Chapter One: All I've ever wanted was a family.

Warnings: child abuse, devil fruit shaming, talk about character death, curses, AU, unedited

Get up, boy. Nameless boy. Devil boy. Undying dying boy. Slave boy, slave boy. Owned boy. Get up.

His flesh, without a wound or scrape, just with dried mountain of blood on his small bony frame, lacked the true horrors he had endured since his reckoning. The young boy's blond hair dirtied with piss and shit from the ground of the cell, he felt nothing. Nothing in the darkness and nothing in the one true truth. His young, broken mind comprehends faces all around him, word being spoken, but his soul does not see what they have done and will do to him - the nameless, the devil, undying dying, slave, owned boy. The whips and chains he is blind to; the fear, the interrogation, the curse - he cannot see any of that, not even his life.

Get up, boy.

The masters dig their fists into the leash of chains dragging the boy to come closer. They think they've broken the boy, stripped him of everything he once was and will ever become. Stripped him of his future. They blame the sea monsters but really this was what they desired as soon as the boy took his first breath into this wretched world. Unfair world, cruel world - it doesn't matter. Faces of mock justice eye the bloody boy as these masters command the other owned ones to do their bidding. Beat the boy, they tell the owned ones. Strike him, rip apart his flesh and dehumanize him, they order.

The boy is safe, is sound. Locked up in his own mind for protection, he grows numb to the dehumanization and monsterization. In his mind he sits in his little throne of books, in the history of the world that has been forced, for the most part, to be erased and forgotten. To be left behind. But the books pile and pile and his photogenic memory remembers how each and every book looks like, how each word is written in the black ink. He reads and reads, learns and learns. Never forgets.

In these books hide a great secret. One he has yet to crack. But the code that will lead him to all of the answers is in his throne of history, of books. Once, the words in the book say, there was peace and unity among the sea dwellers. They've many great powers and many great secrets, kept by the blood of the lamb, the screaming sea dwellers. In this book memorized by the owned boy, kept safe in his mind of books throne, lies the bigger picture. The people of the sea with unnatural skin color and scaly flesh were at the brink of war. No blood of the family members of the sea can be spilled in the holy water, the great ocean. Two parties, one larger than the latter, had turned to the land walkers for help and guidance.

The owned boy knows that the land walkers are a menace of the world and the knowledge of this has lead him in chains outside of his mind. He understands that he is undergoing torture in the outside world, understands that he is an owned human. An owned cursed human with a curse that is suppose to bring death and disease and yet it only brings him salvation from the clutches of death, the one true god in this world. They believe he has met The One, the sin of the world.

"Get up, boy." The words are harsh with the echoing of rattled chains, unknowingly bringing the boy back into the real world.

"Don't bother," one master spits out in disgust. "He's not here with us but in that brain of his."

An owned man who had previously told the child to get up backs down to dodge the fury of this particular master. His dark eyes look down to what is held in the master's hands, nearing pissing himself from the mere sight. The master holds out the needle built from the grass and shells of the mother sea, the only weapon that can temporarily withhold the curse's final gift. With one command the boy screams. This cruel world distinguishes hope from the paradise of the owned boy's mind, forcing his eyes to say farewell for a little while. Dark, dark, the whole world grows dark.

And then the boy remembers that he is now a man and that it was all just a dream of the past. His bright blue eyes open up in a haste only to be staring in the eyes of another. His brother, Thatch. His brother full of smiles and laughter, and childishness the blond had never had the chance to be.

"Morning, sleeping beauty. But more like afternoon, closer to evening." Thatch says softly and yet a little mischievous, adding in his infamous playful behavior.

"Really now, says the man who slept through an entire attack." The blond man, Marco, says in a pout.

"One time," the brownish-red head defends himself, pointing up a single finger to prove his point.

Marco dismisses the argument by sitting up straight and stretching his arms above his head. Dark circles are apparent under his eyes, for his blue phoenix curse couldn't cure everything. He spares no attention to the man still resting his head on his desk, instead he stands up and rummages through his closest. Taking a quick, unnoticed glance at Thatch's clothing to see what the weather was like, Marco decided to wear his favorite purple buttoned up shirt. Of course he left the front open for all to see - his mark, his muscles, his strength. He then picks out his dimmed blue satchel, leaving the loose pants he slept with on.

"I'm tired."

"Who wouldn't be, brother?" Marco laughs, making his way back over to Thatch. "Especially those who have a mountain of paperwork from their division and two others."

Thatch raised his head at that, tilting his head. When his older brother gave him a knowing glare, Thatch put his hands up in defeat. Lazily getting up to pat his brother on the shoulder, Thatch smiled weakly.

"I'm being called." Was all he said.

Marco leaned into the touch, just slightly, and sighed. "You are always being called."

"I need to go. It's important - and, and you know what happens when I ignore them."

Marco moved his mouth to Thatch's ear, whispering in a begging threat, "Don't be gone for too long. I promise I'll come get you if it comes down to it."

Thatch embraced his brother in a hug and whispered, "You promise?" Marco only sighed again, knowing what would come next. Thatch wanted him to tell pops. It always had to be Marco to tell pops.

0o0

Walking around on the Moby Dick was always a painful blessing. Marco always loved and will always love his adopted family, but it didn't mean that it didn't hurt to watch them walk by through time, through age. Everyone walks in and then everyone walks out of his life - that was and is and will forever be his curse: immortality. To be rejuvenated in mocking rebirth of a blue phoenix, unaffected by age and wounds and time while others are. One day everyone will die and be buried in the grave and Marco will always be there to witness it. So it was painful watching his brothers and sisters and yet it was also a blessing. A blessing because without his family, he would be nothing, have nothing, love nothing. A blessing.

One of his brothers asks Marco to help with carrying a few things down to the storage. Feigning a smile and taking some of his brother's burden of boxes of necessary materials for the ship, guilt sinks into the back of his throat for worrying about his own problems. How selfish, he mutters in his head. I should be here - here with my family, not somewhere in my mind. He shakes the thoughts out of his head, knowing what would come next if he didn't put a stop at it.

Get up, boy.

The two boxes Marco was carrying slips out of his hands in a daze, falling on the ground.

"Someone must have some things on their mind with a slip of your fingers like that stunt." A man dressed in fancy robes says, blinking his eyes innocently. He mutters something to his companion who was next to him, and then he picks up the fallen boxes heading down to the storage room with his other brother.

"There's a lot to think of," Marco defended himself, a little grouchy.

"And whose head have you bitten off today, first commander?" The sixteenth division commander, Izo, asked innocently, batting his eyelashes once again.

"I'm sorry," Marco apologizes, looking away from the crossdresser's all knowing piercing glance.

"No need. Come, walk with me?" Marco holds out his arm for his brother who happily accepts, entangling his arm with his older brother. "There is a lot to think of, especially now. Though I guess this news hasn't reached your ears. It's a little tough, so be prepared?"

"Tell me?" Marco half asked and half begged, knowing whatever it was it must be important. Izo was the man who had many ears and many friends to whisper in them.

Izo smiled, half sad and half amused. Sad, probably because of the news - or that was what Marco assumed - and amused by something he noticed in Marco. "Since you asked so nicely. Pop's heart is becoming weaker and weaker by the day. Doctors," Izo tightens his grip on his older brother's arm protectively, "Guess that he has six months to live. The curse is getting to him, Marco, and it is blowing his organs like his gift, pushing them to places where it doesn't belong, tremoring when it should lay dormant."

Marco didn't say a word for a while. Instead, he held onto Izo like life support, following where his brother's feet took him. Before long, he began to breathe normally again, back into this world where his family was and outside of his mind. Izo gave a knowing sad look at his brother, understanding his panic attack. But he needed Marco to be strong now, strong so the weaker siblings could have someone to fall on when the time is needed.

"I wonder," Marco started to say, "when it will be my turn to die."

Uneasy silence fell between the two siblings until the younger one stopped walking to unhook his arm away from his brother's. AN echo of a loud slap across the face was the only thing heard, the walls of the Moby Dick around them just as shocked and apologetic as Marco was feeling. Before the blond could apologize Izo wrapped his arm around Marco once again, this time laying his head on his shoulders - Marco was always the taller one, the stronger one, the one who always had feared abandonment.

"No one would be able to survive with our everyday activities without their mother hen, especially the young lion," Thatch, "What has his heart told him now?"

"Somewhere was calling him, somewhere far away. Left a few hours ago. And," Marco gently nudged Izo, " I am not a mother hen."

"Exactly what a mother hen would say!" A cheery voice behind them chirped.

"Haruta," Izo smiled, letting go of Marco to head over to her. "Do you have the - " Marco tuned them out and continued to walk. He was close to where he was heading to, Izo leading him there without the Phoenix really noticing. "Marco, dear," Izo called out, "Do tell Pops I said hi. Also, the new shipments arrived successfully."

Marco waved off to his brother signalling that he heard the message even though he was still walking away, not facing Izo's direction. Once Marco arrived at his destination he knocked once, then twice, then remembered what Izo had told him. Pop's health was sinking into the sinkhole of death, and with this little reminder the Phoenix quickly opened the door. His heart stopped beating as his blue eyes searched through the room. No one was there. Relief flooded his mind as curiousity got to him which allowed him to take that first step into his father's room.

0o0

Whitebeard carefully staggered into his room, a sense of drunkenness and highness from the new drugs his daughters had prescribed to him. Each day closer to death was each day hyped up on meds that wouldn't mean anything in the end, but he carefully kept his mouth shut. His children were worried about him and in their eyes he could never die, never. But even the strongest man alive had to die sometime, and he knew that he was dying. Whitebeard would be dead very soon, but he didn't concern himself with any of it. Resting himself at his desk he let out a small frustrated groan. Opening on of his draws that hid his secret stash of alcoholic beverages, he wondered what his children would do without him. The future was vast and he knew that his children didn't see it the way he did, and he hoped that maybe someday they will.

An unnatural snore softly sang. Whitebeard turned his head to the origin of the noise, he noticed that his blankets were breathing. Smiling, he knew that his eldest son was there, there on his bed sleeping peacefully. Marco always had to be around someone, usually his father, to be able to sleep whenever he was stressed out. Right now what stressed his son out was probably fear like it had been so many times in the past. Marco never lived the perfect childhood, none of his children did, but for Marco he always had images and sounds messing with him from the past. All one could do to help him when he was like that was to allow him to rest and remind him that he is safe, that this was a safe place and no harm can reach him. Or his family.

The fear this time was most likely the fear of outliving everyone; the fear of witnessing each and every family member be buried in the grave. Seeing a lifeless body that had once been so full of life. This was a fear many of his children - even Whitebeard had this fear - but for Marco it was more intense, more painful. The curse did him no justice no matter what anyone says about it. The curse of the Phoenix, the curse of rebirth, rejuvenation, immortality. Being immortal around so many who were not was painful for Marco but he kept it hidden for the most part. He kept it hidden of the guilt he felt when the blue flames of the Phoenix healed him but not his fallen family members.

Taking a moderately big swig of rum, something on his desk caught his eye. A note with beautiful handwriting - courtesy of Marco. In his stunning handwriting, it said: Something is calling Thatch so he left today to find out what it was and what it meant. If he isn't back within a month I am going after him to bring him home. I'll be in charge of Fourth Division's paperwork, along with my own and Second Division's. Izo said the new shipments came in without a problem. - Marco. Whitebeard smiled at his son's straightforwardness and placed the note somewhere safe. Without taking another glance at his son, he took another large drink of his rum.

The breathing machine, along with Marco's Phoenix form snoring, were the only noises in the unusual quiet room. For Whitebeard, it was something he didn't want to hear. The breathing machine only reminded him that moving whatsoever will hurt and that he couldn't breathe by himself anymore. The wires sticking to his chest monitoring his heart was another reminder of his soon departure from this world. Honestly, he was afraid of leaving. Afraid of leaving and being the cause of his family falling into the depths of despair. His organs were rumbling from his curse and like an earthquake his insides tumbled, desperately trying to find a place to ground themselves.

His curse, his devil fruit.

Whitebeard wasn't there for when the curses started, but he had lived long enough to hear the tales of it. Little whispers here and there, little words that connected this to that. The government had all the answers to the curse but refused to admit it, refused to admit that it was real. But every now and then a little mouse would squeak and fill in the blanks. The rest was just generally known.

Two hundred years ago was when it started. When the birds and the bees sung and the ocean as clear and as pure as a babe's first breath, there were two different worlds. One world was above the sea and on land and the people who hosted that land were called land dwellers. Of course there were more than one type of land dweller, separated by the color of skin and race, and their own culture and history. But in general they were called land dwellers, today they're called humans. The second world was one in the sea where many creatures lived there. The creatures that lived there were known as being sea dwellers, fish people, merpeople. And in that world laid more diversity than the world above, ranging from mermaids and mermen, sharks and octopuses that could talk and walk on two legs. The variety was undeniable more vast than what anyone could comprehend but there was one species of the sea that stood out to the world above and below the sea: sirens.

Sirens had the amazing power to purify anything with their voices, their sweet singing voices. The reason why the sea was crystal clear and why fresh, extremely clean air was possible was all thanks to the siren's voice, their singing voice. With such pure power jealousy erupted throughout the sea and false rumors appeared on land. Sirens, little whispers of the land said quickly, lead fisherman off of their boats and into the sea where they would be sacrificed to keep the world pure. Their voices, the other sea dwellers would add on, are powers from the devil himself. They were given to those fake mermaids in order to kill everything in it's path.

Before long everyone had ill thoughts towards the sirens. Ill thoughts morphed into ill intentions, ill intentions turned into a mass genocide. Together the land dwellers and sea creatures banded up for the first and last time to eradicate the devils. Slowly the sea darkened with the blood of the pure, the air thickening with the loss of the purifying ceremony. When the sirens became weak and little their enemies decided to enslave them, rape them, feed them to their pets for entertainment. The last siren witnessed in horror the terrible deeds that were done to his people and, as a final act of self-preservation, this particular siren cursed the entire worlds. The curse was called devil fruits.

Devil fruits were just an intangible concept that explained the unexplainable. At random, in random times of the land dwellers or sea dweller's life, they would be granted a great power. The ability to turn to smoke, to turn to fire, to morph into animals or to talk to ghosts. At first glance these powers seemed amazing but as time passed they became a curse. Once attaining a devil fruit the person would no longer be able to swim, and any water - especially sea water - would render them useless and drained from any energy they have. Once in water all they would be able to do is sink - even the most amazing swimmers sank, even the sea people who were born and raised in water would sink and eventually drown.

That wasn't the full curse. These powers gained from the devil - people liked to call the last siren the devil himself - was a prophecy on how they will die. If the person had the power to be and control lava, they would die by lava. If they had the power to turn into an animal, they would die by that type of animal. And so on and so on.

The curse of a siren was something to be feared and to be reminded of the injustice but the land dwellers and the sea creatures only felt fear and repulsed, shunning and enslaving the demons.

Sirens were beautiful no matter what gender, Whitebeard mused. A long time ago the strongest man alive had met a siren. He was a man sitting on a rock, his fins tapping the water, purifying the dark blue sea around him. It was only purifying it gently and only where his fin touched.

"Aye," the siren called out in a friendly voice, noticing young Whitebeard - he was named Edward Newgate during this time, fifty some years ago. "Throw me a bottle, will ya?"

The voice captivated Edward Newgate temporarily stunning him. It was like a voice of an angel, so light and calming yet so demanding of what this creature seems to think he deserves. Before the siren spoke again Edward threw a bottle of red wine, the only alcoholic beverage he had at the moment. The siren smirked cockily as he caught it with ease - Edward was only feet away from the siren man afterall. The wine bottle was then quickly opened and then chugged, some of the red substance dripping down his chin forcing Edward to look away in shame. Honestly the pirate had never thought anyone like this before and for him it was kind of embarrassing.

"W-who are you?" The pirate stuttered out curiously.

The siren, already finished with the bottle, set it down on the rock and then dumped himself in the water. Within seconds he appeared leaning his arms and head on the edge of the pirate's boat, staring at Edward in wide eyes.

"I'm someone." Someone who didn't have the ability to stop Whitebeard's curse but knew someone who could. "And who are you?"

"Someone." Edward muttered slightly confused.

"I already said that, you can't go copying me! Rude!" The siren said laughingly. "If you wont tell me who you are, tell me what you want?"

Whitebeard closed his eyes, leaning on his chair. Remembering the siren made his heart twist because remembering the siren made him remember the regrets and chances he had never took to save his friend. It was full of regrets, regrets that were similar to his current regrets -

Regrets of not being able to save his family he had created from the nearing pain they soon will face. Funny how all he wanted was a family, a happy family. Looking over to the tint of none burning flames covered in his blankets, Whitebeared pondered the sickly thought of who's dreams will be broken: his or his child's?

Please review. This is an unedited version, so if you see any mistakes please tell me. Thank you!