"Leaving? Whaddya mean, leaving?" The look of betrayal on Genno's face was almost disarming.
"I mean that I won't be with you all anymore." I turned my eyes from the group of downtrodden boys in front of me to a nearby wall. The warehouse was leagues cleaner than when I'd first entered it. We'd moved the crates around to work as furniture, each construction overflowing with trinkets, food, and money in different areas of the concrete flooring. The ceiling was still musty and rank, but the groaning stopped a couple years ago.
"Damn! This is Braxton all over again," Poshon moaned. "There wasn't s'posed to be no 'pass on the torch.' We can't do anything without you." The rest of the boys grumbled in agreement.
"I've been wasting my time?" I couldn't keep the acerbity from my tone. Poshon flinched back. "Each lesson about self-sufficiency and survival was a waste of my breath?"
"We… We don't want you to leave, Kumo," Antonio muttered.
"You're big fish now, as far as Sabaody brats go. You know how to move products, pick pockets, bribe, and extort. You know how to rule these groves. You know how to stake your mark. At the end of the day, I have a home to go back to; you all don't. I couldn't give that to you. Instead, I gave you tools to survive without one. Please don't forget everything else, too. Don't forget equal rights and autonomy; don't forget what you're here for, or what your worth is.
"Antonio, Minoruba, Hikari, Poshon, Ko, Lensen, Jet, Soichi, Henry, Genno, Jin, Tsubasa, Kairiken, Aoi! Take everything I've taught you and run with it. This won't be the last time you see me; I've a lot going on right now, is all."
:
:
"Oi, Braxton." I threw two pebbles simultaneously; expecting the one to the left, he dodged… putting himself in the right's line of fire.
Wop!
"Fuckin' hell, Kumo, why'ah ya such a li'l dick." He turned as he rubbed his head, grinning easily. The filthy green coverall he wore was unbuttoned, shimmied down to his hips, and unlike Parker, Braxton was lithe from his work.
"Makes life easier," I replied, matching his grin with a cocksure one of my own.
"How's it goin', ya grimy fuck?"
"No worse than it goes for you, dick breath."
"Tell me how ya really feel," he said, bumping my shoulder as I took a seat beside him. On Tuesdays Braxton liked to overlook the sea at a little inlet on Grove 20. He was seventeen, blowing through cigarettes like a chimney, with a stony disposition that almost matched mine.
"Those things are going to kill you, kid." He bumped my shoulder again.
"If dis shithole don't first, kid. Talkin' ta me like I wasn't twice ya damn age when we met, fuckin' brat." When I didn't reply, he took the time to scrutinize me. It was silent as I stared at the ocean, his gaze boring into me. Waves lapped at the edge of the mangrove and I experienced an uncomfortable nostalgia. Gulls cried overhead, the pungent scent of brine overwhelmed my olfactory system, and the ocean breeze sent seawater onto my cheeks from time to time. It wasn't the beige, sandy coasts I was once used to, it felt so—
I turned, eventually, meeting his baby blue with my sienna red.
"I left the boys."
"Ya what?" His expression contorted into a mix of disbelief and anger. "Da fuck? Why would ya do dat?"
"I didn't want to take the lead in the first fuckin' place—"
"Dat doesn't mean you abandon 'em, Kumo, what's ya—"
"I didn't abandon them, I—"
"Jus' lef' a buncha li'l kids on their own? Alone on da streets wit' no one there for 'em? No one ta guide 'em? Kumo, da whole reason I put ya in charge was so dat you could—"
"No, the whole reason you put me in charge was so that you could. So that you could move on with your life and not feel guilty about doing the same thing I'm doing right now, because you decided to shirk your responsibility to them on me."
He visibly bristled. "Ya too fuckin' good ta care about us orphans?"
"Please. If that were true I'd have left when you did, and you know that." He quieted, regarding me with burning eyes and pursed lips; I was sure my expression was fiercer. While I couldn't intimidate him with my eyes, I had enough presence to shut the man up when needed. "I can't hold their hands until they find what you have, so I've dedicated five years to making sure they will be as safe and quick witted as possible. They've been doing stellar without me, lifting from ships. Ships. I did well. Now, I've found an opportunity—"
"Da old lady ya got a crush on."
"—with Shakky-san. I would've had to leave, regardless." Braxton sighed, ruffling his brunet hair.
"Couldn' ya've waited a li'l longer?"
"I'm barely with them anymore, anyway. Now's the best time."
"Fuck's sake, what's so cool about some old bag dat lives inna bar?"
"It's not that she's cool; she's a valuable resource. She's giving me something I haven't been able to procure anywhere else."
"So cuz da boys ain't valuable no more ya droppin' 'em fa somethin' new 'n shiny. S'like nothin's eva fuckin' good enough! Ya always keepin' ya eyes open fa somethin' betta."
"That wouldn't make a difference if it were true. Would you have left if I hadn't come along?"
He hesitated. "No." Not a lie… Not the truth.
"You aren't sure your damn self," I sighed.
"Shut up."
"I will not. We talked about it, Braxton. We had an agreement."
"I haven't saved enough fuckin' beri!"
"The boys will be fine until you do. You know where I live, they know where I live – they know where the bar is, too. This is exactly why I was hesitant about telling you. I knew you were going to overreact."
"Easy fa you ta say."
"Go back, then."
"I jus' fuckin' told ya—"
"Look. As I am now, there's nothing more to show them. I did my part. You need to quit fucking worrying."
He went silent, stewing over his obvious refusal of my response and my own refusal to be a mentor any longer. I exhaled. Reclining, I turned my gaze to the sky and lifted my hands over my head, kid-sized wife beater riding up. The tufts of grass caressed every patch of my exposed skin, and for that moment, calling Sabaody comfortable didn't seem so farfetched. "… I guess ya right."
I smirked. "Always am."
"Oh, fuck off."
:
:
Academies for STEM studies are the closest thing this world has to higher education. There are no schools for other disciplines. Entertainment and art are undertaken through exposure; practices like bladesmithing, architecture, or shipbuilding are apprentice based. (Of course, while in an academic area these statements may not hold true, the rest of the world doesn't acknowledge school in the same light scholars do.)
There are two methods of academy entry, separated by age. Kids can easily enter an academy up to age twelve. They need to know where and when the placement exams are, which differ academy to academy, and afford the boarding fees and voyage fees, however minimal. All classes are vocational, geared toward a specific career path in STEM, be it medicine, brokerage, or vessel engineering.
Age thirteen and older was where it partially emulated Normal Land's college entry process. To get into an academy, a scholar needed to do the same as the preteen level along with passing an entry exam and finding a sponsor. The sponsor served as academic reference, providing a vote of confidence in a student's abilities to perform at a level without 'formal' teaching. The sponsor had to be: an academy graduate of any accredited alma mater (there was a world committee, apparently) and associated with the student for at least two years.
None of this can be done, however, without an academic subscription. The academic subscription is a combination of prospectus and application, varying by institution and entry level. Each subscription cost big beri by Florence standards. Acceptance was only guaranteed for preteens and Reika didn't have nearly enough money to buy a single subscription for one child. By the time Cho began contributing, Lemon and I were the last ones young enough for semi-affordable subscriptions. Lemon never wanted to go to school and I'd struck gold with Shakky. Luckily for Amy, the businessman – Tori Haoto – had contracted his student as a paper pusher in his Sabaody office; instead of a healthy salary, he agreed to pay for three subscriptions, Amy's boarding and voyage fees, and a pittance of ten thousand beri a month.
Aside from that, education was free, so no one really complained.
"Ah~! Look, everyone! I got the letter from Airgeadas!"
Though she'd already gotten two acceptance letters, Airgeadas was Amy's first choice. She danced around the room, hazel eyes twinkling, while Lemon tailed after and tried reading over her older sister's shoulder; already a few inches taller than Amy's five-foot-four.
"What's it say! What's it say!"
Reika sat at the table with a cup of hot tea, silky black hair pulled into a rare short ponytail. "Even if you didn't get in we'll support you. If you want, you can stay at home with me." Amy's face was one of contrition and slight repulsion.
"Thanks, mom, but I'm not giving up school to stay on Sabaody."
"Good on you! This place sucks. Open up your letter already, li'l sis," Parker called from the kitchen, shoving a bun in his mouth. Reika's presence warbled in discomfort, though she said nothing. She knew as well as we that Sabaody did suck.
"Right! Let the letter opening commence!" She stood at the mouth of the kitchenette, just where the living room ended, and neatly tore the top off the envelope. "'Dear Florence Amaryllis, thank you for your application to Airgeadas Academy. We are honored to welcome you—!'" She cut herself off with a squeal, dropping to the floor with the letter clutched to her chest and an expression of bliss. "Teheheheh! I knew Haoto-sensei would come through for me~! I'm so glad I helped him hide those bodies!"
"You what?" Reika looked on in horror as her second daughter hugged her acceptance letter.
"Teheheheheh, I can't believe you fell for that!" Amy howled with laughter, tears of mirth slipping out of the corners of her eyes. It startled a snort from me.
"Devious," I murmured, a terrible smile on my face. Everyone looked at me, presences flickering in surprise.
"That's why I'm the cutest!" Too fucking cheeky.
"No, we've been over this! Kumo's the cutest," Parker defended.
"If anything, I'm the scariest."
Lemon cut in. "Cho's way scarier than you." Well, Cho had indiscriminately soaped up all her younger siblings' mouths for cussing (myself excluded).
"Who isn't scared of Cho?" Amy asked, kicking her legs into the air as her chiffon skirt pooled at her hips.
"Stop that, perverts will see your panties through the window!" The evil minx snickered, rolling on to her stomach and flashing Reika – along with Parker who was behind her – with a fucking panty shot.
"Ew, Amy, what the fu—!"
"Florence Amaryllis!"
Parker stumbled back into the fridge and gagged, holding a toned olive arm over his stomach. Reika broke into a smile as Amy rolled around on the cobalt rug, cackling. Lemon looked on from farther into the living room with an unpleasant expression dominating her angular face.
"When are you gonna go to school, Parker?" Parker's deferment of his education was obvious. He had held off for reasons he hadn't yet explained to me while Reika constantly pushed him to go to school and make money for the family.
Reika sighed. "Parker… Amy's almost nineteen, and she got in a very prestigious academy in the North Blue. You've just turned twenty-two, and you're still on that fishing boat…"
"Yeah, Parker! You're gonna be a stripper like Cho?"
"Any stripper's better than a marine," I bit back, smothering the malicious light in Lemon's fawn eyes. The room sobered. Lemon's decision to join the Marines was controversial in the Florence household. To be fair, she was likely too young to be substantially affected by Roger's execution, as she was only seven. It was still a stupid fucking decision. From Reika's silent disappointment to my outspoken disdain, however, everyone's negative reactions likely fueled the monster's spiteful registration.
Parker sighed, taking a seat at the low yellow table. "And what's so wrong with the fishing boat, ma? Girls can't enlist 'til they're sixteen, so there's a whole year of waiting we gotta do. If I leave, you won't have enough money to take care of yourself, Maryanne, and Kumo!"
"Cho will give us more money when you leave, Parker. Then, you get a job and come back to take care of your family."
"Cho has to move back in if she's gonna give you any more money, ma. She can't afford her rent plus what she's gotta give you to make up for me." Reika looked on blankly, as if guilting her eldest into moving back so that she didn't have to watch her mother and siblings become homeless were a reasonable solution to that problem. Parker groaned. "Cho doesn't wanna move back. I'm not making her, either. I won't leave 'til after Maryanne does."
"Parker—"
"Quit pushing the issue, Reika." I met her startled gaze from my corner, thirty feet away, mouth shaped in a bland frown. "If Amy says she wants to go to school, that's what she's going to do. If Parker says he's staying until Lemon leaves, that's what he's going to do. If Lemon says she wants to be conscripted, then… that's what she's going to waste her life on, I guess. They aren't here solely to accommodate you, you know."
The silence was deafening, quiet bells ringing in my ears with the sheer anger I was chewing on. It didn't make sense, for people like her to exist. To become mothers. The issues I had with my own mother –
I missed her so much, sometimes. All of them. My mother, my father, my close friends. They –
weren't enough to warrant the disgust Reika instilled within me. Regardless of their flaws, she had good kids. Funny, disorderly, unique children that she didn't seem to truly appreciate. I could tell she really loved her kids. I understood that it was in her own way, that she was just… unfit. Birthing children does not a mother make.
"Hey, hey, I think you are the scariest, Kumo," Amy said, poking her rosy-pale cheek in thought. The belated grin was piercing. "Definitely the eyes."
:
:
Parker and I still shared a room. We didn't spend as much time together as we used to, with him working his ass off and me observing alcoholics while I learned to harness my Haki. Some nights, however, insomnia would eclipse us both until one of us fell asleep.
"Hey, Parker, are you awake?" I whispered to the darkness. My lack of sight seemingly bolstered my other senses. In the distance, I could hear the ruckus of Grove 21, bar patrons bellowing late into the night and the occasional gunshot. Our room smelled of clean linen and musk, with the omnipresent undercurrent of our decaying home.
"Yeah," he replied, lowly. "What's up?"
"I just wanted you to know you're my favorite."
He snorted. "Ah, I better be. It'd suck if you liked any of your friends more than me when I'm the coolest big brother ever."
"How can you be the big brother when you're more of a kid than I am?"
"'Cause you're too smart for your own good," he huffed, though I could hear the smile in his voice.
"Is it safe to say you think I'm the 'coolest little brother ever?'"
"Why don't you want to be the coolest little sister ever?"
"Being a brother makes more sense." I held my breath, fingers trembling as I waited for his response. Parker was my brother. My little-big brother. He was dynamic, a kind and empathetic soul in an abyssal vortex of strife. But… I doubted he found the time to open his mind to the topic.
If I explained the root of my refusal to adhere to gender roles, would he understand? If I told him the concept of gender essentialism, personal expression based on varied and indefinable chromosomal expressions which were grossly misconstrued as binary, was essentially fake, could he grasp what that meant? What would he think of allosomes, aneuploidy, gonads, homogametic and heterogametic expression, karyotypes, sexual differentiation, or intersexuality?
From a biological standpoint, the existence of "gender" was an inaccurate interpretation of human sexual expression. Humans weren't only "male" and "female;" chromosomal combinations past "XX" and "XY" existed more commonly than many knew. Most people even from Normal Land were, understandably, unaware of divergent sexual development or other genetic aberrations surrounding allosomes – sex chromosomes – among the population. It wasn't the norm to study the average person's gene expression, with tests undertaken solely when it affected the phenotype of the individual. People with XY-chromosome pairs born with "female" sexual characteristics; somatic mosaicism where a "male" has an extra X-chromosome, who may exhibit sexual characteristics of both "male" and "female;" mutations which cause an excess or deficient production of sex steroids, altering the development of sexual characteristics; and myriad others testified for the diversity of human sexual expression, which was inefficiently defined as a binary system.
He stayed silent far longer than I'd projected, and the palpitations of my heart picked up until my forehead was covered in a thin sheen of sweat. It was uncomfortably warm, a constant thrum of blood pumping beneath my dermis and flittering in my ears. I turned my head to the side and focused on the feeling of prickly wool filaments on my cheek. A breath in and I could smell the sweat on my upper lip. A breath out and I could hear my chest rattle.
Taking polyploidy and the multiplicity of their sex-determination systems into account the potential allosomic expression of Fishmen is sure to be nothing short of spectacular why won't he answer me I can't—
"Not to me." My face was red-hot, I knew. My cheeks, neck, ears, nose, eyes – all on fire. I took my bottom lip between my teeth, tongue running over plush baby flesh, and ground down. I ground until my incisors pierced my lip, ground until flesh strips caught between my teeth, ground until I could feel my veins give way, ground and ground as the ferrous tang of blood flooded my mouth.
"I—" My voice cracked. A breath in. A breath out.
"Hey." He rustled around. "Hey, Kumo." I felt the warmth of his body over me, my eyes clamped shut from humiliation. "Kumo are you cr—"
"No," I snarled. As I opened my eyes, I sensed his hand jerk back. The flutter of his presence betrayed his inward panic, though I couldn't see his expression in the dark.
"Hey, hey, Kumo don't cry—"
"I am not—"
"—because I don't understand! If you think you're a boy—"
"I don't think anything how can you be so fucking tactless Par—"
"—then you're a boy. I don't get it but please, please don't cry!" he cried in a strained whisper.
I… I was so angry at him.
I was angry at his rejection, however much I had anticipated it. I was angry that he infantilized my identity. I was angry he had something to say about it. There was acceptance; there was also a 'but.'
(Inescapable.)
I turned my back to him completely. "Leave me alone."
"Ku—"
"I'm tired." My response was terse, quashing the conversation. I didn't sleep that night.
:
:
When I'd first felt the voice of a presence taking the same path I was to Shakky's, I figured it coincidence. Meandering through lengthy passageways and changing the direction of my route let me know that, no, I was actually being followed.
Slavers?
My stomach twisted. I let my hand creep to the jack knife in my pocket, an upgrade I'd snatched from a weapons shop. With my basic understanding of the blade, I was liable to cut my own finger off in the process of defending myself; I'd definitely go kicking.
(Broken limbs torn flesh gnashed teeth sanguine tears hollowed eyes chunks of flesh ripped supposed to be in Cho's one long contusion the width of Parker's scrawny arm—)
I turned around, blade drawn. My pursuer, caught by surprise, wasn't deft enough to conceal themselves and stood dumbly in the empty patch of grass between the run-down buildings I'd stopped near. Algae covered Yarukiman roots wider than a semi-trailer towered above us, interrupting the sun and casting a thick strip of shade over the area. Indigo hair. Purple eyes. Probably fourteen.
Where have I seen you before?
She fidgeted. I leveled an unamused frown at her. "S–Sorry!" she blurted. Her cheeks grew red. "I, um. I…"
"We've met before." Her face brightened.
"Yeah! A couple, um. A–A couple years ago…" She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, and I noticed her wristlet.
"Setsuko…?"
"Celia, actu'lly," she sniped.
"Right. Well." There weren't any other voices lingering around so I put the knife away, stuffing my hands in the corduroy pockets of my overalls to hide their shaking. "Stop following me. I've got nothing for you." Celia drew back, face pallor.
"Wait! Why, um. Why dontcha run with the other boys no more?"
"None of your business."
Her eyebrow twitched. "I was jus' tryna make conversation."
"If I wanted to have a conversation with you that wouldn't be a problem. As it stands, I have places to be. Bother me with a revenge plot some other day."
"I'on want revenge!" That was… good, in a tentative sense. I watched a few bubbles rise from the ground, wondering at the composition of the resin they were made of. Nothing more than a product of cellular respiration and photosynthesis but strong enough to send ships to the bottom of the ocean. Some made it to the treetops, some popped the moment they met air. One burst above Celia's head.
"Then why are you following me?"
"I… I always see you with them boys an' you haven't been with 'em for a while so I thought somethin' happened to you. Then, I saw you an' I wanteda see where you were goin' 'cause I thought maybe it wasn't you? After I saw your eyes, I knew it was def–defit—def'nitely you so…"
"So?"
"I–I jus' wanteda… see if you were okay…"
I sighed. "Thank you for your concern; as you can see I'm alive and well. You should be more careful, yourself. Girls your age are either being stolen by Marine propaganda or the slavers. Keep an extra set of eyes on the back of your head," I warned.
"Propawhat? Stolen? How old d'you think I am? What's wrong with Marines?"
God, I really fucking hated kids.
"Absolutely none of that matters. Stay safe, Celia-kun." I spun one-eighty on my heel and resumed my trek to Shakky's.
"I'm a girl! Wait a sec, I'on know your name! Hey!"
"Florence Kumo." I refused to turn back, holding up a peace sign. Celia bolted, cutting me off mid-step to stand in my way. She had the audacity to look cantankerous, cocking her hip to the side and resting a hand on her denim shorts.
"Don't jus' leave without answerin' mah questions! 'S rude!"
"Listen, kid, I don't have the time or the patience to entertain you right now." I stepped forward, using the extra two inches I had to stare her down. Taking a deep breath – she smelled like someone dumped honeydew puree all over her – I bared my teeth as my eyes narrowed. Her peeved confidence left in an instant. "Get out of my way."
The telltale sign of tears appeared as her eyes started to glaze over.
Oh my fucking god. Why does this shit always happen to me? I just want to go see some winos get thrashed for overpriced liquor and read a motherfucking book oh my god. I hate kids and I hate their crying and I hate their guilt tripping.I hate everything.
I stepped back, rubbing my temples to quell an oncoming headache. New approach: "Propaganda. Basically, people telling you lies to make whatever they want you to do look like more fun than it actually is. Marines are bad. They say they're good—they're not. At all. Believe me or don't, I don't really care. Are we done?"
"S–Stolen…" Her eyes were glassy.
"Ah. If you go with them willingly, you're signing up for a militant lifestyle before you're an adult and fully aware of consent. They're stealing your free will through organizational obligations. If you decide to leave, you're seen as a defector and enemy of the World Government."
"The Marines… they're the good guys. It's the pirates that—" She bit her lip, eyes downcast.
"They're both shit, sorry to break it to you."
"I'm not old enough to 'list yet."
"No? You look about fourteen."
Celia grinned, showing off a pair of mirror image snaggleteeth and a cream-colored smile. "I'm almost twelve!" she bragged. Taking note of her developing figure, blue halter top, and twin beauty marks beneath her eyes, I was uncomfortably aware that she would be subject to perverse gazes far earlier than her peers. An unfortunate reality. "How old're you?"
"… Eleven."
"O–Oh, me too! Well, y'already know that one, but that's cool 'cause we can—"
"Stop." She clammed up, voice catching in her throat. "I've answered your questions and I really need to leave now." I bade her a final wave. "Seriously, stay safe." Without lending my ear to her response, I scuttled the fuck away. As I meandered back on a direct route, the hum of intermittent voices calmed me. No stragglers, no followers. Shakky wiggled her fingers at me when I entered the bar and I gave her a nod back, beelining to my corner booth. Noontime daylight shone through the open windows, a cross breeze running through the bar. It was empty save Shakky and I, citrus-scented cleaning supplies scattered atop a few booths and tables. The reason I was in such a hurry was because I had intended to figure out why Parker knew about English. I could've asked Parker himself…
Shakky had a better repertoire of information, anyhow.
There was always a small stack of papers at my booth, regardless if I had used all of them the day prior. Shakky was cool like that. "Hey, Shakky-san." She put down the bottle of XO cognac she was sipping from to give me her attention, running her tongue over her upper lip. I took a clean sheet off the top, penning a smooth 'A.' My handwriting had significantly improved with each lesson. I showed it to her. "What do you know about these?"
She smiled, hopping right over the bar and heading my way. "Kumo-kun wants to know everything!" I tilted my head, quirking my lips up.
"Aren't you the same?"
She took a seat across from me, leather pants squeaking against leather cushions, and plucked the paper from my hands. "Of course," she murmured, procuring the pen she kept behind her ear and finishing the alphabet in both capital and lowercase, then underlining a pair of kanji beneath them. "This is called Kyūgo." It worked wonders for my written comprehension that Shakky wrote in kanbun – for the notes on books she let me borrow, the letters she wrote, or her bottle labels, almost everything was kanji.
The first kanji was 'old' and the second was 'language.' It would seem straightforward, "an old language," but 'language' was meant to denote a specific language, so 'old' had to be an inflection of 'language.' It wasn't "old language;" it was "language called old." 'Go,' the kanji for 'old,' had multiple connotations. Old as in old favors or worn clothing, former lovers or past crimes. Something from a time before. The irony didn't escape me.
"Kyūgo is an ancient language, dating as far back as the oldest recorded documents of Tenreki. Like most written languages found around the world today, Kyūgo is dead. It's a prevalent language, interjecting itself in our everyday speech even now, though not many people have a functioning understanding of it. Kyūgo is a distinct language. The writing is horizontal and every book I've read is written in the opposite direction of what's normal. There are more parts of speech and the grammatical structure is complex." I tapped my chin, feigning thought.
"Do you have books?"
"I have a few. You'll be self-taught?" she probed, a keen look about her.
"My brother told me about Kyūgo—" not a lie— "and I know a bit. I'd like to take the time to study it on my own, so I can focus on Haki with you."
"A brother? Hmm, we'll make do. Bring any questions to my attention."
"Shakky-san, how do you know all of this?" The depth of her understanding was rich, and I knew the common library didn't have such exclusive historical documents. I studied her, running my eyes up from her signature pink crop-top to her svelte face. There was a glow in her eyes, chastened and reverent, a deep sorrow to her features, and a soft smile remnant of gentle petals by the flower she was named.
"May I tell you a secret, Kumo-kun?"
"Secret?"
"Yes. I fear if you tell anyone else, your life would be in danger. You mustn't tell another soul. I want you to continue to love the voice of the world, no matter what. Will you keep this secret?"
I propped my cheek on my fist, curling my lips back over my teeth in a not-quite smile. "With my life, apparently." Shakky's weary smile belied her age, the calm voice of her presence speaking to my senses with the same depth and wisdom that she, herself, did.
"I apologize for this burden. To speak of this with someone so young…"
"I'm fairly sure neither of us know how old the other is."
"Come now, I'm a lady."
"Forty?" She physically reacted, nose crinkling for the barest moment, then let all emotion leave her. Forty was generous, and if she knew that I had a general idea of how old she was, she would appreciate my offer. As it stood, she didn't know, and I could still get away with such a "high" estimate because… I was eleven.
"No."
"Older?"
Her admonishing stare held the slightest hostility. "I won't say."
"Older," I trilled, a remorseless grin on my face. "My, my." I yanked myself to the side but in an instant, Shakky struck. "Fuck!" She only managed to clip my ear, as I had predicted her attack. I just wasn't fast enough. There was no reason for her flicks to hurt so much; although I couldn't prove it, she had to have Armament.
"Always be attuned," she teased, dulcet. "Always be attuned." Her tone was significantly darker the second time. "Tread conscientiously with this information: much of what I have learned about the ancient texts of the world was from a library on an island called Ohara. There are few libraries like Ohara's, comprehensive and chronological. The library was called the Tree of Omniscience, said to be planted five thousand years ago." She told me of the Ohara peoples' archaeological and scholarly history, a Void Century, its forbidden study, Buster Calls, and the reason Ohara had to have been destroyed. Her voice, both voices, were of profound mourning. "Though you may not believe this, the World Government is not—"
"The World Government is evil," I barked. Surprise colored her features. "Not just because of what you told me about Ohara. Why aren't they doing anything about the slavers? When the archipelago was attacked after Roger's execution, why weren't they down here? They're the Celestial Dragon's lapdogs and the justice they protect is in their own interest."
"I didn't expect you to feel so strongly…" I looked away, drumming my fingers on the table in a staggered arpeggio. The splintered grooves of the wooden table occasionally pricked my finger pads. I remembered hunger when I woke in the morning, stomach gnawing me into consciousness. I remembered hunger with a bruised fruit in my hand, flesh pliant under my thumb, placed in a barrel of food near an abandoned building where orphans frequented. I remembered the dead bodies no one bothered to lay to rest, still forms of teens and elderly alike. I remembered the acrid scent of their cremation, weeks after even the first time Marines deemed the Lawless Zone worthy of visitation. I remembered my hate, ugly, pumping through my veins. I remembered the nights I'd lie awake, unable to wrap my head around how I'd ended up in this unexpected, unfettered, unjust world.
"There's plenty I've experienced to evoke that strength."
Shakky laid her hand atop mine, stopping my aggravated tapping. "To survive the trials the world has set in front of you is a revelation of your future accomplishments." There was an unspoken apology somewhere. I didn't care to find it. If she could postulate why I was so angry then she should've known I didn't want her condolences.
