Chapter Text
At some point Mihawk finally lets her go, crosses his arms, tips his head back, and closes his eyes. The silence on the Coffin Boat becomes softer, his unspoken questions dying behind his lips as he dozes, maybe even sleeps, and leaves Perona to sort herself out in the closest thing to solitude a little ship like his can offer.
Breathing deeply, Perona lets her shoulders slump forward, her legs stretched out in front of her and her palms pressed flat to the polished black wood of the deck. Her head still feels fuzzy with too much magic, her vision too clear as watches the moonlight play over the black waves that stretch endlessly before their ship. She must look better than she feels, if Mihawk’s comfortable enough to rest, so she does her best not to give in to the urges to leave her body behind on the deck and do something dramatic just because she can. Some point soon, she’ll have to use some of this power she’s siphoned off for herself, lest she start having some truly horrific dreams – but she can hold off for now, aware enough of the dangers of the water to focus on her breathing and try to settle herself with smaller, less calamitous exercises.
Flexing her Haki, she pushes outward, past the edges of the Coffin Boat and beyond. There are fish swimming just below the surface, ugly, malformed creatures that flee her presence as it expands below the water, and a transponder snail tucked below deck that Perona never noticed before, the skin around its left eye puckered with three thin, old scars. Behind her, she can track Mihawk’s every breath, his heartbeat slow and strong enough for her to feel in her chest when she takes a moment to listen to it.
… Okay, yeah. If she’s honest, she takes more than a moment. Even as her bubble of haki continues to expand, she looks at him without looking at him, her senses tracking the way the breeze tugs at his beard and the collar of his jacket, the way his shirt shifts as his lungs expand and contract, the way he twitches like he can feel her looking, the steady thump, thump, thump unchanging even when he cracks a curious eye to peer questioningly at the back of her head.
Perona moves on, ignoring his apparent wakefulness. Seabirds circle a bloated whale corpse a few hundred yards east of their position, shrieking their joy for the evening – or is it morning? – meal. A pod of dolphins leap between the waves a little over eight hundred yards away, squealing warnings as a ship cuts smoothly through the water another fifty yards out.
She inhales sharply.
Is that – are those marines?
“Do you sense it?”
Mihawk hasn’t moved from his seat, his lips hardly moving to shape his question. Both of his eyes are open now, narrowed curiously as they fixate entirely on her.
“Yes,” she admits, turning her head in the direction of the ship. “Are they heading for the island, do you think?”
“Perhaps,” Mihawk agrees. “Tell me about the ship.”
Perona nods, pouring more power into her Sight as she zeroes in on the deck. A handful of men in uniform are littered across the deck, armed and busy with the tasks typical of a ship as large as this one. Speaking of –
“I think it’s some sort of transport,” she says after a moment.
“Yes,” Mihawk agrees, rising from his chair. “What else?”
Perona frowns, brow furrowing as she looks harder.
“I… “ Her frown deepens. “I count – I count six men on the deck, but that doesn’t make sense, does it?”
Mihawk makes a noise in the back of his throat, an approving little hum that lights up the little part of her brain that’s still the studious little girl that first caught her father’s eye.
“Marine transports require a minimum of two night watchmen depending on the class of the ship,” he tells her, moving soundlessly to kneel beside her. “Based on its size and sails, I’d say it’s a Cargo Class – a supply ship, typically managed by a crew of ten to twelve men.”
Perona chews at the inside of her cheek, thinking.
“That means they have half of their crew keeping watch,” she says slowly. “Which means they’re carrying something more important than any old supplies.”
“If they continue their course, they’ll be at Pirates’ Bane by tomorrow morning,” Mihawk remarks. “Or, where it was.”
Perona stills.
“You think there’s prisoners?” she asks, and Mihawk shrugs.
“You tell me,” he says. “You see the men on deck so clearly – but what about the others?”
Perona is familiar with the concept of seeing through walls. It had come pretty naturally to her following the consumption of her Devil Fruit, her Observational talent bolstered by ghostly nature. That said, she’s never actually tried doing it at this distance – she’s never had the opportunity, considering her father never let her truly eat her fill when she still maintained the balance on Thriller Bark.
The ship is lined with seastone that scrapes across her senses when she turns her gaze to the lower decks, sending a shiver down her spine as she turns her face to the east. She cranes her neck like it’ll help her see, teeth clenched as she mentally widens the funnel through which her power flows, sharpening her Sight until she can count the grains in the wood that lines the bowels of the little marine ship. She pours her senses into the belly of the boat, flooding it with her presence until she feels the familiar points of heat that typically indicated a living soul. Even with the distance, the process is similar to the exercises Mihawk would occasionally have her do on Kuraigana, except –
“What’s wrong, Ghost Girl?”
Perona turns blindly to Mihawk, her gaze still fixed on the ship in the distance even as she faces in the opposite direction.
“You can see them too, can’t you?”
Mihawk shifts closer, eyes searching.
“They have prisoners,” he acknowledges. “But that’s not what you’re asking.”
Perona shakes her head, rocking back nervously.
“There’s kids on that ship,” she says. “Just like Zoro said.”
“... How do you know?” he asks, expression unreadable. “What is it about them that you See?”
“I – I’m not looking at them directly,” Perona admits. “But I can sense them on the ship. Their presence is… I don’t know. They feel young.”
Mihawk is quiet, lips pinching as he thinks.
“What do you mean, you’re not looking at them directly?”
Perona stifles a sigh.
“I’ve always been good at haki,” she says, centering her senses in the lowest levels of the ship, wading towards the pulse of young, fresh life. “My Observation has always been my best, but with my ghosts it’s even better.”
“So you’ve always been able to See at such great distances?” Mihawk asks, and Perona shrugs.
“It’s hard,” she admits. “If not for Pirates’ Bane, it would be way harder – I’ve got a lot of fuel to burn, now.”
“... Another thing to be explained, then?”
Perona smiles faintly. He looks a little frustrated – or, he would, if he were anybody else.
“Sorry,” she says, shrugging again. “I didn’t think you were all that interested in the occult… “ she trails off, eyes narrowing.
“What do you see?” Mihawk says.
“A – a cage.” It’s dark though – Perona doesn’t know how, considering how she’s not exactly using her eyes to See. “I think they’ve done something to it – I can’t see inside, not properly.”
“Is that where the children are?”
“Uh-huh.” Perona’s sure of it. “I can hear them.”
There’s a pause, followed by a small, irritated sigh.
“Ghost Girl, you really are ridiculous.”
Indignant, Perona opens her mouth to complain, only to snap it shut again as lights flicker and a set of tiny, filthy fingers find a thick, iron bar.
“Perona?”
“Are we going to do something about them?” She asks as a face presses itself to the bars just above where the fingers rest on the rough metal, revealing just a sliver of skin and a large, bloodshot eye.
Mihawk hums, watching her carefully.
“We could,” he says, shrugging. “We’re far enough away that their lookouts haven’t spotted us, and the Coffin Boat would easily outpace a ship of that size.”
Perona’s stomach clenches, her teeth grinding as she tries to keep her expression neutral.
“We can’t just leave them,” she says slowly, unwilling to take her attention away from the eye in the cage. “For all we know, they might just toss them overboard when they realize the island’s gone.”
“Or it’s a trap,” Mihawk points out. “And they hope to capture whoever it was that sank the island in the first place.”
“Are you saying they could capture you?”
Silence.
“That’s what I thought.” Not that they could catch her either, overpowered as she currently is, but that’s not the point. She’s on Mihawk’s boat, and unlike the Coffin Boat’s captain, she doesn’t have an Eternal Pose to guide her. “Those marines are nothing to you. You’d rip through them like straw.”
“But what if I don’t want to?” he asks mildly. He looks genuinely curious.
Perona scowls.
“Than I’ll fucking do it,” she says darkly. “Either way, I’m not putting up with Zoro’s bitch face when he finds out we let a bunch of kids die.”
“A bunch?” Mihawk repeats, and she can hear the way he cocks his eyebrow. “You do realize this isn’t a passenger ship.”
“Then I’ll take the damn cargo ship,” Perona snaps, tired of the conversation. “Yes or no, Mihawk?”
More silence, contemplative, this time. Perona allows it for about a minute, then huffs, breaking it.
“If you don’t want to get involved, that’s fine,” she says. “Like I said, I’ll do it myself.”
“Oh?” He’s intrigued, now – and more than a little condescending. “So you really think you could?”
Oh, he’s being a dick now, is he?
“I know your idea of strength is different from mine,” she bites out. “But I was a commander under Master Moria.”
Mihawk makes a little noise, acknowledging her point – wait. What?
“You were,” he agrees. “But you also have had a rather trying day, if I’m remembering the last few hours correctly.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re shaking,” Mihawk points out. “And you have been since I pulled you out of the water.”
Really? Perona hadn’t noticed.
“I’m just jittery,” she says, which is true. “I feel fine.”
Also true! Physically, she’s fine – well, her stomach’s still a little iffy, but that’s normal. She’s just got too much energy, and holding it in is difficult.
“... Well, I suppose we’re not in any rush.” Mihawk relents with a long-suffering sigh that isn’t entirely genuine. “But be quick about it, Ghost Girl – and leave none of them alive.”
She smiles despite the unease roiling in her gut as she watches the hand drop from the bar and the eye retreat back into the dark. It’s a mean smile, one that seems to catch him off guard as her lips curl to reveal teeth she knows are a little too big, a little too sharp.
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that.”
*.*
Whatever it is, it isn’t human.
The realization comes only when they’re back on the ship, a pair of oversized hands keeping their captive in place as it screams in a strange, hissing language that makes Law want to jam a pen in his years. He can’t quite explain it, but now that he’s looking at it up close, it just… it looks wrong.
It’s the proportions – the arms are too long, the torso too short. Some of the fingers have extra joints, and the shoulders are crooked and pointed, as uneven as the gravestone teeth that shine in the orange lights of the Sunny as it shrieks its displeasure.
“It’s cold,” Robin murmurs, sounding fascinated and unsettled in equal parts. “Perhaps it’s a machine?”
“It isn’t.” Chester sounds certain, leaning around Robin’s legs to watch it struggle. Compared to the adults, he hardly seems bothered by the thing now, apparently feeling better now that it’s been captured. “Machines don’t have heartbeats, and they don’t breathe.”
Not necessarily, but Law doesn’t feel like saying as much.
“You seem more confident,” he says instead. “Has something changed?”
Chester hums, not quite looking away from his quarry.
“Miss Robin is really strong,” he says after a moment, sounding impressed. “How long do your extra hands last?”
“As long as I need them,” Robin answers. “The work is in making them bloom in the first place, when they’re this size.”
“Do they get tired like your regular hands?”
Robin smiles, her eyes on Law, now.
“No.” She looks back at their captive. “Why, do you think this will take very long?”
“Nah.” Chester rolls his shoulders, an odd, almost hungry look in his eye as he approaches the clown with slow, silent steps. “Just wondering.“
“Oi.” Twisting his grip on his sword, Law thumps the sheathed blade lightly against the boy’s chest, stopping him in his tracks. In turn, Chester startles, one hand rising reflexively to wrap around the sword even as his head twists up to level a confused frown at his father.
“Hm?”
“You haven’t told us what’s going on, yet,” Law says, and Chester’s frown deepens.
“That’s what I’m about to find out,” Chester says. He sounds confused, like he doesn’t understand what Law’s asking. “Like I said – there’s truth in blood.”
“Yeah, you said something about that,” Law agrees dryly. “More specifically, you said – Robin, what was the exact wording?”
“‘There’s truth to be found in blood,’” Robin repeats mildly, and Law nods.
“Yeah, that.” Chester blinks at him, uncomprehending. “I’m gonna need you to explain what that means, exactly.”
“... Oh.” Chester’s brow furrows, lips pursing thoughtfully. “Um, well – sorry, it’s kind of gross.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Law says, not unkindly. “Just explain.”
Chester hesitates, glancing uncertainly between Law and the clown still struggling against Robin’s fingers.
“Blood’s really important,” he says finally, eyes settling on Law’s shoulder as he speaks. “I guess you know that already ‘cause you’re a doctor, but it’s not just because you die if you lose too much of it or whatever. It’s… “ he stops, exasperation flashing across his childish face as he tries to find the words. “I don’t know. It picks up stuff. Personal stuff.”
“How do you mean?”
Chester shrugs.
“It’s everywhere,” he says. “In the body, I mean, it moves through every finger, every muscle, your heart, your brain… “ he trails off, shrugging again awkwardly. “It picks up stuff. And ‘cause I’m a Bloody Man, I can see what’s in the blood.”
Okay, that makes sense, sort of. Somehow, though, Law feels like he’s missing something.
“How fascinating,” Robin says, jerking Law out of his thoughts. “That sounds like a really handy kind of ability.”
“It can be,” Chester agrees, wrinkling his nose. “Sometimes I find out about stuff I don’t want to know about, though.”
“I can imagine,” Robin says. “You can tell these things by scent alone?”
Chester goes quiet, head ducking low.
“No,” he says. “That’s not how it works.”
Law is getting tired of this.
“So how does it work, then?” he asks, not quite able to keep the irritation out of his voice. “I assume you need a sample.”
Chester doesn’t flinch, his expression instead darkening as his gaze finally darts up to meet Law’s. The strange, hungry look is back again, tempered with an irritation of his own.
“Yeah,” he says, shoving at Kikoku pointedly. “I was gonna do that before you stopped me.”
“So what are you going to do, cut him?”
“Nah.” Chester looks back at the clown. Its screaming has subsided to quieter mutterings, drooling and spitting as its limbs twitch uncontrollably. “This is the gross part, though.”
Law opens his mouth to ask, but before he can, Chester is moving, clambering up Robin’s oversized fingers like a monkey. He doesn’t seem to care as the clown renews its efforts to break free, its eyes fixed on the blond boy as it snaps and snarls in his direction.
“Be careful, Chessie,” she warns him, conjuring more hands to try and more firmly pin the creature into place. “He’s a lot stronger than he looks.”
Chester nods as if he’s heard her, but Law can’t imagine he actually did, because the next thing he knows, there’s a loud crack as the back of Chester’s hand makes contact with a paint-smeared cheek.
“You be quiet,” he says, his little voice rising in the sudden, ringing silence of the ship. “Or I’ll give you something to scream about.”
In the distant recesses of his stunned mind, Law registers dimly that both the action and the words had to be learned from somewhere, possibly experienced by the kid now delivering them both to his quarry. Most of his brain, however, is stuck on the fact that of all the possible decisions, that was the one Chester made.
This kid is crazy. Holy fuck, this kid is insane . What the hell is Law supposed to do with that?
A small hand wraps around a broken antler, forcing the clown’s head back as Chester leans in to get a proper look at his face.
“Ugly bastard, aren’t you?” He speaks softly, dangerously, meeting the clown’s gaze squarely, and Law feels the small hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “Are you even human?”
The clown hisses, and Chester yanks on the antler, eyes narrowed.
“Hold still,” he orders, pressing its head firmly over the bend in Robin’s knuckle. “This’ll only take a second.”
The next few seconds are a blur, and Law means that literally. Chester moves so fast that his eyes can’t seem to keep up, stuck on fuzzy afterimages of the blond throwing his head back, his jaw unhinging like a snake’s, and then descending upon the clown’s filthy, bared throat.
It is, to put it plainly, terrifying. Inhuman in a way that makes Law’s stomach bottom out and his knees go weak as Chester tilts his head just so and gives Law a perfect line of sight to the blood pooling at the corners of his mouth, the way the creature’s pulse seems to be trying to hammer itself free of the skin that holds it. He feels – like he should run? Should he run? Should he – ah. This must be part of why Chester was so shy about his abilities.
Forcing himself to breathe, Law straightens his back and squares his shoulders. The clown isn’t fighting so hard anymore, shock and blood loss making its thrashing weaker, clumsier. Is Chester going to kill him? They’re probably going to have to have a talk if he kills him. Actually, they probably should have a talk anyway –
With a ragged gasp, Chester finally pulls away, sliding down Robin’s fingers to land lightly on his feet. There’s blood on his face, his chin and cheeks smeared with shades of wet, muddy red and his pupils are blown wide and shiny black.
“There’s a dead guy floating in the harbor somewhere,” he says, smacking his lips as he looks between them. “I think we were supposed to be next.”
For a long beat, there’s silence.
“... Well, I suppose the issue’s resolved, then.” Robin glances at Law, then at the clown, studying it thoughtfully before her grip on the thing tightens. With a whimper and a crackle of breaking bone, it dies, dropping limply to the floor as the hands that held it fade away, leaving only more silence.
Chester doesn’t seem all that surprised.
“Sorry,” he says, shoulders slumping as he begins to wipe at his mouth with a sleeve. “It’s creepy, I know.”
“Probably not the right word,” Law says, finally shaking himself fully out of his stupor and reaching for a handkerchief. “What else did you learn?”
“He’s not a Beast Pirate,” Chester replies dutifully, going still when Law tugs the handkerchief free of his back pocket and offers it to him. “I don’t think he’s technically human, either – he seemed really old.”
“What’s that mean?”
Chester shrugs, accepting the handkerchief with a little nod.
“It’s a taste thing,” he says, wiping his face as best he can. “Kind of like an open cola that’s been left on the counter overnight.”
“So you’re the one that’s been pilfering out of Franky’s stash,” Robin says knowingly. “I’ve been wondering about that.”
Chester goes pink, but Law bulldozes any apologies that he intends to give right at that moment.
“What else have you learned?” he asks. “A name, an affiliation? Was he a local?”
Chester hums.
“He was local,” he says after a moment. “He never left the island. His name… “ His brow furrows. “Jack?”
“Just Jack? No last name?”
Slowly, Chester shakes his head.
“It wasn’t a proper name,” he says. “More like a nickname, or – maybe he was a performer? Jack of Straw isn’t like, a famous comedian or something, right?”
Robin chokes.
“What?” Law asks sharply, turning to her. “You know them?”
“No,” she says, her eyes wide as she looks between the clown and the boy. “Not personally, but – Mr. Penn, during his talks. He mentioned a local spirit by that name.”
“A – a spirit?” Law repeats.
Robin nods, looking torn between fascination and mounting worry.
“The Jack of Straw was a child killer, discovered by the town and strung up to die in a corn field to the north of the village,” she tells him. “They gutted him and stuffed his belly with hay, then left him in the field to die. The story is that he still haunts those fields, looking for vengeance against the mob that let him scream until he finally bled out.” She pauses. “You said you smelled the blood first, right, Chessie?”
“You just killed a ghost,” Chester says dumbly, looking like the child he actually is for the first time since they stepped back on the ship. “Holy shit.”
“Hey, don’t get ahead of yourself,” Law says sharply, frowning at Robin. “He could just be a regular freak.”
“He could,” Robin agrees, amused. “Regardless, it seems the trouble is handled. Shall we go back to the festiv – “
Robin stops mid-word, eyes widening in surprise.
“Robin-ya?” Law asks.
“He’s gone,” she says, and Law blinks, eyes darting over to the bloodstained but otherwise empty deck just over Chester’s shoulder.
Fuck.
“Wait,” Chester says slowly. “The festival. Wasn’t – wasn’t there a sign saying something about the rides all being in the North End?”
“You mean where we spent the last hour and a half?” Robin asks, sounding far more thrilled than Law thinks is appropriate. “Yes, there was something written on the archway – I think you’re right.”
She looks at Law, and Law looks back. They can’t be serious, can they?
“I think we have a problem,” she says, because of course she does. “We need to get the others.”
“... An early night might be for the best,” Law agrees grudgingly, because regardless, that thing was obviously dangerous, and they did piss it off. “But how are we going to track everyone down?”
Robin smiles.
“Leave it to me,” she says, waving a hand at him before turning to look at Chester. “Would you like to clean up, Chester?”
The boy nods, the worst of the mess already mopped up with Law’s thoroughly ruined handkerchief.
“Yeah, okay. I’ll stay behind,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes, and Robin chuckles.
“I’m sure Law will keep you company,” she says pointedly. “Right, Law?”
Law doesn’t want to babysit. However, the idea of dragging the kid back into the festival to go looking for the rest of the Strawhats doesn’t seem particularly appealing, either, and Robin will certainly find her own crew quicker than Law would.
“Yeah, sure,” he grunts. “Go find your captain.”
Robin dips her head, then turns to Chester once again.
“When we get a moment, I’d very much like to hear more about your abilities,” she tells him. “If you’d be willing.”
“Really?” he asks, surprised. “You’re not freaked out?”
Robin shrugs.
“You have a very unique Devil Fruit,” she says. “And I’d like to know more about it.”
Chester studies her face, eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
“Weird,” he says, more to himself than to Robin. Louder, he says, “yeah, okay. If you want.”
“I do,” Robin confirms, reaching out to ruffle his hair lightly. “Go clean up. I’ll be back soon.”
Chester nods agreeably, ducking away from her hand and making his way for the stairs without another word and leaving the adults alone.
For a long minute, they just stay quiet.
“... Do you seriously think there’s a murderous ghost wandering around the island?” he asks, arching a disbelieving eyebrow in Robin’s direction. “I thought you were the scientist on this crew.”
Robin chuckles.
“We’re on the Grand Line,” she says, like that explains everything. “It’s good to keep an open mind.”
She bids him a quiet goodbye after that, disappearing back into the village with a flurry of bright blue eyes winking in and out of existence and leaving him alone with – with his son.
It’s still weird to think about. Unlike the Strawhats, who all individually seem to have some talent in handling children, Law doesn’t really have any experience. He supposes he’s lucky in that Chester seems like a pretty calm, mature kid for his age – probably a little too calm, considering how unafraid he seemed since the beginning of this little clusterfuck. Even before Robin had grabbed the horned clown, he didn’t actually seem all that scared, just… wary.
It’s obvious to Law the kid’s lived a tough life, even before the marines got involved. Devil Fruit aside, gore and death doesn’t seem to bother him at all, though he does have enough sense of right and wrong to object to a killer in their midst. Law will have to probe a little deeper to see how deep those morals go, but at least for now he doesn’t think he’s got to worry the way Chester seemed to assume they would. Law supposes it makes sense, in a sad sort of way; stories of vampirism are told on all islands, and blood drinking is a lot closer to cannibalism than most people are comfortable with, leading to a Devil Fruit user like Chester becoming hesitant to use their abilities in front of others.
But, like Law said, he’s the Surgeon of Death. Is it a little unnerving that Chester has such a macabre Devil Fruit before hitting double digits? Yeah, but it’s not like it’s his fault; Law can adapt. Besides, like he said, Chester’s a calm kid, the type that Law suspects can be reasoned with. Considering what he’s seen of Brizo and Heron’s decision-making skills, he probably got off light as far as troublemaking brats go.
Everything will be fine. Law isn’t an idiot, and Chester doesn’t seem like one either. He made the right call with the clown, at least, and he told them what was up without too much trouble. All they have to do now is survive the next hour in each other’s company, and the rest – the rest can get figured out later.
Law’s not worried about it.
*.*
The Coffin Boat cuts a path through unmoving, uniformed bodies to the crewless marine vessel bobbing freely on the water, its sails shredded and its flag unceremoniously dumped into the water along with the men who’d served under it.
As far as Mihawk can tell, the marines show no signs of a fight. There’s no blood in the water, no tears in their shirts or bruises dappling what little visible skin he can see. Obviously, Perona has been holding out on him if this is the sort of havoc she can wreak – the only question is whether this is a Devil Fruit ability, or the result of whatever strangeness she got into on that cursed island.
Surprisingly, she is not waiting to greet him when he steps onto the deck of the captured ship. Instead, one of her ghosts beckons him to the open hatch, pointing with a blunt, fingerless hand to the darkness below.
“Miiiiiii… “ it moans as he strides past the hollow, bouncing lightly after him as he drops soundlessly down into the lower deck.
Mihawk has been on enough marine ships to recognize the layout, and on the inside it does seem like a typical cargo vessel. Besides himself and Perona, this ship seems to be entirely devoid of life – besides the prisoners, of course.
Now that he’s closer, he has a better sense of the few living beings still aboard this ship. Three people, including Perona, separated by a great, iron gate.
So she hasn’t broken them out yet. Perhaps the cage is made of seastone? It seems possible, considering the Strawhats are currently babysitting five Devil Fruit users themselves.
It seems like Mihawk might be put to work after all.
There are no lights lining the walls when he finally reaches the hall leading to the brig. Instead, a ball of soft pink light hangs in the air a few inches above Perona’s head, pulsing lightly as she leans close – but doesn’t quite touch – the black iron of the brig.
“It’ll be alright,” she promises softly as Mihawk draws nearer. “I’ll get you out of here, just – “ She stops, her head whipping around just as he steps into the small circle of light. “Mihawk.”
“I was just admiring your handiwork,” he says, eyes moving thoughtfully over the small cage. “What did you do to the men?”
Perona goes pink, a dark sort of pleasure coloring the smile she gives him.
“I showed them their lives weren’t worth living,” she says. “They did the rest.” She turns back to the bars, shuffling closer where she’s crouched on her toes. “Just hang on, alright? I’ll see if I can find a key.”
“I’m afraid it won’t make much of a difference, ma’am,” a little boy’s voice tells her, reedy and high, and a moment later, a long, thin face presses itself against the bars. “They welded the door shut, look.”
The face is joined by a pointing hand, and Mihawk hears Perona swear.
“Hey, Mihawk?” she asks, looking up again. “Can you cut this for me?”
Mihawk arches an eyebrow, and Perona pouts. The expression seems forced, though, her eyes skittering from him back to the cage.
“Please?” she asks. “I don’t have a sword, or I’d do it myself.”
He grunts, taking a step closer to get a better look at the bars and the prisoners beyond them. It’s dark, even with Perona’s little ball of light, and unlike the boy pressed up close to talk to Perona, the other child – a younger one, Mihawk thinks, or at least much smaller – stays curled up in the shadows, somehow only a shadow despite the sharpness of Mihawk’s gaze.
This cage isn’t just made of iron and seastone.
“Fine,” he says flatly, reaching for his cross. “Out of the way.”
Despite their strange composition, the Kogatana makes short work of the bars, slicing through them like bamboo. Much to his amusement, the action draws gasps from his audience – even the silent, smaller child is looking now, their gaze unseen but felt through the dark.
Without the bars between them, it only takes a moment for Mihawk’s vision to clear. The shadows no longer feel so impenetrable to his haki, allowing him more detail as he turns his focus to the boy Perona had been speaking to earlier.
He is… nothing special. Another half-starved dock urchin with dirty blond hair and a square-chinned, suspicious face. There are bruises mottling his pale skin, but they’re already faded, implying at least a few days of uninterrupted healing – uninterrupted, in this case, meaning he hadn’t received another beating since.
(Perhaps that was when the door was welded shut. Mihawk wouldn’t be surprised; marines can be animals if they feel so inclined, and they feel inclined quite often.)
Tucking the Kogatana back into its sheathe, he waves the boy forward, ignoring the desperate, disbelieving look he shoots him as he darts out of the cage and practically throws himself out into the hall. Mihawk recognizes it as the look of someone who didn’t think they were leaving the hole they’d been left in; he’s had it levied at him before, and finds it just as uncomfortable as the last time.
Instead, he focuses on the other child instead – a girl, he now realizes, and indeed younger than her companion. She uncurls herself slowly from her tangle of limbs and seafoam green hair under his gaze, her movements awkward and clumsy as she pushes herself to her feet. Unlike her companion, she is far more apprehensive of Mihawk and Perona, her violet eyes flickering between them like she isn’t quite sure they exist. The furrow in her brow is familiar to him, somehow, the set in her chin and the crooked bend of her mouth reminding him of – wait –
Mihawk narrows his eyes.
“Perona,” he says, not looking away from the girl still standing in the cage. “Have you had a look in the captain’s office yet?”
Perona shakes her head.
“Not yet.”
He looks away, back to the girl now painstakingly making her way to the exit. Her eyes are fixed on Mihawk, though now that he’s had the thought, he finds it isn’t fear that he sees in her pinched face, only focus, the kind of focus he’s only seen when a particular, green-haired brat has pushed himself past his limits but refuses to stop.
All at once, his mind goes blank, and he starts moving, ducking into the cage to catch the girl by the front of her shirt. She squeaks, but doesn’t put up much of a fight as he lifts her off her feet and steps back, setting her down beside the older boy.
“Mihawk, what the fuck?” Perona demands, but Mihawk isn’t really paying attention to her now, more interested in how the girl sways a little on her feet before righting herself.
“How much do you know about the circumstances surrounding your arrest?” he asks the boy as he shuffles closer to the green-haired girl, subtly putting himself between her and the pirates before them.
“We don’t care what you did,” Perona adds quickly, shooting Mihawk a glare as she elbows her way in front of him. “It’s just – well. You’re kids.”
She says it like she doesn’t know why they’re here, her face the picture of concerned sweetness, and something about it puts the boy at ease.
“They – got me for piracy,” he admits, cheeks coloring. “And a bunch of other trumped up charges. Threats against marine officers, assault on marine officers, asc- associating with pirates?”
“... Piracy, hm?” Mihawk asks, tilting his head to one side as he studies him. “You don’t look like much of a pirate.”
“I’m not, sir,” the boy says earnestly. “I’m a farmer by trade – or I would have been, I guess.” He makes a face. “The only pirate I’ve ever known was my da, but it’s not like I sailed with him or anything.”
“You knew him?” Perona’s voice goes high with surprise, and the boy nods.
“Ed Newgate, was his name,” he says. “I only met him the once, mind – my ma wasn’t too keen on letting him around when I was younger, and he died pretty soon after that – but I suppose you know that, sir.” he tips his chin in Mihawk’s direction. “Since you were there.”
Perona’s eyes widen to the size of dinner plates as she looks between them, apparently stunned into silence. Mihawk is almost impressed.
“I see,” he says. “You’re Whitebeard’s boy.”
The boy shrugs.
“Only barely,” he says. “Most people just call me John, anyway – it’s the marines who gave me his name.”
“And the girl?” Mihawk knows the answer, but he asks it anyway, just to hear it for himself.
“The guards said she’s kin to the Pirate Hunter,” John tells him, frowning as he looks down at the girl beside him. “Her name’s Uma.”
Perona looks like she might faint when Mihawk meets her eyes, her usual pallor tinged gray around the edges. Unthinkingly, he offers her his arm to steady herself.
A cold, thin hand finds his elbow, long nails digging into his flesh.
“That’s… “ Perona trails off as Mihawk nods, unwilling to be the first to look away as the girl finally climbs over the broken bars and steps into Perona’s light. “Oh, God.”
“Indeed,” Mihawk agrees, inclining his head without taking his eyes off the little girl now standing before him, shoulders hunched as she does her best to stay standing. “He’s not going to be happy.”
“He?” John repeats, eyes sharpening. “You know her father?”
Mihawk nods once, turning to Perona.
“I think she’s got a fever,” he says. “Deal with that and feed them, I’m going to look for the captain’s quarters.”
Perona’s lips pinch like she’s holding back a complaint, but it’s impossible to argue with him now when she can see as well as he does how the children – even the sickly one – brighten at the mention of food.
“Yeah, okay,” she agrees, resigned. “Maybe I can see if I can dig up some clean clothes or something, too.”
“There should be a washroom on the other side of the barracks,” Mihawk tells her, already turning away. “Let them make use of it before they bother with anything clean.”
*.*
The solitude is temporary, but it gives Mihawk an opportunity to gather his thoughts as he winds his way through the halls of the ship, settling himself into the new situation he now finds himself in. Perhaps he’d been foolish, allowing Perona the opportunity to board the vessel, but then, he’d seen the tremors in her shoulders, her body buzzing with unspent energy like Mihawk had never seen before. Even now, after thirty men dead and a short flight across open oceans, her very spirit still shakes, and a sizable part of him wants to see just what sort of trouble she can cause with these mysterious abilities of hers.
He supposes it isn’t so surprising, considering the nature of the crew that raised her. Mihawk had some inkling that Moria’s experiments went beyond the simple scientific, complemented by his Devil Fruit as it was. It stands to reason that his daughter would be the same, though Mihawk would hazard a guess that Perona’s abilities are based more in her obvious empathic talents.
Regardless, the decision had been made, and Mihawk can’t do much but live with the consequences; after all, even without connection to his student, Mihawk has never been so much of a bastard as to purposefully leave a child to certain death. Whitebeard’s boy further complicates things, yes, but such things are easily obfuscated, particularly since Mihawk doubts many knew of his existence in the first place… though, it is curious that Whitebeard himself seemed to know. Had he been one of those kinds of men, the ones who have a wife and child tucked away in a secret corner of the world? If so, Mihawk thinks his respect for the man has dropped, just the littlest bit. The example he knows best of the dynamic is Yasopp, after all, and the man hasn’t seen his son in nearly a decade, nor does he seem particularly bothered by that.
(Yasopp is by far one of the more annoying men on Shanks’ crew, and that’s saying something, considering Shanks is there.)
Honestly, Mihawk has no idea what to do with children beyond the most obvious things. Food, clothes, a warm place to sleep – those are universal things, and probably not a bad start, but… well. Mihawk is pretty certain children need more than that, things he doesn’t think men like himself are equipped to offer.
The subject has been rolling around in his head since he learned of his own son’s existence. Logic dictates something will need to be done if the boy is to see his next birthday, and Mihawk, with his strength and his titles and his island hidden in mists, is surely the best possible option. With his resources, he would have little trouble maintaining another weakling, it could even be argued he’s gotten used to such duties.
The other option is to leave him and his fate to the Strawhats. If Zoro is any indication, they’re a crew of soft-hearted fools, the type that would accept him as their own and defend him to their last breath. If they’re smarter, they might find a way to place him with landlubbing allies; Zoro’s made mention of friends including but not limited to the Mayor of Water 7, the Alabastan princess, and Silvers Rayleigh, and if the rumors are true, Strawhat declared Fishman Island under his protection not too long ago, so it’s not like they don’t have options. But… it’s still risky, if their familial resemblance is as obvious as Zoro says it is, and Mihawk is inclined to believe him.
It’s all just a mess.
Mihawk finds the captain’s quarters unsurprisingly empty, as well as the adjoining office. The documents he finds are mostly related to the ship’s inner workings, the ship’s manifest an alphabetical list of items typical on any marine vessel. As far as actual cargo, this ship seems to be sailing light – besides a few pallets of medical supplies and provisions, their hull is practically empty save for the cage and the children it had held. Children who, Mihawk realizes after a moment’s reading, are also listed on the manifest, though not by name.
Y-0420
-[EVIDENCE RELATED, SEE ATTACHED AoP FORM]
Y-988
-[EVIDENCE RELATED, SEE ATTACHED AoP FORM]
Dropping into the heavy, leather desk chair, Mihawk flips through the manifest until he finds the indicated forms, eyes darting across the page as he reads.
Evidence and associated personal items of Subject Y-0420, found guilty on three counts of issuing threats against local peacekeepers, two counts of assault against a marine, two counts of resisting arrest, one count of associating with [REDACTED], and once count of [REDACTED], sentenced [REDACTED], by Judge [REDACTED], to hang by the neck until dead.
PERSONAL EFFECTS INCLUDE:
1 (ONE) SICKLE, REDWOOD HANDLE
1 (ONE) HAMMER, STONE HEAD
1 (ONE) FIRE STARTING KIT
2 (TWO) SPADES
1 (ONE) PAIR OF GLOVES, BLACK
1 (ONE) COPY OF AQUAPONICS: FARMING IN SALTWATER
Mihawk flips to the next page, shifting restlessly in his seat. Nice as it is to see the Newgate boy’s story confirmed in the form of tools relevant to his apparent trade, it isn’t what he’s looking for right now.
PERSONAL EFFECTS INCLUDE:
1 (ONE) JAR OF MARBLES, MULTICOLORED
1 (ONE) YARN DOLL
12 (TWELVE) BERIS (SMALLCHANGE)
1 (ONE) PAIR OF GLASSES, LEFT LENS CRACKED
… Well. Mihawk supposes he shouldn’t be so surprised that a little girl owns a doll. In fact, the glasses are objectively more important, because it means that child has likely been wandering around blind since her capture.
Marines. Sometimes, Mihawk misses his younger days.
He takes the time to go through whatever else he finds in terms of paperwork, skimming diaries and navigation logs until he’s certain there’s nothing else in writing regarding the ship’s true cargo to be found, then tucks away the manifest in his breast pocket and decides to make his way down to the hold proper, pausing only once on his path when he catches the distant echo of Perona’s voice, familiar in a way that stops him dead in his tracks.
“ – make sure you’re okay. Six months is a long time to be stuck on a transport.” It’s faint, but he can hear the hitch in her voice when she says it. Six months. The words seem to stick in her throat, though he doubts the children notice.
“I’m fine,” John insists. “If I haven’t gotten sick by now I don’t think I’ll get sick.”
Perona forces a chuckle.
“I’m sorry to say good health is a little more complicated than that,” she says. “Besides, your movements are stiff. You might have muscle damage, or fractures, or all manner of things that I can’t tell just by looking at you.”
“... Are you a doctor?”
“Sort of.”
Mihawk has no idea why she’s downplaying her skills. Thanks to Zoro’s training, she’d given Mihawk plenty of opportunity to observe her as she tended to his student’s wounds, and he can say for himself that she could claim the title well enough if she wished. Before he can think on it further, however, Perona speaks again, her words painfully soft.
“I know things have been hard,” she says. “But I promise, I’m not about to make them worse. I just want to make sure you’re taken care of while we’ve got access to a full infirmary. Both of you.”
“My father was an Emperor of the Sea, ma’am,” John says flatly. “And your captain’s a Warlord. There’s no world where this ends well for me, no matter how well you know Uma’s Da.”
His head snaps around faster than his brain can process what the boy said, the words filtering in a heartbeat later as he stares, uncomprehending, in the direction of the voices.
“Mihawk does what he likes.” Perona says it like it explains everything, completely skipping over what the boy had said to catch Mihawk’s attention. “Besides, what would be the point of letting you out if we were just going to turn you back into the marines?”
John is silent.
“Exactly,” she says, satisfied. “So let me look you over and make sure you’re alright, and then I’ll leave you to clean yourselves up and see if I can find something decent for you to wear. Don’t get your hopes up,” she adds, the sound of a chair scraping across the floor accompanying her words as she rises to her feet. “I’ve never met a marine with good taste, but we’ll simply have to make do until we stop by an island with a decent market.”
“... You’re very strange, ma’am,” the boy finally says, and Mihawk thinks he’s done listening, forcing himself to start moving again as Perona laughs him off and tells him to toss his filthy clothes in the waste bin. His head is still spinning, a new, restless energy making his skin itch as he ponders what the boy had said.
Your captain. He’d called Mihawk Perona’s captain, and Perona – Perona hadn’t argued. As far as Mihawk could tell, she hadn’t reacted at all, despite two years of constant babble about returning to her crew (or what was left of it). Why? Even in her gentleness, she should have no trouble correcting him, of claiming her title as a Commander –
Ah. Perhaps she had simply wanted to put him at ease. Clearly, Mihawk’s title alarmed him, and admitting that she was a member of a different Warlord’s crew – currently missing, but still on the books – might have been cause for more alarm, and that was clearly the last thing she wanted.
Oddly enough, the explanation doesn’t settle Mihawk the way explanations usually do. It’s the most logical answer, one suited to her obvious goal of calm, but then, she didn’t really answer his question, either, did she? No, not at all, though it’s fair to think she might not have wanted to admit that Mihawk hadn’t cared much about the ship either way. Not yet, at least.
Still, something about it all bothers him. Something about the way it sounded, the way she didn’t seem to care that a stranger had aligned her so completely with him clings to the edge of his thoughts, a puzzle that requires more focus than he can currently dedicate, not with the way things have arranged themselves around him.
He’ll give it time later. For now, he’s going to see if he can find those glasses.