Chapter Text
The desire to take back the letter she wrote for Zoro from Mihawk is truly nothing more than a poetic way to describe her need for freedom and adventure. Kuma, having taken her at her word of wanting the letter back at all costs, sends her straight into the World’s Strongest Swordsman’s lap, who just so happens to be in a meeting with some of the strongest people in the world.
There’s a saying she’d like to make about frying pans and fire—or was it wishes? —but as unblinking yellow eyes bore into hers with the intensity of death itself, she’s lucky to even remember her name.
The others in the room—Admirals and Warlords, she’ll realize later—rise out of their seats and instinct kicks in.
She twists in Mihawk’s lap, aims for pale skin, and strikes.
In retrospect, her instincts can’t always be helpful.
The city of Nobles: Mary Geoise. For most people, the name is spoken with fear. It is a place of slavery and misery for anyone not calling themselves a Celestial Dragon. She has no idea why a man like Dracule Mihawk is in such a place, but she doubts she’ll get an answer. Quite frankly, she’s lucky that the Marine in charge of her is nice enough to answer most of her should-be-obvious questions. Though perhaps the white marble and gold trim ought to have been a clue.
To say that this is not how she expected a trip to the Holy Land to go is an understatement.
“I can’t believe you bit the Hawk-Eyes!” The Marine holding a rifle to her back exclaims in awe.
“If I’m going to die, I might as well go out with style.” She shrugs, and the chains around her wrists clank with her movements.
It’s a bit of a lie. No thinking had been involved in the gnawing of the World’s Strongest Swordsman, but if that is what’s going on her tombstone, who is she to say otherwise.
“You bit him on the tit!” The Marine insists with a manic giggle.
“He will never forget me,” she says somberly.
The bite is an odd accomplishment to be proud of. Mihawk’s pecs are hard as stone, and her teeth still ache even now. And yet—
It’s incredibly satisfying to have left a mark on the best swordsman the world has to offer before he could even move. She wonders if Mihawk will be able to look his fellow Warlords in the eyes. Maybe he’ll finally put a shirt on to hide it.
Ha!
She’s led to a room where a female Marine strips her of her clothes, her sword, and her dignity. Every place that could hide a weapon, a tool, or even a hairband is searched thoroughly. It is humiliating, and her attempts at meditation are useless against fingers poking at spots that shouldn’t be poked.
She maintains a silent disposition, behaving until a white cloth is finally thrown over her. Though her wrists remain shackled, the loose strings hanging off the white cloth are tied together around her until a bastardized kimono emerges from the mess.
The female Marine holds out a pair of socks made from the same scratchy material, and she steps into each one as they are held open for her. She can’t help but see them as a pair of shackles snapping over her ankles.
When she’s given back to the Marine who guarded her earlier, his rifle is nowhere to be found. Instead, he grabs her gently by the arm like he’s escorting her to dinner.
“Your sentence has been decided,” he tells her without a hint of his earlier emotion. “The fleet admiral will see you in Room L12.”
Room L12, it turns out, is a small room that looks like it’s been decorated by someone who only vaguely recalls what a courtroom looks like. There’s a pedestal in the center of the room surrounded by benches and overseen by a massive chair that looks like it ate a table.
The firm hand on her arm gently drags her onto the pedestal, so the fleet admiral can deliver his judgement from above. His height and bulging muscles do most of the looming for him.
Honestly, the man looking down at her through thick rimmed glasses makes the massive chair he sits in look small. She fights back the urge to tell him to get a bigger chair for his big butt. No need to antagonize anyone just yet.
“Kuina of Shimotsuki Island of East Blue,” the man begins, and the absurdity of his long, braided beard makes it hard for her to concentrate on what’s being said. “You are hereby sentenced to execution.”
She blinks. Wait, hereby to what—
The fleet admiral taps the open book in front of him like she should know what’s written on it.
“For impersonating an officer, consorting with pirates, interfering with World Government operations and obstruction of justice, fraud, murder of a Marine ally, trespassing, destruction of Marine property, assault on a Marine ally, resisting arrest, and disturbing the peace. Have you anything to say to these charges?” The fleet admiral asks coolly.
Execution. To be slaughtered like an animal.
Part of her had been expecting to be imprisoned for life, and death is a better fate by far…but being on display for faceless Marines to look at and judge…to have made the resolve to be by Zoro’s side only for it to all end here…
She inhales.
“Yeah, I also killed a Marine Captain a few years ago. It was self-defense because he was trying to kill me for no reason, but I’m sure you don’t care about that.” She deadpans before saying innocently, “Also, you should get yourself a new chair before your big butt breaks it.”
She counts the sudden throbbing vein on the man’s forehead as a win.
Her new prison comes with a mattress and actual toilet paper. The temperature is neither too hot nor too cold. It’s so much better than her previous experience in Marine custody that it’s practically luxurious.
It’s not enough to cure the same sheer mind-numbing boredom though.
“Can I at least keep my doll? To comfort me in my last hours,” she asks with a slight widening of the eyes. She’s pretty sure her imitation of Nami is spot on, but all the Marine does is look away and scrunch up his nose.
“Is that the doll of Hawk-Eyes? The man you bit—”
“—on the tit, yes.”
“If there’s nothing wrong with it, it will be returned to you,” he says stiffly as she bats her eyes at him.
“Thank you,” she says, satisfied she’s done all she could to make her prison cell a little better. The Marine, the same one who’s been escorting her around the base, sighs at her as if she’s the one making his life more difficult.
“You know, you’re bad at being conniving, right?” He asks her. There’s a judgmental look on his face as he stares at her through the bars of her cell.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she lies.
Mini-Mihawk is slipped through the bars alongside her next meal. He’s exactly the same as always: yellow eyes glaring at the world and tiny sword on his back. It takes everything she has not to cackle like a lunatic once the doll is in her hands.
“If I had some paint, I would put a little bruise on you,” she tells it, “so you can match.”
The doll comforts her more than she cares to admit. The day of her execution doesn’t appear to be set in stone. She’s here for however long they want her to be, and there’s nothing she can do about it.
All she can do is sit and wait.
Turns out, she doesn’t have to wait long.
“They’re going to make your execution public to show not even being a Warlord’s partner can prevent the act of Justice.” The nice Marine tells her the very next day. “Instead of transferring you to Impel Down though, they’re keeping you here until the execution. It’ll be in Marineford—”
“Excuse me?” She interrupts, mind stuck on one point. “What did you mean by ‘partner?’”
The marine pauses from cleaning his rifle to give her an odd look.
“You are the girlfriend of the Warlord Dracule Mihawk, are you not?”
“No!” The word comes out like a shriek. It’s admittedly the highest pitch her voice has gone to in a while. But really—
What the hell.
“Ex-girlfriend then?” The Marine hums in sympathy. “Sorry to hear about that, but I suppose it’s understandable considering the situation.”
“Not even that! Are you crazy?” Breathe. Need to remember to breathe. “His girlfriend is that Tashigi lady.” She can recall that much, at least.
“Ensign Tashigi? The one you impersonated? She cleared those rumors up a long time ago. It was affecting her career,” the Marine says. “Everyone knows you’re the girlfriend. The one with the pink sword.”
It’s like being hit on the head with a brick. One that she should have seen coming at that. Pieces click into place, and it all makes so much sense. How long has this rumor been circulating?
Wait, did Zoro think that about her? Considering how he acted anytime she brought Mihawk up, well, probably so. And he still wants to date her?
Madness.
“But you bit him on the tit,” the Marine states.
“I did.” She nods.
“And he didn’t kill you?”
“I’m just as surprised as you are,” she admits.
“Huh.” The Marine puts his rifle on the desk he’s leaning against and takes a tiny notebook out of his pocket. “I’ll make a note of it.” There’s a quick scratch of pencil on paper.
She doesn’t see the point in remembering anything about a prisoner to be executed. Maybe it’s for her obituary, maybe it’s for the Marines to laugh about later. Still, there is one thing that’s bugging her.
“Why are you so nice to me?” she finally asks.
The Marine stares down at the notebook in his hands. Blond, curly hair hides whatever his cap does not. She can’t remember if his eyes are blue or green.
“You killed Gecko Moria,” he finally says.
“Yes?” Technically Kaito did, but no one would believe her if she tried to say as much.
“He killed my friend and used his corpse as puppet.” The notebook shakes even as the Marine’s voice remains steady.
“Oh.” She’s not entirely sure what to say to that. What does one say to murdering a friend’s murderer? “I think he’s in hell now,” she offers.
The nice Marine doesn’t say anything, but he puts the notebook back into his pocket with a razor-sharp smile.
The time spent in her cell is incredibly, infuriatingly boring. There’s no window to keep track of the sun, no room to pace or do her katas. There are only so many times she can play catch with Mini-Mihawk. She’s considered too dangerous to be given a book.
That’s why she doesn’t hesitate to bang on the bars of the cell to get her guard’s attention when the sound of hundreds of people stomping their feet and shouting manages to vibrate through the walls.
“What’s all the fuss about?” She asks.
“You don’t know?” The nice Marine looks at her in disbelief.
“Know what?”
“We’re executing one of Whitebeard’s men,” the nice Marine says slowly before stressing, “in Marineford.” At her blank stare, he adds, “Right after you, in fact. We’re hoping a few of the more stupid pirates will attack early, thinking it’s Fire-Fist.”
The Marine raises his eyebrows as she continues to stare at him blankly.
“Oh no,” she says once it finally clicks. They’re going to make a circus out of her death. It’s going to be an entire thing. The entire damn Marine force will be watching her head roll assuming Whitebeard doesn’t interrupt to complicate things.
Shit. There had better not be photographs.
The days go by slowly. So slowly it feels like torture in of itself. She should have told Kuma she wanted to go to a resort. Watching people waste their money on superficial things would be more interesting than this.
“You’re awfully calm for someone about to die in four days,” the nice Marine states. His face is black and blue and bloodied. The Marines are preparing for war, and their last-minute attempt at training reflects that.
“You’re awfully calm for someone with tissues up their nose,” she counters.
“Touché.”
They sit in comfortable silence. The Marine writes something in his small notebook, and she lightly meditates with Mini-Mihawk sitting in her lap. It feels almost like hanging out with a friend.
“I would have thought Hawk-Eyes would have said something about you by now,” the nice Marine admits, breaking the silence.
“Why is that?” She pokes Mini-Mihawk and pretends the real Mihawk can feel it. She makes sure to press hard on where she bruised him.
“Well, killing you is an obvious ploy to destroy some of his reputation,” the Marine says.
“Come again?” How does her death relate to Mihawk’s reputation?
“You might not be his girlfriend, but everyone else believes it. Not only is the World’s Strongest Swordsman letting his girlfriend die in front of him, but he’s actively participating with it on the World Government's orders,” he tells her matter-of-factly.
Huh.
That answers the question of why they’re going through the farce of a public execution.
“Somehow I don’t think he cares about looking weak to the public,” she says.
“He should if he wants the strongest people to challenge him. Can’t imagine too many kids will pick up swords and dreaming of being the best if that’s what it means either.”
And the thing is, he’s right.
Being the strongest is supposed to be a matter of pride, of accomplishment. Who would care about being the strongest swordsman if all the strength in the world means nothing. If it meant being a coward and letting a loved one die.
“You are oddly perceptive, aren’t you?” she realizes.
“More than you know,” the nice Marine says while glaring at Mini-Mihawk.
The nice Marine who favors her for killing Moria can’t always be the one to watch her. There are shifts, and those with a keen eye looking for anyone who sympathizes with the prisoner.
Unfortunately, a lot of the time that means she has to deal with Bug-eyes. Bug-eyes is a Marine with a nasty temper, who looks one minute away from having a stroke. She’s been making a game out of trying to trigger it.
“Where do you think we go when we die?” she asks airily.
“Suffer in silence, woman,” Bug-eyes snarls from where he’s stabbing a pen into a paper.
“Ha, you just don’t want to admit you don’t know either.”
“You’re about to find out! They’re gonna pop your head off, and you won’t have to wonder no more!” The bug-eyed marine spits.
She’s only been chattering for a couple of minutes, but Bug-eyes looks ready to froth at the mouth. How delightful.
“Well, I’ll tell you what I think. We reincarnate into strange, new worlds and wonder if we’re the crazy ones or if everyone else is.” She presses Mini-Mihawk to the bars to stare at Bug-eyes. She stage-whispers to the doll, “And the answer is, of course, everyone else.”
“Would you shut up already?” Bug-eyes screams, throwing his beer at the bars separating them. Mini-Mihawk is saved from the foul liquid, but her fake kimono is not. “Why the hell hasn’t anyone taken that stupid doll from you?”
“You would deprive a man of their comfort in their last hours?” she gasps, clutching Mini-Mihawk to her.
“I would if you were a man! Definitely!” Bug-eyes roars, slamming his hands onto the desk he’s sitting at.
“Rude.” And sexist.
“I don’t want to hear it, you crazy bitch!”
And oh, he’s unnerved by Mini-Mihawk. How marvelous. She makes sure to shake the doll at him some more while her mouth runs.
“You’re just jealous of my amazing craftsmanship. And my manliness. And that I have a bigger pen—”
“That’s it!” Bug-eyes’ chair goes flying.
For the first time in days, excitement races through her veins as the Marine stomps towards her. Unfortunately, a higher-ranked officer chooses this moment to show his face.
“Enough! Go change rotations with Loche.” The new Marine guard glares at her with enough heat to melt ice. “You can’t trick him into opening the cell. Not with me around.”
“Maybe so, but at least it was entertaining,” she says honestly. She holds her doll up to her face already bored with her new audience. “Isn’t that right, Mini-Mihawk?”
“I said enough, woman.”
She pretends Mini-Mihawk is throwing her guard the middle finger. It makes her smile just a little bit.
“Did he know you made that?” The Marine sneers at Mini-Mihawk as if the doll alone is reason enough to be executed.
“Not yet.” It comes out as both a threat and a promise.
The nice Marine shows up with a set of keys and an entourage. A set of shiny new shackles practically sparkle in the light.
“It’s time,” he says solemnly.
She smiles and tucks Mini-Mihawk into the crook of her arm.
“So it is.”