Chapter Ten
For the first time in a long time, I woke without dreams. But even when I opened my eyes, only darkness greeted me. If I couldn't feel my own heavy eyelids rising and falling in a slow, unsteady rhythm, I wouldn't know the difference between waking and dreaming.
I was so tired, hungry and thirsty. The spot behind my neck cussed at me with the slightest movement, as if the very tip of my spine was bruised. It probably was, I thought. Even in my deprived state, I knew the difference in pain between broken and heavily bruised.
My fingers could still move, for some small miracle. They felt somewhat stiff; and suddenly I realised something was wrapped around them, restricting full movement. From the feel of them against each other, I guessed they were bandages, but really thick ones, not like the light ones Chopper used to cover my acid burns. These were more of a hindrance, and not nearly as carefully done.
"Chopper," I whispered in a hushed breath, finding something familiar about that name. It had just slipped into my head. Somehow I thought it should be something I should know but when I reached back further into my memory, only blurry images greeted me. It hurt to search.
The room was so dark. I couldn't see more than a centimetre in front of me. There were no windows or gaps in the hard surface I lied against. Not even thin lines of light from the door were spared to me. I began to wonder how large this room actually was. Or where this room was. Or even what this room was.
Was I dead?
No, even death couldn't have this much pain or frustration.
I sucked in a breath, preparing my throat which seemed like a desert, it was so dry and yelled. But no sound came out, only some sort of pathetic wheeze-moan. My throat berated me angrily for the provocation, gradually fading into a mild itch.
How long have I been here? Not long enough to stink yet, though that didn't really tell me much.
The third day.
The words appeared in my mind and retreated just as quickly but I grabbed them, preventing them from escaping. The third day, the third day.
"The third day," I half-wheezed as if saying them aloud would make me remember. It didn't.
A square of light suddenly appeared in the far wall. The sudden brightness was enough to make me turn away if it wasn't for that flaring ache at the back of my neck. I could only stare with a spotty vision as a figure approached me.
"Number 14~" sang a voice straight out of a gothic lullaby. Faint and dark, with just the right amount of sweetness to sound both completely innocent and sadistic. The voice could pass for either a boy or girl, something my mind was too tired to decide on.
A small silhouette danced among the spots, coming to stop in front of me.
My voice was so soft; I questioned whether I really said it or just thought it, "The third day."
"Huh?" that same voice sounded a bit condescending, "What was that, 14?"
"The third day," I breathed, "What is the third day?"
"Maybe Vegapunk damaged some part of your brain or something," that voice brushed off. A slight pause and then a dark yet cheerful chuckle; like one of those ghost kids in horror stories, "Wouldn't be the first one."
The third day, the third day. It kept nagging at me, a poor combination to the lack of food, water and comprehendible thoughts. I didn't even process anything this boy-girl was telling me, but I felt I had to at least say something, even if just to catch this person off guard.
"What's the third day?" my voice echoed in the room, bouncing off every surface, magnifying its volume. Even the small silhouette jumped.
"Like I would know!" he/she scoffed after the initial shock, "Crazy assassin."
For a second, I thought I'd get punched or something since I clearly couldn't fight back. The person exhaled loudly in an angry way too, a normal prerequisite for an attack of some sort.
Then the person turned on their heel and walked purposefully out, "I'll get someone else to check you tomorrow." Their voice indicated it was like asking someone to check out the local dump.
I didn't know where my voice came from after that last yell, or what it was saying; maybe from the surprise of not being hit. I didn't shout and it was barely above a whisper, "I don't have until tomorrow."
The figure paused in the middle of the square of light.
"Oh," their voice was a bit less snobbish, pausing for a moment, "Now I understand. You're Straw Hats' assassin."
The name rang something deep in me but again, surfaced with empty, blurry thoughts. I wanted to probe deeper but that voice spoke again, regaining some of its previous condescension.
"I can't help you, lady."
Then the door shut, leaving me alone to the darkness.
When I opened my eyes, night sky greeted me. Open, navy sky, stretching for miles and scattered over with silver glitter. It was windless night, warm and perfect.
My hands were behind my head as I lay outstretched on the grass, watching the stars.
Suddenly, I rose, my fingers around a sword hilt as I stood. My steps were muted on the soft grass against my boots. I was approaching a set of rooms, one of the windows lighted. As I reached it, I lifted a hand and brushed away the excess mist.
Inside, a crew consisting of nine people were eating around a large table. Two women, seven males, consisting of everything from a reindeer to a cyborg to a skeleton. All of them were each too absorbed in their own activities to mind the others.
A cheerful, laughing teenager in a straw hat was chewing his food contentedly while simultaneously handing over a tower of plates to a tall blonde man in a suit. The blonde just yelled back a response.
The reindeer was dancing around with chopsticks shoved in his nostrils and mouth much to the delight of a tanned man with black hair, clapping enthusiastically and laughing. Next to him, the skeleton attempted the same trick but panicked as the sticks disappeared into the hole of his nose.
The cyborg reached over to slap him on the back with a large hand. Somehow the chopsticks flew out, almost hitting the blonde man, much to his annoyance. The cyborg ignored him, guffawing loudly and continuing eating as if nothing happened.
One of the women, the brunette, was sitting some distance from the chaos, eating her food quietly. She only looked up every now and then to make an observing comment or giggle at a gag.
The last two, the fiery haired woman and moss-haired male were fighting over alcohol, both already flushed from previous drinks.
My eyes lingered on the moss-haired man, trying to see something familiar in his features. The way his face glared in annoyance or the way he angrily waved around a long scroll titled 'DEBT' before cutting it up into little pieces.
The whole scene was muted of sound as I watched it through the misty glass. Each of their expressions, from smiles to laughter to anger to horror to amusement to annoyance to mock fear, I recognised them all from somewhere…
I turned then and walked away, leaving those strange nine people behind.
Sleep deserted me again. It was impossible to tell the time in my new little cell. It could have been noon for all I knew.
I sat up and attempted to stretch but my arms were trapped. I moved against the wall and listened to the clink of chains. I couldn't remember if they were there before. They were heavy steel, weighing down my body but admittedly slightly loose. Using thinner chains might have been smarter, I couldn't help but think. But the more I thought about it, the more I wondered if the chains were actually meant for someone else before me.
Number 14. That was how that person addressed me before. 14 for what? It seemed unlikely I would get answers soon.
No one else seemed to have disturbed the room to check up on me, meaning it wasn't 'tomorrow' yet.
I could be waiting a while then before I could demand answers again. I settled back down, deciding to wait it out.
In front of me, far to my right, near where that square of light appeared, I heard a clink of chains and an almost inaudible groan. I stiffened for a second, pressing my back against the wall harder.
"Who's there?" I demanded, automatically trying to move my arm. It was trapped though and reminded me I was prisoner here, unarmed. My voice ran clear somehow though. I wondered if I was fed since being here.
"Huh?" a deep, scratchy voice sounded in the darkness. It paused for a second and then, "A female assassin?"
"Who are you?" I demanded again. From the clink of chains, he was probably trapped as I was. Though there was also a chance he was a guard here on patrol. I couldn't miss my chance to get answers.
Another movement, another clink of chains. This time, the chain scraped against the concrete slightly. After that, the man chuckled lowly, "Wish I knew, kid."
I had no idea what that meant. But I didn't push him either.
"How long you've been here?" the man asked, choosing not to elaborate on his previous statement.
"Wish I knew," I echoed him. I paused, "Probably not that long." I could hear the doubt in my own voice.
I felt movement again and the man giving a low grunt. Then I saw something flash towards me. It fell some metres away from me, skittering to a stop in front of my feet. It was metal.
"Can't lose your sense of time, kid." The man gave a heaving sigh, as if tossing it took the effort out of him, "Don't forget that."
I stretched out my leg; thankfully it was less restrained than my torso, seeming only to have a pair of shackles around my ankles. My foot reached the item and pushed it towards myself. When my fingers closed around it, I almost swore and drew blood. The blade of the slim, silver knife was almost blunt but still sharp enough to cut.
"Aren't you a swordsman, kid? Can't even recognise a knife when you see one?"
"How could you know that?" My fingers found the hilt. It was slightly wet. He used his mouth to throw it, I realised. That meant his arms were restrained like mine.
"You made a real commotion when you came here," the man replied heavily, sounding as if he were panting hard. I wish I could see him, "Loudest commotion in years. Practically impossible to not hear something."
"Sorry to disturb you," I said, feeling the cut. It was shallow and short. It would probably heal itself over a few hours.
"Nah, glad to have some excitement. Been a while."
He chuckled again, a low, throaty sound but it sounded forced. I didn't know why he was so casual, especially given the circumstances. The laugh was cut short abruptly into a series of coughs. They echoed in the room. It wasn't even coughs really; more like heaving wheezes, as if he were gasping for air.
I was about to ask him if he was all right but held back. He'd probably just retaliate with a sarcastic comment.
As soon as I thought that, he started chuckling again; probably settling back into a smile, still panting slightly.
I had no idea why this guy was even giving me a weapon. But if I remembered anything from Aokiji, it was never to fully trust anyone. For some reason, something told me I couldn't trust this guy to walk away just like he did.
I waited a few moments, mainly for him to regain his breath.
"Why?" I asked. The silence of the room made the word bounce around in echoes.
After the echoes faded away, silence filled the room again. I waited, and waited.
Silence.
I was starting to get pissed off, "Oi, old man!"
Like before, only echoes replied to me.
"Oi…" I tried to stand but the heavy chain wrestled me back down again. It was connected to the wall somehow. Heavy clinks echoed off each other as I hit the ground. I winced, feeling the silver blade narrowly miss slicing my fingers again. The old man didn't say an annoying comment this time.
I found the handle end of the knife and held onto it, determined not to make myself look like an idiot for the third time. Under my fingers, I felt an uneven surface, with something engraved into the metal. It was too dark to see though and I didn't want to lose the knife again. The knife that was spared to me by another prisoner.
"You old geezer!" I found myself unintentionally yelling. Maybe if I pissed him off enough…
No reply.
I was tempted to throw the knife at him then. Then again, it probably wouldn't make half the distance with my arms restrained.
I had a feeling that even if the knife stabbed him, I wouldn't hear him again.
I was alone in the darkness.
There was nothing to do but sleep, I thought, and wake up to darkness again. Then again, and again. Somewhere, I remembered there had been stories of prisoners in Impel Down that lost their minds to the darkness. Their screams echoed in the night, or say the stories. Some said the prisoners wouldn't have even noticed had they died, or had they aged. How could they?
Am I one of those prisoners now? How much longer would I have to be in the dark?
'Can't lose your sense of time, kid. Don't forget that.'
Was this what this is for? My fingers closed around the handle again. It felt cool in my grip, reassuring. But unlike in the weapon way, the way I'd always thought.
I flicked it up, feeling the blade spin in the air. When it fell, I moved and caught the handle between my teeth. Stretching my short chain to its limit, I twisted my neck and scratched a line into the hard wall. It barely nicked it, but it was enough.
I dropped the knife, hearing it clatter on the concrete and swept it behind my back, keeping one finger on its handle. It was cool, warming at my touch.
I could still feel this knife. When I couldn't anymore, I would be dead. But at least I'd know.
Eventually I slept, knowing I wouldn't be one of those prisoners, knowing the knife would keep me sane.
Another scratch joined the others on the wall. I was getting more efficient at doing them now, keeping the scratches even and straight. Or so it felt like anyway, considering I couldn't see them.
My muscles were beginning to numb over time with not moving as much as I'd like. Even stretching my arms was a luxury I missed. My stomach seemed to become quieter over time as well, until hunger became nothing more than a dull ache.
A new person came each day to check on me. All of them I couldn't stand; avoiding my questions and leaving cryptic messages in their wake. All of them called me Number 14, as well. Except one, a smirking man with the deepest voice I ever heard.
'So the Excalibur has been pulled from the stone, has she?' he smirked, 'By pirates, no less.'
I hadn't thought to demand for answers. My mouth moved automatically.
'Maybe the stone should have put up more of a fight if they wanted to keep her so badly.'
That hadn't been the right answer apparently, as the bruise on my cheek clearly showed. But I hadn't understood what he said; and now that I thought more about it, I should have held that comment and demanded answers instead.
Stupidity is going to be the death of me, I thought, brushing the top of the hilt, like petting a beloved cat.
With each day that passed, I kept wondering if I should be trying to escape. But, escape, to where? Half my mind was foggy and misty; I couldn't remember what I was doing and I didn't even know where I was, or where I should escape to.
Despite having a weapon, I knew it was worthless and stupid to escape now without a plan.
I needed answers, and I needed information.
Before I fell asleep again, something flashed through my mind; the image of a ship, of ocean surrounding me, but I was dry. I was hiding, sneaking around, a sword at my side. I had this thought then, too, whenever this was.
Waiting is both a blessing and a curse.
I was awoken with a start. An arm roughly grabbed me and hauled me to my feet. My mind was slow, not yet registering what was happening.
"Hurry up!" a voice ordered and my head snapped to one side. It took a few slow, agonising moments to figure out I'd been hit, hard. His hand pushed roughly at the small of my back, forcing me forward a couple of steps. I almost tripped over myself in the shackles that were still around my ankles. Behind me, the short chain that connected me to the wall bounced against the tops of my thighs. He'd severed it somehow, judging by a quick look back that revealed a few centimetres of chain still embedded in the wall. With a sharp order, my head snapped back to the front. I winced at the new bruise on my jaw.
Where am I going? Where am I? Who are you? A thousand questions threatened to overwhelm me, all directed at this man shoving me forward. But as I stumbled past a hunched figure against the wall, one question jumped to the head of the queue.
"Who is he?" I abruptly stopped despite his shoving. I grit my teeth and held my ground. This guy was as strong as…
I blinked, my mind foggy. Who was it—?
"Move, girl!" growled the man, ignoring my question. For a second, I braced myself for another punch but then his hand just tried to shove me forward again. I didn't move.
"Who is he?" I repeated again, my voice firm and strong.
"Huh, so you haven't gone completely insane yet, girl? It's been a few days already. Most of them'd be screaming by now." The man laughed.
I whirled then, taking him by surprise. His stocky build wasn't built for dodging and certainly not from an 'insane' girl, who happened to be armed.
The blade pierced the back of one hand. Blood spurted from the wound and onto the silver metal and concrete.
The man swore loudly and released me, clutching at his bloodied hand, "You bitch!"
"Who is he?" I asked again, the knife hanging from one hand, dripping dark blood. I'm not a prisoner.
"He's as fucked up as you are," growled the man, "He stopped being an assassin when he killed a Noble and fled to the Revolutionaries! Eventually an Admiral caught him though; severed his arms and dumped him here. Day after he got here, he killed a guard and took his knife."
"How long?" I said, my fingers tightening on the knife. Slowly and carefully, I slid it into the belt straps on my jeans. My clothes fell over it, concealing it.
"Before I started," he said, still irritable. I couldn't really blame him, "Thirty, forty years?"
I wondered if he heard my gasp. Probably not, since he was still muttering and swearing. Taking advantage of his distraction, my eyes had flicked to the space beside the body. In the dim light now, I saw scratches upon scratches, some overlapping others, some shorter, some longer, criss-crossed into an endless pattern. How many were there? Thousands? I wondered how the knife stayed so sharp.
"When did he die?" I breathed.
"Days after he got here," the man said, looking at me as if I were stupid, "Non-stop bleeding. The body's been there for decades. Vegapunk doesn't even allow us to throw it out. Research purposes, he says," he snorted derisively.
"It's worth researching him," I murmured. Vegapunk knew he wasn't dead, I knew that much. I smelt that metallic scent now I was closer, the scent of home. Was he still bleeding? How the hell did he stay alive?
And suddenly, hands were spinning me around and at my back again, shoving me forward, "Now hurry up, we've wasted enough time already!"
I could see the dim light of the door now, thankfully not blindingly bright. Perhaps it was night time?
As we approached it, I resisted the urge to turn and look at the man again. He was laughing as he died, I knew now. He didn't fear death.
Another shove, another step.
I didn't know his name, so I made one up.
"Thank you, D," I whispered as I was shoved through the door.
So… more ideas have popped into my head (most of them during the middle of the night) and I improvised a bit throughout this chapter~ Anyway, R&R!