Chapter Summary: Standing between her enraged boss and some poor butler definitely isn't the first mistake in Shrike's life... but it may be her last.
Author Notes: This is my first fic in over a decade, and my first "serious" one at that. So reviews/comments are appreciated! Let me know what you think, please. This was originally a "reader" story but I've since changed it to an original character of mine to make it more accessible.
This is it—the moment Shrike knows he's finally going to kill her. She's been wondering not if this would happen, but when. Surely it's been just a matter of time ever since he'd hired her onto his ship. Just about a year ago, now? A year spent poking and prodding at that steely exterior of his. A year spent testing the nerves of the man she's come to call 'Captain'.
Now, as she stands between him and the whimpering, pitiable man behind her, she sees it's clear the gator's jaws have begun to finally snap shut around her.
Shrike is about to be eaten alive.
"...Agent Butcher." His voice sounds disturbingly cool, but she's spent enough time with him to pick up on its underlying edge. This coolness is just a facade for the undeniable rage bubbling just beneath the surface.
Very rarely does his expression betray any hint of what he's actually feeling. With the way he usually defaults to a flat scowl-surely to match his general disgust for the world around him-Shrike's captain has never been an easy man to read. Sure, events can occasionally curve his lips to a smug grin from time to time, and he never's one to pass up a gloating victory laugh. That's about the extent of the emotional range she's seen from him, though. Smug gloating to abject displeasure.
Until now.
As faint as it is, Shrike would have to have been blind to not recognize the expression creeping into his features. The predatory focus in his dark eyes... how the ends of his scar ever so slightly tilt upward... the near audible gritting of his jaw...
Oh yes.
The once shichibukai, would-be kingslayer and usurper of Alabasta, escaped level-six prisoner of Impel Down, dreaded pirate captain of the Grand Line, Sir Crocodile... is absolutely pissed.
From the moment she's entered his employment-willingly or no is debatable-Shrike's known this would be her fate.
Deference to authority has never been a part of her character. Not to any employer, not to any Marine, and certainly not to any self-important, pompous jackass like him. Nearly every word out of her mouth is usually ill-mannered or ill-tempered in some way. Her actions tend not to fare any better, usually just as impertinent as her sharp tongue. Crass, crude, and defiant to a fault, that is Agent Butcher: no-last-name 'Shrike' tried and true.
So, this really is only fitting. A death like this, brutally killed because she dared get in the way of her shitty boss's temper tantrum? Apropos. Her very existence is an act of defiance to life itself. Only pure luck has allowed her to make it this far what with the cards she'd been dealt. Sure, that poor hand had pushed her to develop the skills she's needed to survive thus far, but only just barely survive at that.
Every moment of her life has been spent trying to outrun the specter of death nipping at her heels, creeping ever closer with each passing day. As if she could blame it, though. It's only been trying to reclaim the soul promised to it all those many years ago.
But today it seems that death's perseverance has finally paid off.
Shrike's time has run out.
Not that she'd be going down without a fight. Her captain at the very least deserves one last, double-fingered 'fuck you' before she can comfortably pass on. Even if it's the last thing she ever does.
Death could wait until then.
She meets Crocodile's glare with an almost bored expression on her face- "Yeah, Cap?"-knowing full well that using such a blasé tone will only piss him off even more. Every nickname she's come up with has only seemed to annoyed him. All the more reason to use them then, of course.
As if on cue, his scowl deepens just a hint more. Almost imperceptibly, but it's there as surely as the scar on his face.
"Out of the way, Agent. Now." The callous tone of his voice rakes down Shrike's spine in a way that nearly makes her shiver. She does her best to resist. Showing such weakness would only give him more fodder to work with. As if her pride would allow such a display in the first place.
It's moments like this that remind her of just how very large he is. He's easily two feet taller than her at the very least. So large that she has to blatantly look up at him, craning her neck like some tiny child just to glare into his face.
...His frustratingly handsome face.
'This is not the time for that! What the hell is wrong with you?!'
She quickly banishes those thoughts from her mind. Handsome as it is, that face is just on the verge of killing her right here and now.
"I gave you an order, Agent." The last word is near hissed through his teeth. His anger only grows all the more apparent as this debacle continues, that facade of his losing its integrity with each passing second.
She internally grimaces before mentally downing one last shot of liquid courage. Would that she could will it into existence with desperation alone. Heaven knows just how bad she needs a stiff drink right about now. 'Here we go.'
"And what if I don't follow that order?" She flashes him a warm smile, mockingly insolent in its tone. "...You going to kill me?"
She hears his jaw click from all the way over here. His brow gives a single, menacing twitch.
"...You know the answer to that, Miss. Shrike."
Of course she does. She knows he's going to kill her if she keeps up this blatant act of disobedience, though she tries to ignore the way hearing her name in his voice makes her gut flutter. How foolish of her to give him the benefit of the doubt, hoping beyond hope that he'd turn out to be more than just a heartless monster.
If only she could go back in time and stop all this nonsense from happening in the first place. Go back and kill him in his sleep like she originally planned.
This past year as part of his crew... she now knows it must've meant nothing to him.
Rare, candid moments had tempted her to think otherwise. Like how he'd begun to react to her wry humor with the occasional lip twitch; sometimes with a short puff that might've been construed as laughter. Or how he'd taken an interest in her training, too, giving suggestions and the once in a blue moon acknowledgment of her improvements. He'd even started to look at her, really look at her, like she was an individual and not just a body that happened to be attached to a weapon.
It'd been moments like those that'd tricked her into thinking he might've thought more of her than just another paycheck to write.
How absurd of her to think that. How absurd of her to think that maybe someone actually wants her around for once. That she isn't just more trash to kick down the road for the next person to find. She'd thought she'd more than proven herself useful enough that maybe he'd come to like her, even just a little bit.
The worst part: she'd foolishly come to like him herself.
How naive to think he could ever feel the same way.
Like everyone else in his life, of course she's just yet another pawn to be used. He'd made that very clear to her from the moment she'd fallen under his flag. The wrenching in her chest and gut only serve to make her angry at herself. As if riffraff like her could ever make him care about her as a person? That she's even worth that much in the first place?
So, so, naive.
This feeling of betrayal is hers to blame and hers alone. She'd gotten too comfortable around him. Too friendly. Let her walls down. Trusted him like a fucking idiot.
A soon to be dead, idiot.
She knows now that she could never have meant anything more to him than 'disposable'.
The words he'd spoken to her the night of her contract come back in full force:
"In this world, it's used to be used. The weak don't get the luxury of that choice, but you, Miss Butcher, have the privilege of making a different choice entirely. You are just strong enough to determine how you get to be used, and it just so happens there is a spot on my ship for someone with your particular... talents..."
'Talents' meaning being exceptionally good at killing people. Having spent the past decade on the streets of a frozen, sprawling city, Shrike has the uncanny ability to move about without being seen. In fact, she can make it so others can't 'see' her at all. Instead of having an oppressive presence like others on the high seas, hers is the opposite. She can dimish it to a point that others look right over her as if there's nothing but empty, dead air where a Shrike-shaped person would be.
If she doesn't want to be seen, she's not going to be seen.
Too bad it doesn't work on someone already focused on her, making it utterly useless in this situation. Hell, even if she could slip away, there's nothing stopping him from sandblasting the whole area. Not to mention running would just doom the sniveling man behind her... the entire reason this situation is happening to begin with.
No.
She can't run and hide from this, cheat her way out like she always did.
Not when someone is depending on her.
With a sigh, she draws the saber at her side from its scabbard. Funny enough, it's a gift from Croc himself, given to her in a rare show of generosity. How unfortunate, that it has to be pointed at him in defiance now, rather than deference.
She gives it a flourish, resisting the urge to smile in satisfaction as it rests perfectly in her grip. Its basket-hilt glints a lustrous silver in the sunlight streaming through the courtyard, the feather pattern forming its shape accentuated in a way that can only be described as 'striking'. Truly a beautiful blade. It's a gift she's come to cherish and appreciate more than any other.
It's also one of the main reasons she'd hoped he really had thought more of her than he'd let on.
The saber slashes through the air as she quickly crosses it over the terrified butler behind her; the man she's foolishly thrown her life away to protect. Her left hand comes to rest on her hip, and the casual pose suggests just how resigned to this she is.
In a fair fight, she'd never win. That doesn't mean she doubts her ability to at least ruin his day, though. Her speed should grant her more than enough time to give herself a quick cut-create enough wetness to deal with his logia-and present him a gift of his own in the form of a nasty new scar. Nothing lethal, he'd expect an attack to the vitals. The scar would just something for him to remember her by.
Not having a reputation to precede her, Shrike's prey always doubts her skills; a fact she more than relies on. With her ability to go unseen, those that have witnessed Agent Butcher in action numbers in the single digits. With no one left behind, there's been no one to properly credit her for her work. To the eyes of the world, 'Shrike' doesn't really exist, and someone that doesn't exist can't exactly carry a bounty. Most of her targets see her as just another weak woman trying to play at being a warrior.
Not that she's complaining: it's much easier to kill a man when he thinks you no stronger than a pitiful rabbit.
Her captain's never fought against the same foe with her side-by-side. He hasn't seen her in real action, and she's betting on him underestimating her just like everyone else has. It wouldn't be the first time he has... He certainly had that very first night they'd met. Even choking on the filth in her lungs and being half-starved on breadcrumbs, she'd managed to draw blood from him. Impressed him enough to want her on his ship.
'Focus, idiot.'
She mentally shakes the bitter memories from her head, snapping her attention back to the undeniably terrifying man before her.
His eyes have narrowed, his mouth now curved into an almost snarling grimace. "Agent, you'd dare draw your bl-"
"Oh, shut the fuck up." She can't help it. The words push themselves from her mouth before she can consciously realize what they're doing.
'Oh, well. You're really in it now, dumbass.' Might as well go out with a bang. If she's going to die because she's pissed off the wrong person, she's certainly not going to half-ass it.
Shrike rolls her eyes so hard that it throws her head backward. As terrible as the thought of dying is-correction, the thought of being killed by him is-her tolerance for his melodrama has come to a head. "Seriously. Just shut the fuck up. This is more than pathetic."
For the first time since she's known him, his expression abandons any hint of subtlety. First, a flicker of surprise. Barely perceptible. She can tell by the minute movement of his throat almost choking on a gasp. The way his jaw goes slack, letting his mouth ever so slightly open.
And then, as quickly as it appeared, it's gone.
Because it's now completely overwritten by pure, undiluted rage contorting his features.
There's but a single twinge of movement of his hand, but Shrike quickly cuts him off before he can respond with either words or-far more likely-a hook through the gut.
"You think I'm going to just stand here and watch you murder this guy?!" Her tone surprises even her, conveying far more potent a venom than she'd felt building within.
Crocodile stiffens, and his menacing aura now rolls off him in waves. He's just barely containing himself. Barely. The weeds and brick beneath his heels have started wilting, so angry the world around him is steadily being robbed of any moisture.
How utterly childish. The very sight of it makes her eyes roll all the harder.
"Come on, control yourself!" She gestures at the patch of death slowly creeping out from beneath his shadow. He doesn't look, that piercing glower never once breaking eye contact. Those impossibly dark eyes watch her as steadily as a predator eyeing its soon-to-be dinner. "I know you're pissed off from how I handled that meeting. I totally fucked up, I know. I get that."
She tries not to notice the way his hook shifts, now perfectly catching the sunlight with a menacing glint. Hopefully, her blood would at least stain his clothes, ruin them beyond salvaging. Anything to make her death more of a hassle. 'So cheery.'
While her internal thoughts stay sardonic as usual, the words falling from her lips take on a mind of their own.
"But this guy"-She throws her arm out behind her as she begins walking towards her captain with a purposeful strut-"this guy had nothing to do with that! I fucked up, not him!" Whereas her tone before had been mocking, now she practically spits each word. They drip with a venom distilled from the pent-up frustrations of the past year, so scathing it feels as though they're burning her from the inside out. "He's just some butler that happens to work for them! I overreacted!"
She's as worked up as the towering pillar of rage she's marched right up to. Her own anger grants her a burst of unexpected courage, and she uses it to glare right up into his seething expression. There's not more than a single footfall between the two of them. It's not near enough space to react to a killing blow, but she doesn't even care about that anymore.
If he's going to kill her, she just wants to make sure he damn well remembers her for the rest of his days.
The woman that stood up to him. Infuriated him. Humiliated him.
The leather of her saber's hilt squeaks from the sheer pressure exerted by her grip. She's more holding onto it to ground herself amidst the now boiling sea of fury bubbling in her gut than to pose an actual threat against him.
"Will killing him make you feel better, big guy?" She jabs into his chest with a finger from her free hand. "Why don't you just go punch a wall or find a good fuck to get your frustrations out? Deal with your feelings like a god damn adult for once?!"
His eyes widen in shock, brows shooting upwards. This level of brazen disrespect is a surprise, even coming from her. The aura coming from his nearly makes her vomit right then and there.
Hell, the words surprise her too as they flick off her tongue.
But her brain can't quite catch up with her actions.
She suddenly reaches upward, grabbing a fistful of his collar into her grip. The feeling of silicate shifting beneath her fingers is uncanny, more than a little unnerving. He audibly snarls, teeth beginning to show beneath the grimace twisting his lips. Still, she's pressing on. "Heaven forbid you stop and take a deep breath before having a temper tantrum, you arrogant manchild!"
There's a short grinding noise as she plunges her saber down into the dirt between the brick flagstones. It won't be much help this close anyway.
Instead, she releases him with a rather aggressive shove. He looks more than wild as she plants her hands on both hips. She arches backward, leaning back on her heels to look up into his face and fix him with the sharpest glare she can muster.
"For someone who usually acts so cold, you're certainly acting like a Big. Fucking. Bitch."
Shrike has many regrets. Too many.
Now it seems that guaranteeing her death will be excruciatingly painful has been added to that list.
'There's no way he'll make it quick now. You asked for this.'
Out of all the things she'd been prepared for, a low and rumbling growl was not one of them. Sir Crocodile is not a man to make overt displays of emotion. For him to vocalize something as primal as growl? 'Angry', is an understatement. He's smoldering with a now uncontainable fury, burning away that usual iron-tight control of his.
It's only now that Shrike feels the fear that's sneakily wound its way inside her, lying totally dormant until now.
This is going to hurt.
This is going to really hurt.
From her periphery, she sees him begin to raise his hand.
Is he going to grab and impale her?
Desiccate her right then and there?
Her mind begins to race, illustrating hundreds of scenarios each more gruesome than the last. She can't even move. The fear has her gripped tight, an invisible chain keeping her rooted in place. Every muscle fiber strains against the sudden paralysis, all in vain. Even if she could move, he'd catch her easily, hold her still and tortuously blast her limbs away like some industrial sandblaster.
Not that she'd ever seen him do that to anyone, but as ruthless as he is, she doesn't put torture past him.
A shadow casts over her face as he raises his hand higher.
All she can do is close her eyes, resign to this fate with grace. The faint taste of blood fills her mouth as she bites her lips. She forces them closed with her teeth, not daring to give him the satisfaction of hearing her scream.
She begins to count the seconds until impact.
'One…'
Her limbs begin to tremble, an utterly involuntary reaction. She curses herself for it nonetheless.
'Two…'
There's a fierce sting as her nails dig into her palms.
'...Three?'
Why is he prolonging this? 'Just get this over with please!'
'...Four? ...?'
She cracks an eye open warily, only for both to shoot open wide in unison.
Crocodile is gone.
Where before her had been certain death is now nothing but empty space.
The anxiety hits her as if his hook has gutted her himself. '...From behind?!'
She makes a rapid pivot, simultaneously yanking her saber from the dirt. It comes up in a defensive position across her midsection as she drops to a more reactive stance.
He's... not there either.
The only thing there is the damn butler. She continues to whirl around, survival instincts still running hot. He could be anywhere around her just waiting for her guard to falter...
But as the minutes pass, she knows he's well and truly gone.
"What... what in the actual hell?" She chokes the words out to no one in particular, a mixture of sheer relief and shock moving her tongue on its own.
Shrike briefly considers turning on her perception haki to see if he's lingering somewhere, just out of sight. She'd only 'awoken' it a few weeks ago, an exciting discovery during a particularly dangerous mission. Ever since then, though, it's been nigh uncontrollable. Turning it on in an environment like this would just leave her senses overwhelmed, and her a curled up mess on the ground.
She quickly decides against it.
A sudden burst of nervous laughter explodes into the disturbingly still courtyard, tearing itself from her throat. It carries an acrid taste of bile to her tongue, and she suddenly feels the pressing need to hurl.
All at once, the ground rushes up to greet her. Her knees crack hard against the ground, followed by the clang of her saber rattling onto the flagstones. While she doesn't feel the pain in her knees, the one in her gut is nigh overwhelming. It feels like she's taken a punch to the torso, stomach both impossibly tight and roiling at the same time.
Her chest aches, too, that latent anxiety of hers rearing its ugly head after she'd been doing so well to keep it dormant. Each breath she takes feels stolen from the air around her as her lungs heave for relief.
She really had been terrified. As much as she'd lied to herself about it, there's no denying the fear coursing through her veins now.
But as soon as she feels the prickling of tears at her eyes, it all turns to rage.
There are few things Shrike hates more than tears.
The anger from before had been mocking. Now? This is genuine. A wave of real, burning anger. Both at him and with herself. How dare he act like a child!? How dare she cry like a child!?
With a snarl, she grabs the blade next to her and rises to her feet. She holds the saber aloft to get a look at her face in the blade's polished reflection. The pale yellow eyes-almost like metallic brass-she normally finds offputting have lost much of the effect from the wet tears ringing them. The bags beneath them appear much more egregious than usual, too.
Strands of her ashen hair have come loose from her bun, falling forward to frame her face. The tone of her skin-usually a warm ivory-looks frighteningly pale, and even the light rosiness of her cheeks has lightened somewhat.
Frankly, she looks like shit. She honestly can't remember the last time she'd had an actual restful night of sleep, one that hadn't been plagued by nightmares or general restlessness. Given the events of today, she doubts tonight will be any different.
A weight suddenly drops into her stomach.
Tonight.
'Where the hell do I go?!'
She can't just return to the ship, can she? Crocodile had let her go... or at least, she thought he did, but that didn't mean he wouldn't just kill her the next time he sees her. His 'mercy' can only extend so far. The crew probably wouldn't protect her from their Captain, either. Most had an openly antagonistic relationship with her anyway, though that was mostly her fault. They'd probably just be happy to see her gone.
'Good riddance. They never wanted me anyway. No one has.'
But...
All her belongings are still in her bunk.
'Shit.'
Shrike sighs. A long, exhausting sigh that feels more like her soul leaving her body than just air. She'd taunted him so aggressively, went that far, fully expecting him to kill her, and now... Well, she isn't dead.
An odd feeling settles into her chest. It's almost as if she's... disappointed?
To have been so ready to die, only for nothing to happen? She's somehow both relieved and indescribably frustrated all at the same time.
'Do I want to die? I don't even know... I'm just...'
No, she knows. Her eyes tell it all.
Tired.
Shrike is just so... so very tired.
This is exhausting. Life is exhausting, always on the run, always fighting. Never any time to just stop and take a relaxing breath. In her thirties and she's been running for practically two-thirds of it. It's no wonder she's tired of being tired. She doesn't want to die so much as she craves the rest death brings.
But she can't ever rest. Death will catch up.
A particularly loud sniffle behind her brings her back to her senses.
'Oh, right. The Butler."
She turns to get a better look at the man she'd been so ready to die for, and he is so... unbutler-like.
The stereotypical monkey suit he has on is so poorly fitted, she struggles not to break out into laughter. It's practically tearing at the seams over his strapping frame. How he ever forced himself into it, she'll never know.
His blonde hair is poorly groomed, like he tried to slick it back with a product he's never touched before. Not to mention he appears to be quite young for a job that typically attracts the old or infirm, looking to be in his twenties. Definitely younger than she is.
But aside from the undeniably beautiful blue hue-so pale, almost like ice-of his eyes, there really is nothing special about him.
He quickly scrambles to his knees, prostrating himself before her.
Shrike practically flinches, immediately feeling uncomfortable by the direction this situation has turned. 'Oh no, please don't.'
"THANK YOU VERY MUCH MA'AM." He manages to squeak out in a timbre that makes his voice crack.
'Eugh.' She groans, rolling her eyes in an obvious show of distaste. "Get up. I don't have the patience for your groveling."
It's not lost on her how very much like her captain she sounds. The realization makes her a bit more uncomfortable than she wants to admit.
"SORRY MA'AM SORRY!" He nearly faceplants into the brick as he rushes to scramble to his feet.
She shakes her head and turns away. Her focus trains onto a small bird as it hops about the courtyard fountains, instead. If only it was the only other thing here. Animals are simple, much more preferable than people.
Especially when compared to annoying grovelers like this guy.
"Just get out of here, maybe find a different boss. Your current one is a shady piece of work." Though she almost laughs as she says it, noting the hypocrisy in her advice.
'Telling a glorified maid his boss sucks? What the hell does that make me then?'
No, really. What does that make her?
Returning to the ship most definitely meant walking right back into certain death, but it's not like she has much of a choice. There's nowhere else for her to go.
Maybe, just maybe... maybe he'd give her another chance?
She puffs a short laugh to herself as soon as the thought crosses her mind. 'I really am crazy.'
"Wait! Where are you going? That guy could be anywhere!" She hadn't realized she'd begun walking away until the butler calls out.
"Yeah, yeah I know. Don't worry about me. Just, worry about yourself, alright? Get a better job." She tosses her hand into the air in a mocking sign of farewell. "I have a date with death."
Death.
The man that didn't kill her.
Her captain… Sir Crocodile.