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He’s not what you expect—the Pirate King.
Past the metal bars, cast in the shadows of the warm lamp light, the man who has struck terror in the hearts of soldiers, your colleagues, your superiors, not to forget you—who has torn apart and dismantled the seams of what you once called world order—sits shackled to the wall, quiet, unmoving.
He’s scrawnier than you. Grime covers his face and skin, and something dark slashes across his worn clothes—blood, you assume. He looks up as you enter.
His gaze stares back, pinning you still, as you fight the urge to keel under eyes that sing of the way mother sea greets you: mercilessly.
Seastone keeps him bound to the wall. Maybe not enough—definitely not enough, because from what you can see, he still has some range of movement, and from what you remember, even the strongest anesthesia couldn’t knock him out for long.
Your muscles are ice. You find it in yourself to move anyway. Closing the safe door with a whine of metal, you walk over to the guard sitting posted not far from the cell. “Hey. Shift change.”
He grunts in acknowledgement as he gathers up his things: a deck of cards, a folded newspaper, a ring of keys. He passes by you. You don’t look to watch him exit.
Settling at the table, you can’t help but spare another glance at the prisoner.
He doesn’t say a word and a small part of you (maybe, all of you) is relieved he doesn’t.
You’re on your way to New Marineford. There are whispers of an encroaching war—of course there would be, because Straw Hat has connections, allies, and people who owe him their lives and perhaps even more, and every favor is no doubt being cashed in. Some of your fellow soldiers talk of another victory for the Marines. A repeat of the War of the Best. You don’t think you could count such a war as a victory, not when so much was lost by both sides.
Your shift has barely begun when you hear voices.
The heavy steel door opens with a groan, and you’re on your feet before you even know it, your arm snapping up to a salute. “Rear Admiral Koby, sir!”
His coat flitting behind him, shoulders broad and squared, Koby strides into the room, his footsteps echoing through the metal chamber. His lips are pulled in a frown. “At ease,” he says, his eyes never having left the man in the cell since he stepped inside. “You've been relieved from your guard duties for tonight.”
Your hand falls to your side. “But, sir—”
Koby’s eyes snap up, cutting into you. “That was an order.”
You nearly flinch at his tone, confusion taking hold of you, because Koby may be one of your superiors, with many feats and accomplishments under his belt like the stars pinned on his shoulders, but he’s always treated his subordinates—not kindly, but with an air of respect, even for those at the bottom of the food chain.
“Sergeant—”
You’re yanked from your thoughts as if you’ve been doused in cold water. “Yes, sir,” you quickly reply. You get up without another word, gathering up your things: an old book, a radio, a ring of keys.
You don’t want to admit you practically scutter out of the prison. No, of course not. As you make to leave—to slip past the opening of the safe door, Koby walks forward until he stands in front of the cell. There’s a catch-breath moment. You almost think he’s only here to flaunt his victory over the head of the Pirate King, a visitor to a zoo animal—
“Hello, Luffy-san.”
You glance over your shoulder.
Koby’s back is toward you, broad, tall, and towering, but there is this heavy weight cast over his shoulders. You didn't expect him to refer to Straw Hat by first name—much less with respect. You’ve always thought of Koby as an open book—righteous good and justice represented by a single man. Too kind. Too good. Too simple. You learn you couldn’t have been more wrong, because his voice bears this tone: quiet resignation—something that shouldn’t be reserved to a criminal worth all the world’s riches.
Your gaze drops to the man behind the bars.
Your blood goes cold. Even under the dark shadows, the dim flickering lamp light, you manage to make out the smile on Straw Hat’s face. It’s not one of scalding hate. Neither is it one that should be worn in the presence of his enemy, his captor, his demise—
Straw Hat smiles fondly, eyes crinkling, as if greeting an old friend.
“Hi, Koby.”
You close the door behind you.
When you tell your fellow officers of the Rear Admiral’s strange behavior, some start betting within the hour. Perhaps, he holds a grudge against Straw Hat and wants to throw some punches while he's chained and inable—lay him bloody and beaten. Perhaps, it’s an interrogation. Straw Hat is a mystery waiting to be pulled apart at the seams, and there are many information brokers and government officials who would love to hear what he has to say. Or perhaps, it’s nothing more than a taunt.
The betting pile, berries, and cigarettes, is just a shameful euphemism for curiosity. You know it is. You know Koby isn’t like that. He’s not the type to take advantage of the defeated. He’s not the type for torture, and neither is he the kind of man to spill venom in the form of words and mock a once-free king of his iron binds and sea-filled chains, but considering his behavior from not long past, you can’t assume anything anymore.
You go to sleep wondering why two men, enemies by history and law and sense, greeted each other like old friends. All the reasons you come up with—
None of them end well.
When one of your superiors, Lieutenant Saul, tells you to stop bringing meals to the prisoner, there isn’t much you can do but follow. You’ve already gotten a few warnings for misconduct. That is if you can call not sucking up to said superior as “misconduct.”
You descend to the brig. You relieve Seth of his watch duty, and you don’t have a meal in your hands.
If Straw Hat notices, he doesn’t say anything.
You settle down at the table. You turn on your radio and daydream away your hours.
Within the next week on the seas, waiting to arrive at New Marineford, you can hear Straw Hat’s stomach rumble, loud and audible, but he doesn’t say a word in pursuit of food. You think it’s a matter of pride. Perhaps, he’d rather die than have to beg.
One night, you’re going through the radio channels, turning the dial as you search for something good. The hum of the seastone prison is getting to you. The silence of the prisoner is too.
You zoom through the stations, the crackle of voices, singers, and instruments jut against each other, and at some point, you nearly just give up, but—
“Hey.”
Tension seizes your muscles, your bones, your breath. Your fingers freeze at the dial. You turn your head to the cell. For a second, you think you’re hallucinating—maybe it’s the small enclosed cage messing with you, but then, your gaze catches Straw Hat’s, his eyes peering at you from within the dark.
“Can you go back to that other song?” His voice is raspy, dry, weak, speaking of the lack of water—water you and your fellow Marines have refused to give him much of.
You blink.
At first, you think of replying, “Yeah, sure.”
Then, you think of replying with a clear-cut no before moving on to search for something else to listen to.
In the end, you say nothing. You turn back the dial anyway. You don’t know what song he’s talking about specifically—you were whizzing through the stations, to be fair—but your uncertainty leaves you as soon as you hear it.
A guitar riff bursts out of the radio. It echoes through the brig, a warm sound in contrast to the cold stone. The notes are soon accompanied by a mellow voice, spilling spirited lyrics, and it sounds almost like—
Oh. The penny drops. That’s Soul King Brook.
Radio stations love to play Soul King’s songs, even after he had practically blown himself out of the water of his idol career to follow the man whom he calls King. You like his music, sure. You don’t tell anyone that, because the discussion would probably spiral into something along the lines of, “Can you separate the art from the artist?” and philosophical questions such as that don’t appeal to you.
You let the song play.
It’s almost comfortable—for the next few minutes, the only sounds filling the silence being a voice, the strum of strings, the bellow of brass. Some part of you thinks Straw Hat will start singing along. You don’t think he can, in his position, in his state of health—but when you sneak a discreet glance at him, you can see him mouthing the lyrics without a single sound.
When the song comes to an end, simmering off into silence—
“Thanks.”
You turn to stare at the man behind the bars, who is bound to stone that has kept him weak and powerless—sick and still, who hasn’t eaten in days, whose stomach only carries a few sips of water—and you notice he’s smiling. He’s a dead man. He’s smiling, but it’s almost as if he's at peace.
“Yeah,” you mumble, turning away. “No problem.”
Soaring and sighted upon the skyline is a halo of fire, donning flames the sun too will fear. It descends faster than you know. It strikes the warship’s deck with a splinter of wood and a roar of sound. Your hair whips past your eyes. The deck creaks and groans and crumbles below your feet and you lunge to the railing, hanging on for dear life.
Your breath dies in your throat.
The armada, designed and gathered to transport the Pirate King to his fated death’s door, is in chaos. Thunder clouds dot across the sky, its lightning striking down without mercy—leading a trail of fire and flame, ash and soot, burnt wood and fleeting ambers.
There’s a white figure dancing across the waters. The blade it carries slices into the sea, and where it touches brews shards and sheets of ice, restraining and locking the warships in place. You see vines and winding plant stems. You see arms and limbs where they shouldn’t be, taking hold of necks and—
A crash reverberates through the chaos and the ship lurches beneath your feet, and—
Oh. Someone cut the ship in half.
Your feet fumble to find footing, even as the world tilts and everything goes skidding.
A white coat flits through your vision. You turn, your gaze catching onto Koby. His hair is wild. Grime and sweat slash across his face and he’s bleeding from his cheek, his shoulder, his stomach—he’s holding back Pirate Hunter Roronoa Zoro with everything he has.
It’s a flash of metal and flesh. Your eyes can barely keep up.
Pirate Hunter haunts the seas, its sailors, and the soldiers on ships with his lack of mercy. He lunges at Koby, a sword in his mouth. Two in his hands. He drives Koby back with viper-fast slashes and swings—pierces past the place where Koby was just a hair’s breadth ago. Koby’s hands are coated in the Color of Armament. He grits his teeth with every attack he parries, and you’ve no doubt he’s utilizing every drop of concentration to keep his head on his neck.
“Where is he?” you hear Pirate Hunter demand.
Koby huffs, leaping backward to avoid an infused blade singing for blood—for his, for others. He doesn’t answer.
Pirate Hunter’s eye narrows as he, for a moment, stops his pursuit. “You’re holding back.”
Koby’s eyes go wide before narrowing. “I’m not.”
“He told you, didn’t he?” Pirate Hunter asks as if they’re not standing amidst a battlefield. The ship is flooding. The sea is rising. You don’t know what the man is talking about, but you’ve no doubt he cares naught for such troubles. He only cares for one thing. “We’re on different paths, Koby. He accepted that. You should too.”
“I have—”
“Then, fight like it.”
You watch as Koby’s eyes flash with conflict, his eyebrows furrowing, his chest heaving, but his thoughts, flying through his mind, must come to an end a second later, because he readies his stance. This newfound resolve lines his limbs.
And Pirate Hunter smiles. “That’s more like it.”
Their clashing blow shatters whatever is left of the sound barrier, a gust of wind casting you back as you cover your ears.
You have to get out of here.
There’s a gaping hole in the middle of the deck and you don’t have to peer over the edge to know it’s flooding with seawater, slowly bringing the ship down into the depths. You stumble over the uneasy wood.
You don’t get far.
A blond man is standing a bit away. He’s stepping on something—someone and dread fills your stomach like lead as you realize that’s Lieutenant Saul, the superior who ordered you to—
“—if he hasn’t starved to death first!”
Your heart stops.
Vinsmoke couldn’t look anything more different than his wanted poster. You and your fellow soldiers have laughed at it multiple times. But watching Vinsmoke, a blaze of fire in the form of a man, slam his foot into Saul’s hand with a sickening crunch —
Iron has long since flooded the sea’s scent.
Death hangs above you.
You almost ask it to take you now before you end up facing something worse than death.
Vinsmoke’s expression flares. “...What do you mean?” he asks softly, the way a blue flame appears cold even when it burns hot, hot, hot.
When Lieutenant Saul doesn’t respond, he screams.
Vinsmoke kneads his heel into the Lieutenant’s hand, and even under the clamber of battle, you make out the crunch of bones. “Answer me, you piece of shit. ” He lifts his head, eye wild. “Zoro!”
Pirate Hunter, a flurry of metal, yells from not far, “What?!” He grunts, parrying a hit from Koby.
“They starved him.”
With a flash of white, Koby’s body slams against the ship’s mast with a deafening bang.
Pirate Hunter turns to Vinsmoke. From here, you see his eye, his expression, his fury that would strike fear even in the inhabitants of nightmares. His voice is quiet when it rings out. “They did what? ” He looks at Koby.
And Koby—Koby’s eyes are blown wide, trembling, flashing of an epiphany realized too late. “I—”
Vinsmoke lifts his heel from Saul’s hand. He walks toward Koby, his footsteps echoing, even with the distant churnings of war.
Koby staggers to his feet, holding his side. “I gave orders to ensure he—”
Vinsmoke spits, “I don’t give a shit about your so-called orders, because that subordinate was quite adamant about starving him.”
Koby says, heaving, a bleeding conviction in his voice, “I would never do that to him—”
Vinsmoke laughs, cold. “You were escorting him to his own execution, or did you forget, Rear Admiral?”
“It’s not like him.”
Vinsmoke and Koby turn to Pirate Hunter, who still hasn’t sheathed his blade, who still hasn’t curbed his bloodlust—but there is this certain look in his eye.
“But who let it happen?” Vinsmoke asks, low.
Then, the man turns, his leg ablaze and burning and promising anything but a peaceful end, and Koby is limping, heaving for breaths that do not find him, and—
“He didn’t know!”
Three heads turn to you, and suddenly, you’re on the stand of a court with a noose hanging right behind you. You don't know why you spoke up. Maybe it’s out of fear. Maybe it’s out of respect for your superior. Maybe, it’s out of stupidity, going against your instinct whose only goal is to keep you alive.
“Rear Admiral Koby didn’t know,” you say, “They kept it quiet and—and your Captain didn’t say anything either.”
“But you knew,” the Pirate Hunter says.
Your heart is pounding in your chest—you can almost feel your ribs creaking from the force, but you find it in yourself to nod. “I did.” You don’t give excuses. Somehow, you know it will not do you any good.
Pirate Hunter slams the end of his sword handle into Koby’s head.
You watch Koby crumble. The sound of his limp body dropping to the floor echoes through your ears. You swallow the lump in your throat.
Vinsmoke has a cigarette to his lips, his gaze pinning you with scrutiny for a moment, perhaps two, perhaps forever, before he gestures a hand and says lowly, “Lead the way. Don’t try anything—I'm used to the smell of burning flesh.”
You lead them to the seastone safe deep within the brig. You turn the dials, input the combination, and from behind, you hear a soft voice say, gentler than you could ever imagine, come from Vinsmoke,
“They put Luffy in here? ”
You don’t answer. You think your lungs will collapse if you do. Turning the mechanism with a groan of metal and clinks of gears, you pull the safe door open, but you don’t have to pull it much because Pirate Hunter and Vinsmoke are already in the room.
“Captain?”
Straw Hat looks just like he did a few hours ago during your shift—before all hell broke loose. He’s covered in dirt, grime, sweat. He’s weak, frail, thin, but on his face, a warm smile blooms to life. “Zoro, Sanji!” he rasps. The fondness in his voice bleeds, bleeds, and bleeds.
Vinsmoke doesn’t look to you. You’re glad he doesn’t because you fear the expression on his face. “Keys,” he says.
You reach into your pocket to grab them, but Pirate Hunter must have lost his already-thinning patience. He unsheathes his sword.
Your eyes widen.
The seas contain a force only comparable to the heavens. It subdues the strength of even the strongest of Devil Fruits, capable of drowning out the sun. Seastone itself is tougher than any diamond—any gem.
Pirate Hunter slices right through it. The seastone shackles shatter apart with a splitting ring, but even when released, Straw Hat does not stand. He doesn’t even make to move.
Pirate Hunter sweeps down to his knees, sheaths his sword with nothing more than a click, and reaches out with a hand. His fingers curl around Straw Hat’s face. “Hey, Luffy.”
You hear a pleasant hum from Straw Hat, pulling apart the tension at the seams.
“Cook.”
Vinsmoke kneels, carefully taking Straw Hat into his arms with a touch incomparable to how he crushed Saul’s hand minutes earlier, the warmth of a hearth to the heat of hell’s fire. “When did they stop feeding you?”
“Dunno,” Straw Hat slurs, blinking blearily. “I didn’t mind though—just wanted your food…”
You can see Vinsmoke’s shoulders tense. The man lifts Straw Hat, holding him as if he’s glass, and murmurs, “When we return to the Sunny, I’ll cook up a whole feast. Sounds good, Captain?”
Straw Hat hums in agreement, nodding as he presses closer into Vinsmoke’s hold, as if searching for warmth.
And you almost think, that’s that.
Stupid move.
They say that when you’re about to die, time slows down, because by the time you’ve blinked once, there’s a sword at your throat—you can feel its blade press against the skin of your neck like the breath of a ghost. You have to move. You don’t. The only muscle that hasn’t given up on you is the one beating in your chest.
You hope it’s painless.
“Zoro.”
Pirate Hunter’s sword sings—presses against the pulse of your throat. Blood trickles down. It’s almost like liquid fire, spilling from the cut.
You don’t even risk breathing.
Pirate Hunter turns.
Straw Hat is wrapped up in the arms of Vinsmoke, breathing quiet and shallow, but even if it seems like it’s taking all his strength out of him to do so, he smiles softly, content, at peace. “Let’s go back to Sunny.”
And it’s not out of mercy that he stops his swordsman. It’s out of longing for home.
Pirate Hunter is by Straw Hat’s side within the second.
They leave you alive. They leave you in the silence of the seastone cage. You don’t think you could even call yourself alive—not when you feel like a husk of the human you once were.
You should be dead. Your head should be off your shoulders, and the only reason it’s not is because their attention was stolen by a single star sputtering out—stolen by something worth much, much more than you.