TITLE: Children Lost at Sea
SUMMARY: He's born in a different body, to a different world, wrong in ways he can't explain. A daydream feeling that turns into a nightmare. [male!oc, dark]
RATING: M
WARNINGS: None in this chapter really; however, this fic will get dark very fast, so keep that in mind. There's a reason why it's rated M.
A/N: *leans really close to the mic* i love one piece and i love indulging myself in ocs.
chapter one
A very strange enchanted boy
. . .
"Kat, you need to get rid of the baby." Says Mama Max. Her rough wave of a voice isn't cruel, but neither is it kind—firm in a way a madam's voice needs to be when her workers don't intend on listening.
Kat, delicate flower of a girl barely twenty, steels her jaw, her lower lip and body quivering either from all the throwing up she did that morning or because of the situation she's in now. Mama Max's girls aren't supposed to get pregnant; no prostitute in her right mind would get pregnant unless she was sure the baby would allow her freedom and a better lifestyle. Kat primary patrons are pirates and seedy marines, and she rarely ever sees the same person twice. All except one, a poorly kept secret within the walls of Red Crane that is. Mama Max now regrets having turned a blind eye to the relationship, but the boy always paid well to see Kat and actually treated her and her workers with the respect they deserve but rarely received.
"Mama, please." Kat cries, dark eyes shining, and hand protectively curled over the not even visible swell of her stomach. "The baby's his and I love him and he promised me."
Mama sighs, takes a long drag of her pipe, and blows it out the window. She can see the port from her window and the pirate ship that just set sail away from their island.
"Promised you what, girl?" Question harsh because it must be. "Your boy's a pirate whose bounty isn't even a quarter of a million. Love isn't enough to keep you safe."
Kat hardens her gaze, more determined that Mama has seen her in a long time. "His crew isn't looking for One Piece though. He said once he's gotten enough treasure and found an island fit for us, he'd come back and get me."
Empty promises that Mama has heard since she was a girl and first started this line of work; had the same promise made to her years ago and believed it like a lovestruck fool. She sees herself in Kat for a moment, thirty years younger and wishing for the impossible, heart filled with promises made of pyrite. She hated herself for being that weak, for being that naive. But she's seen how Kat's boy acts around her each time he comes back after a few months or so; that's love in a simple and tragic sort of way. In a way Mama Max is old enough to know will never properly be realized if their lives keep going the way they are.
She sighs, weak to Kat, weak to all her girls and her boys really, but, especially Kat. "Alright, but the baby is completely your responsibility if you chose not to give them up for adoption. And just because you're pregnant, doesn't mean you can skimp out on work."
They get enough variety in their patrons that Kat will appeal to someone during her pregnancy; as much as Mama Max doesn't care for those types, she'll let them in regardless, just make them pay double or something close to it.
Tears spill from Kat's eyes, relief sobs, and a head nod. She'll be a good mother, even if the circumstances won't be ideal for child rearing.
. .
Kat's child is born at the start of spring, a storm large enough to nearly destroy most of the businesses in the town heralds his arrival into the world. He comes into this life strange; despite the blood and screaming and thundering winds and crashing waves, the baby boy is quiet, quiet enough that the midwife almost presumes he's dead.
His eyes are wide, silver bright, and searching, or at least appearing to be. Mama Max won't be able to get the look of the newborn out of her mind; how he came into being looking shocked for some reason or another. It is only after Kat had whispered her son's name—Bast she calls, with so much weary love, before she collapses near dead with exhaustion on the birthing bed—that the child cries.
. .
Bast looks like his mother, everyone that sees him within hours of his birth knows he will grow up to be a lovely thing—fine-boned and delicate like Kat with his long lashes and pretty bow mouth. He's got her dark brown skin, a few shades lighter than his mothers, more honeyed than anything, but still his mother's rich tone. A tone that compliments his dark hair, wayward strands that grow fast and grow long enough that constant trims are needed to keep it clean and manageable. All he seems to inherit from his father are those pale silver eyes though, angular in shape that makes his gaze seem more pointing, more direct. Like he's watching all the time, one of the younger girls had said as she watched Bast play with the toy from the comfortable seat on his mother's lap. She felt chills too when he turned his child silver gaze on her.
An odd child, that Bast is, and everyone in their small town knows it.
They know it in his infancy, how he barely cries or makes a sound unless he needs something. It's good in the way that Kat doesn't have to find a new place to live since the baby doesn't disturb anyone during work hours, but odd to the older workers, ones that have dealt with children in the past. Babies are loud, constantly crying little things except for Kat's boy who just sleeps and eats and fusses soft enough to barely be heard unless you know what to hear for. If anything, it's made Kat's ears sharper, made her more aware in a way that her dreamy younger self couldn't imagine.
They continue to realize how odd he is as he grows older, how quick Bast is to pick up on things despite having no older siblings to properly imitate. He starts babbling early, soft cooing baby sounds that almost seem coherent in a weird sort of way like he's asking questions or responding. Kat says it's because she talks to Bast as if he's a normal person—not in that odd baby talk that makes her curl her nose and seems patronizing, usually is when she primarily hears it coming from a client's mouth.
He learns to walk fast too, barely a year old when he starts clutching at his mother's skirts and following her around during her time off. Bast's soft babbles turn into actual speech soon after; somehow easily picking up on their lilting North Blue dialect and the language of the Grand Line, though his words are simple and his sentences short. Normal for a child really, but odd too since he sometimes cuts himself off in the middle of speaking as if he's trying to piece together the proper words, dark brows furrowed, and small mouth pitched into a pout. Most of the time he gives up in a way that seems more mature than childish.
Kat knows people look at her son and think him odd, think him strange. She knows they blame her for his strangeness, how they whisper words when they think she can't hear, how they titter their insults behind their hands. Bast is strange to them and she is dirty to them, but Kat knows she wouldn't get far in life is she cared about what people had to say about her. It makes her upset that her baby boy is caught up in it, makes her angry in a way she's never experienced, but she stays calm for Bast's sake. Her son who grows up different from the other children, but she loves him just the same for it, loves him even more perhaps.
Loves him when he asks if she's okay after a rougher night of work, how his small hands have learned to place a cool rag on bruises she'd rather him not see. Loves him when he crawls in her lap and soothes her during times when she's the one crying and wishing things were different. Loves him when his clumsy boy fingers learn how to brush her long cascade of hair and carefully tie in ribbons and braids. Loves him even during the moments when he doesn't seem entirely grounded, gaze distant and a degree of weightlessness to himself that he definitely got from her.
He grows up wonderfully though, in the years that she has him, unable to be controlled unless he wishes. Bast, who only listens when his mother asks him to do something and spends his days wandering around town or the shores of the beach. Sometimes asked to run an errand and when he does, all the children cease their games and stare. He walks barefoot and free, beach sand always between his toes and pockets full of jewel-colored seashells to give as gifts. Who speaks rarely and when he does, people are always sure to listen closely, lest his words are taken and snatched up by the sea winds.
More fey than boy, their little town decides. A puzzle that they won't be able to solve. A boy that only his mother can truly understand, and even then, she admits she doesn't. But it's fine, she always ends up reassuring someone, her boy is perfect just the way he is.
. . .
chapter one
A/N: different than my normal si!oc kinda take since i usually start in media res, but i kinda wanted to establish bast from an outsider pov, and also his mom and thus the type of environment he grew up in. which will also be explored more once the fic focuses on him, but i'm excited about this dude.
one piece having only one language is boring and false and i am rectifying that immediately.
also, don't ask me about ships. i kinda know what i want to do, but who knows what will happen while i'm writing this story so keep an open mind about everything except for weird age gaps.