod off in the middle of the night and roll out of your hiding space. Good to know it had been worth the risk of your little venture.
It jerks you back violently, not an ounce of give to its material, the cuffs just as unforgiving in their hold around your hands as they tear further into the skin, grinding against bone. The fabric acts as only a slight buffer, stuffed as much as it could between your skin and the cold metal.
Your shoulders scream, wrist burning. You dangle there, just below the maw of the beast, swaying back and forth helplessly in the wind as the water licks at your heels with ever dip of the hull. For one horrible second you think this will be the end of you, and they’ll just leave your corpse there to rot. A new macabre decoration.
What’s even more terrifying is a part of you doesn’t care. You’re crying now, unable to tell when it even started. You cry every amount you never let yourself cry before in the weeks of your capture. Tears of months saved up now reaching a damn and breaking at facing the grim morality of your death. Not even with the Marines had you felt it so closely. But with the water nipping at your heals, broken physically and emotionally, you allowed yourself the one mercy of crying.
Then voices cut through the storm.
“Holy hell! Look at that!”
“Are you kidding me?!”
Above the lingering thunder you hear laughter. Jeers and taunts that dry your self-loathing. The smoldering embers from before burn back to life with a blazing fury, anger and bitterness fueling you in place of sorrow to drag you down further.
With a raw, broken scream, you force your body to move, feeling the muscles tear in protest as your lungs burn from tears and the salty air.
You drag yourself inch by inch back toward the opening, nails scraping uselessly against soaked wood. Vaguely you register the sound of cheering, but it’s pushed to the back of your mind. Instead you focus on the pain.
Nothing but pain.
But you make it. Gasping and clawing, with tear tracks still burning down your face, you perform the most difficult pull-up of your life, collapsing back inside the dragon’s mouth in a shaking heap, sobbing quietly as the storm rages on.
By nightfall, the sea finally calms. Enough that you no longer have to worry about falling in but now fear falling asleep so deeply you don’t realize that you do. For safety you add another knot in the rope, this one linking under the tongue of the dragon and around your waist.
Stars peek through torn clouds as the ship settles into a gentle, exhausted sway. Absent-mindedly you begin to chart them in your head, trying to get a better sense of direction. To try and make out where you may be going. It’s sad that you were never as good at it as your father. He would know what to do right now. There’s nothing you wish more than to hear him whispering pointers to you, walking through everything step by step. It’ll never happen again, but a part of you likes to hope. To dream.
Footsteps approach. Careful. Quiet.
“They still in there?”
Another voice murmurs, “Go check.”
A shadow leans into the dragon’s mouth, candlelight flickering above.
A face appears.
“Hey, uh, you alive in-”
Your foot shoots out, smashing into his face with all the remaining strength you have left.
The man yelps as he stumbles backward, arms flailing uselessly as he drops. The splash of water is followed by a beat of silence, a respectful pause, before laughter breaks out, explosive and uncontrollable.
“Did you see that?”
“She kicked him! And after being beat half to death by that storm!”
A moment later a soaked, sputtering pirate hauls himself back up the side of the ship, coughing and laughing along with his crewmates. Even he’s grinning as he takes their jeers in stride.
Beckman, watching from the shadows, exhales slowly, half amused, half amazed. His mind drifts to you in the figurehead, trying to imagine what it’s like. Bruised and broken, exhausted from your struggle yet still fighting with every bone in your body. Still surviving despite everything. As much of a ruckus as you’ve caused he can’t help but admire your grit.
That night, while everyone sleeps and the wood creaks, you fail to notice an approaching figure, too half out of it to even care, head lolling back and forth with the waves, eyes fixed on the sky above.
There’s a shift of movement that has you tensing, only to pause as a shadow is dropped down, the wind blowing it back into your hiding spot before you can react.
It's fabric. Not the soaked, freezing kind that you wear. Instead it's warm, thick, blocking the chill of the night. Despite yourself, you soon find it wrapped around your shoulders, cocooning you like a hug. Something you so desperately needed. One you would have gladly taken from your mother, bracing against the sweet perfume she insisted on using to apparently emulate a candy shop. A scent you would do anything to inhale greedily once again rather than damp wood and regret.
______________________________
No one on the ship can quite believe it. A week spent curled inside the dragon’s mouth. Seven days of salt, wind, hunger, and pain. Of stubborn, silent refusal.
By the fifth day, the crew’s betting on when you’ll come out slows.
By the sixth, they start worrying.
By the seventh, Beckman takes over.
He approaches slowly, steps loud and announcing as he walks, rifle left behind. He wasn’t worried about needing it. Last time had been pure luck and his own foolish overconfidence, and you were in no better condition at this point.
“Hey.” he calls out, standing a few feet from the figurehead.
No answer.
He takes it as an invitation, walking further out, feeling the gazes of the others on his back to which he pointedly ignores them. In his hand he carries a cinched bag, some scraps from breakfast tossed inside. He had hardly been able to stomach his own that morning after the latest mention of you from the night lookout proved no movement. It shouldn’t have bothered him so much. He had seen plenty of people die. Been the cause of many deaths. Yet the thought of yours set him on edge for a reason he couldn't quite grasp. One that he didn't want to dig any deeper into.
“I’ve got some food here for you. Don’t bite me.”
Carefully, he lowers a small bundle tied to a rope. A water skin. Dried meat and bread with just a bit of honey smear on top and toasted in the oven. He could have tossed in some dried fruit, but that would have to be an earned reward.
It swings gently in the air with the wind like bait on a rope, ready to drag in whatever bites. You don’t reach for it.
Beckman exhales through his nose, brows pinched. Figures.
“The Marines weren’t generous with rations,” he says calmly, voice low and steady. “I know that. You must be pretty hungry.”
Still nothing. He softens his tone to the ones he would use when tempting the alley cats in the docks they’d find themselves in. The only rational company he could find sometimes.
“You come out of there, and we’ll get you looked at. I promise our doc, Hongo, doesn’t bite.” He pauses before adding, “Much.”
Silence. The food remains untouched, still hanging. Beckman hesitates. Then, slowly, he steps closer.
“Alright,” he mutters. “I’m gonna take a look. No sudden moves, yeah?”
He crouches carefully, like he’s approaching a wounded animal. Well, he thinks to himself, it’s not too far off.
He bends down, peering between teeth and the figurehead’s shadow just enough to see inside, prepared for claws and teeth, maybe another kick. The only upside to this position is that you can’t reach his groin, still a bit sore from your last meeting as a phantom pain runs through him.
Beckman hadn’t gotten the best look at you in your initial run through the ship, hardly standing still and the low light of the setting sun casting shadows. He had expected to find you crouched and growling, eyes wild and ready to strike, huddled into your hiding space like an animal with nowhere to go. Cuts and bruises are to be expected, a little worse for wear as you brave the elements and in your own scuffle.
What he finds is worse, eyes widening at the sight before him as his breath stutters.
The inside of the dragon’s mouth is stained dark. Old, dried blood mixing with flecks of newer crimson, smeared along the carved wood like the beast has actually swallowed you whole. Almost as if it’s been feeding on you. Your back is pressed against the curve of the carving as far back into the mouth as you can get, knees pulled to your chest, arms wrapped loosely around yourself.
You look beaten. Empty.
The makeshift bandage around your shoulder where Yasopp’s shot clipped you is soaked through, fabric dark and stiff with old blood. You tried to treat it yourself. Or at least the best you could in the situation.
His coat is the only thing that looks relatively unharmed, but even then a few blooms of red soak into the fabric, wounds reopening each time the ship hits a rough wave and your body adjusts with it, scabs cracking and splitting at the action.
Your cheeks are hollow, skin dry and lips cracked to the point they bleed. They’re a sickly shade of blue, standing out that much more against the skin that hadn’t looked much better the last time he saw you. Blood cakes the entire side of your face where it hasn’t been washed away and he notes a missing chunk in your upper lobe.
Your eyes lift slowly to meet his. They’re dull, ringed with dark, heavy shadows. No fire or defiance that had been there just a week ago, gazing at him in a way that had sent chills down his spine. Just exhaustion. Like every ounce of energy has been wrung out of you and what remains left to hang.
Your wrists are worse. They look raw even from where he stands, bruises lining the skin that’s not red or split open. Even with strips of fabric stuffed beneath the cuffs the metal has eaten into your skin. Dried blood cakes your hands making it look as if you’re wearing gloves of red.
You don’t move, barely even breathe as he notes the shallow rise and fall of your chest. You just look at him. And that somehow hits harder than any kick ever could. It would have been more of a comfort if he had to dodge a rouge fist, even if you had spit at him. But your mouth is dry despite the water that surrounds you, tasting of chalk and copper.
Beckman’s jaw tightens.
“Shit.”
He straightens slightly, keeping his voice low, almost a whisper.
“Hey. You’re starving.”
No denial.
“You need food,” he continues. “Water. Real rest.”
Nothing.
“You can’t stay in there.”
Your gaze flickers to the dangling bundle he holds out, then back to him. The scent of warm bread and honey has begun to leak out into the air, drawing like a siren’s call.
A part of him wonders if you could even open the drawstrings with the way your body trembles. Slowly, he opens the bag and draws out a piece of bread. You scooch further back as his hand approaches, eyes wary as he sets it down just before your feet. He leans back, pulling himself back up top and leaving you with just the food.
It’s a trap. That’s what your instincts tell you. That he’s waiting just beyond the edge ready to swipe you up at a moment's notice. But you were so hungry. Teeth marks littered the wood around you, half convinced you would be able to satiate your hunger with the meager scraps you could get from it. You only succeeded in making your mouth bleed from the splinters.
You hesitate, listening for the faintest sound of his presence, before warily snatching the morsel as hunger wins over logic. The bread is warm and soft, sticky with honey that glistens in the light, baked to a perfect golden hue. It still holds the warmth of the oven.
Your fingers tremble as you hold it. From either hunger of nerves you don’t know. For a second you just stare at it, not quite convinced it’s real. Many times before now you had imagined such food only to wake up before you could even sink your teeth in, nothing but a dream that left you hungry and wanting.
Your stomach twists painfully. It’s been so long since you’ve smelled anything like this. Had bread that was stale and needed to be softened with saliva just to be chewable.
You take a tiny bite. Barely more than a nibble, teeth sinking into the crust and are immediately rewarded with an explosion of flavor.
Sweet. So sweet it hurts and threatens to lock your jaw. Your eyes widen as you breathe out a shaky, broken sound. Something between a laugh and a sob as your mouth fills with saliva.
You chew slowly, each bite feeling unreal. Your hands start shaking harder so you take another bite to distract yourself. A little bigger this time.
Crumbs fall onto your lap as honey drips down your fingers. You don’t care, licking it off in desperation not to waste a single drop even if the flavor is tinged by dirt and blood, the sweetness singing on your tongue above all else.
Tears blur your vision before you even realize they’re coming, sliding down your cheeks and dripping onto the bread. You try to stop but can’t focus on both stemming their flow and eating, choosing the latter.
Above you Beckman doesn’t say a word. He simply sits letting you eat in peace. By the time you finish your fingers are sticky, lips are glossy with honey, breathing a bit more even. You stare at your empty hands, craving more so much it physically hurts, the bite doing little more than fan the fuel of hunger.
Your dignity screams at you even as your lips move. Feeling like a dog begging for scraps at the table.
“More?” you whisper, barely audible even to your own ears and coming out as more of a croak than anything, throat sore from how long it’s been since you’ve voluntarily spoken.
Even with its shaky tone Beckman is nearly knocked back when he hears it, curling around the cracks of his mind and prompting him to follow your question as if it’s a command, already reaching for it.
“Yeah,” he says gently, uncharacteristic. “There’s more.”
Slowly but surely he feeds you the rest of the contents, watching you consume them ravenously. When that’s done he passes the water skin to which you gulp down in only a few mouthfuls. Whipping your face, your eyes flick to the bag, tongue darting out to clean up the crumbs around your lips.
He notices, seizing the chance.
“I’ll give you more,” he says. “Better stuff. Warm food. Whatever you want if we have it.”
You swallow, still wary.
“No one touches you. Not unless you hit first that is.” he promises, a condition proposed for both your benefits. Thinking back, you hadn’t attacked until provoked, and he had a feeling you weren’t so quick to direct confrontation.
A long moment passes and Beckman thinks you might just curl back in on yourself and ignore him.
Then you shift. Just a little.
The cold is not forgiving, infiltrating the smallest of cracks and expanding them until they turn into something deeper and far more dangerous, destabilizing the entirety. At that moment, you feel yourself crack just a bit. Enough for your resistance to crumble. You had never truly experienced the cold before. Not like this, concocted by lashing layers of wind and water.
Your body trembles as you inch forward, movement slow and unsteady, like you’re afraid you’ll shatter if you go too fast, legs trembling as you bring them underneath you.
Beckman reaches out instinctively, pausing just before he reaches you. He leaves his hand hanging there, an open invitation.
You hesitate for just a moment, your mother’s warning ringing in your mind once again before throwing all caution to the wind. Your fingers barely manage to brush his before your legs give out, tilting forward. He catches you easily, large hand wrapping around your forearm and steadying you.
You’re light. Too light.
He frowns as there’s a bit of resistance, spotting the rope keeping you in place with knots he recognizes both the shape and quality of. With his free hand he grips the rope tied to your cuffs and waist, snapping them effortlessly. Almost like they were never there at all. A part of you almost laughs.
A week of clinging to that stupid rope and he breaks it with one hand.
Beckman shifts you carefully, brows furrowing at the way you whimper when he pulls you up, knowing there’s more injuries than what he’s seeing.
For the first time since the Marines took you, you don’t fight. Instead you simply sigh, leaning into his side as your feet touch something solid for the first time in days. The deck is anything but dry land but it's stable enough to give you the confidence to take one shaky step after another, eyes fixed firmly on the ground before you. The coat, still wrapped around your shoulders, provides you a bit more decency than the tattered fabric you wear as it drags behind you, length fitting of a much taller person.
You look up and take in his face properly for the first time.
There’s deep lines under his eyes, which are dark like a rolling storm as he stares straight ahead. Black hair is flecked with grey at the temples telling of his age, or maybe stress. The sun catches his face nicely giving him a warm glow of someone in good health. His gait is smooth and even, hardly a jostle as he helps you along, one hand on your waist and the other holding your elbow as you hobble along. He would have been tempted to pick you up if he didn’t think you would try to squirm away.
He’s warm like the sun in a way that has you seeking him out, leaning just a bit more into him. The warm rays hadn’t been able to reach you so far back in the mouth, only getting a few of the last streams as the sun hung low on the horizon. Sometime on the fourth day the cold had morphed from pain to a consuming numbness, a reflection of your inner turmoil. He feels nice even as his hand brushes your ribs in a way that has you flinching, but even as you walk you remain wary, knowing a flame can burn just as easily as warm.
Beckman walks back across the main deck, ignoring the looks of the others. Shanks stares from the second deck, a wide grin on his face.
“That’s a man Beckman.”
He only huffs, knowing Shanks would want to speak with you. Before then, you needed a bit of care to properly even think about anything else.
Nobody would describe Beckman as anything even remotely adjacent to soft, yet it's the only way to explain his actions as he walks at your pace, taking half steps. He’s a pirate. Far from a gentleman. But Shanks is right in that you are not a threat to them in your current state, and to treat you with anything but a softened touch might truly break you. His mind drifts back to the alley cats, remembering how they would fight tooth and nail against anything they perceived as a threat. You only had to learn the right approach and they would allow you to pet them.
Food was always a good start.