Chapter 10: A Beached Whale and a Wailing Bitch

Meanwhile...

There was barely a moment's hesitation before Locke and Boboette made their move; the captain and first made had cleared the path, and all that was left was for them to follow it and rescue Mujina. Locke's simple, clear-cut plan danced in his mind, letting him chuckle slightly to himself. It's just one old bat and a haystack, he thought, coaxing his limbs into action as he started a relaxed sprint to the doorway, how hard can it be?

As everyone knows; "How hard can it be?" are famous last words, right up there with "It'll only take a second," and "Don't worry guys, I'll buy this round!"

Locke was the first to pass through the doorway, but upon the inside his leisurely sprint slowed to an ambling jog, and soon to nothing at all, as what he saw left him dumbfounded. This tower, on the viewer's left hand side, had been embedded onto the wall of the mountain, seemingly drilling a hole in the rocky walls of the world; however in reality, it was quite the reverse. In many places, the cylindrical tower was incomplete, and instead joined with the mountain to create a huge, cavernous room, stalactites falling motionlessly from the ceiling, yearning to reach the flat, paved floor beneath them. A series of burning lanterns hung from ropes connected to various rocky fixtures, bringing a glowing orange light to the vicinity.

The room itself was split in two by something which caught the Fishman off guard; a valley of rushing water flowed through the centre of the room, separating the place on which the two pirates stood from the area connected to the far wall; although they still had a fair bit of manoeuvrability where they stood. The river disappeared into a thick, shadow ridden tunnel at one end, the other (being its beginning) dispersed into a thicker pool of water; an underground lake, one could say. Well, that makes things more interesting, certainly, he thought, cursing to himself as Boboette bounded in behind him. Almost as soon as she did so, the door slammed shut behind them; turning on the spot when the door shut, Locke saw what looked like a grin within the woodwork.

"Now now, my pretties," came a high pitched, cracking voice from across the cavern, "what's with all the rush?"

On the far platform, the old crone stood tall and proud, a stance unbecoming of how she'd seemed under Dorothy's direct command. Behind her, a steel cage squeaked eerily on its hinges, rocking gently back and forth as its captive, bound and gagged, lay awkwardly on her side, a look of desperation escaping from her eyes. A large, iron chain bound it to a higher place in the rooftops, its ominous creaking echoing around the naturally created rafters. Worryingly, although the silvery strings could be seen protruding from the woman's hands, the scarecrow was nowhere to be seen.

"There's no point trying to save her," the hag said again, raising her hands slowly higher, her fingers dangling, pointing to the ground, "this room is under my control. There's no use; I'll make you pay, you and your little monkey too!"



As she spoke, an array of shrill cries rang out amongst the hanging rocks, and shifting, bat-like wings could be seen behind hairy shoulders. From the corners of the room, slinking forms of patrolling lions and tigers advanced towards the pair of pirates.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Locke said, glancing around at the advancing masses, flexing his muscles in preparation for the inevitable.

"You," the old crone snapped, raising a crooked finger to point directly at Locke, "and your meddling crewmates have ruined what little hope I had in this desolate existence! You killed my sister!"

Locke looked genuinely confused; if he'd killed anyone recently, he'd hope he would've remembered.

"Think you've got the wrong pirates, lady," he replied, plainly as always. Her eyes narrowed to dagger-like slits as she stared the Fishman down.

"You indignant fool; you know nothing of what you have done... Allow me to enlighten your ignorance!"

•••

There was a time when we ruled this secret isle; although 'ruled' is not quite the correct term. My sister and I cared for the land and its people, although it was not always an ideal situation for the little ones of the Guild. They resented us, with our full-grown height and presumptive control; they called us evil, even so far as "witches" due to our shared power. But regardless, we struggled on, always doing what was best for the land's population.

For it was our legacy from him; that man of wonder whom we both adored, admired, and loved. A true man of magic, opposed to our weak comparison born of the Devil's loins. Our fruit fell from the world above some decades ago, and my sister and I found it upon the island's shores. Unable to decide which of us should take it, we cut it cleanly in half, and took the first bite simultaneously. However, it seemed that the Devil chose me, and my power over life was granted. Together with my sister, I began to learn the limits and extents of its effects.

And for many years we cared for the island, and its full grown children. In time, even the members of the Lollypop Guild grew to accept us as kind leaders, and the tension soon dissolved between us. To ensure the island was always able to be watched, we took up residence on opposite sides; I build my house on the western shoreline, and her on the east. Using my ability to give life to those without it inherently, I brought about the hybrids, their purpose as swift messengers for when my sister and I watched the island alone.

Every now and again, shipwrecked sailors would drift in from above, and on even rarer occasions entire vessels would survive the fall through some stroke of inhuman luck. It soon became apparent, the state of the upper world; and even though the majority of troubles were happening on this 'Grand Line', the world was becoming stronger by the hour. We realised the Guild were no match for the forces of this new age, and so I brought about a new force to guard over the island; the man of straw, my greatest creation.



But then they came, six months gone. The straw haired girl and her two underlings; upon arrival, they promised us hope and protection from a coming age of terror. Like blind fools, we heeded their words, and gave them the secrets of our underwater paradise. And as quickly as their arrival had been, they turned on us.

Their power was no match for ours; we were swiftly taken over and enslaved, forced to work for her bidding. When they discovered the true nature of our abilities, they forced me into creating their lifeless army, and took the Scarecrow for their own ends. Realising my sister's power was of no consequence, they would send her out to shore every day in a small fishing boat, and she would collect the fish and return. If we tried to resist, they would beat us to within an inch of death, and leave us to suffer in our own blood and bruises.

And then, we made our decision; I remember the day as clearly as if it were happening at this very hour. My sister and I were chained to the walls of our quarters by Seastone bonds, powerless to do aught but fester in our inadequacy. The image of her dying soul lay flickering behind her eyes, obscured by the hair that swayed in front of her face. I tried comforting her, but it was to no avail.

"Sister," she said weakly, after many hours of silence. My head rose in response, appropriate words unable to break my lips.

"When they send me out each day," she said, each word seemingly requiring more effort than the last, "it is not simply for fish. They... they're searching for—"

The sound of movement outside of our room silenced her immediately. A rough growl permeated the walls, before the presence disappeared once again. Daring not to speak as loud again, she whispered the sentence's conclusion to me. The thought sank my heart, for we knew that there was only one who could grant them what they sought. At least before there was hope that they would tire, and depart.

"They made me promise not to tell you," she said, "but I cannot bear this charade anymore."

"Sister," I muttered, choosing my words carefully, for it was a delicate proposal I was about to reveal, "let's end it. Together."

"Has your sanity departed?" she replied, "We cannot hope to take them down alone..."

"That's... not what I was intending," I told her, "We do no good as guardians of the island when trapped in this torment. I hear even the Guild has folded to their rule. We are powerless."

"Surely you don't suggest..."

"...taking our own lives." I completed her sentence for her. The taboo subject hung on the air for a few moments, fermenting between us like new ale.

"...Ok," she finally replied, shattering the silence, "a month from this day, we shall end it all..."

•••

"A suicide pact?" said Locke, disbelievingly. A wry smile crossed the old crone's lips.

"Quite," she replied, her smile turning sour as rage overtook her senses, "and that meeting took place exactly one month gone! This would have been our ultimate hour! But you took her life before its time!"

"Look, Crazy Lady, I've got no idea what you're talking 'bout!"



"Do you deny your ship fell from above this very morning?"

"Well, no, but..."

"My dearest sister, if you recall my tale, spent the days fishing on the coast. As she was doing this very day, until your clumsy crewmen landed your ship on top of her!"

"You've gotta be kiddin'," Locke began in protest, but upon a moment's consideration of this crew and their luck, this situation seemed more than entirely conceivable.

"Do not protest!" the Witch screamed, her finger pointing once again at Locke's form, "I saw it with my own two eyes! And now, the pretty little daughter of your captain will join me in my plan as substitute, and you are powerless to stop me."

"Bullshit," Locke spat, readying himself in a final preparation for assault. He barely had time to move, however, before a swift flick of the Witch's wrist sent the wild beasts roaring after him, bounding and pouncing at him from all directions. One or two got beaten away, but soon the Fishman was overwhelmed by pure numbers. Claws dug into his grey skin, the pressure of paws forcing him to his knees. Many of the beasts still patrolled the borders of the room, but a good dozen had taken place to subdue Locke.

"It's useless," the Witch said again, her voice bordering on manic tones, "I know all about you, you man of the Sea which turned against him, a beached whale amongst his people. And I know of your captain, and the first mate, and the artist. Even this girl behind me proves simple to decipher. But what I can't figure out," she shifted her finger across slightly to the right, where the almost forgotten member of this congregation stood on all four limbs, lips furling, baring yellow teeth, "is your place on their vessel, Monkey."

Locke laughed openly, taking the extra pain it brought on his body as the claws dug deeper without regret, until his laughing died down to a sneering simmer.

"You really don't have any idea how strong a gorilla is, do you?"

At the conclusion of that sentence, Boboette's clenched fists rapped against her chest, her hind legs propelling her forwards as the natural drumbeat echoed around the hall. Slamming her fists together into one massive sphere, she swung her arms around in one swift strike, her attack colliding sideways with the shoulder of the Lion who held control over Locke's back. In a yelp, the creature's body shot across the hall, slamming into a sharp rocky outcrop and exploding in a cloud of fluff and sand. The pressure lifted from his back, Locke forced himself back to his feet in one powerful gesture, shaking the remaining beasts from his body, and darting towards the ravine that split the room.

"Take them down!!" the Witch shrieked, as the rest of the pack left their patrolling posts and headed into the fray. Unfortunately for them, Locke was already nearing the edge of the room divider. Before any of the creatures could reach him, he'd launched himself into the air with a single, colossal leap. One of the lions followed him into the air, however, swiping a claw along the back of his leg moments before colliding with him full on, knocking a good few metres off of his total trajectory, before it fell down towards the rushing torrent beneath it, its own momentum cut off completely.



Locke landed heavily against the craggy path that edged the crevice in the ground, a sharp pain resonating through his chest as a result of his collision. Grasping quickly at the ground, he turned his head once he'd got a decent grip, watching as the lion's body disappeared into the darkness of the tunnel, and from the corner of his eye, he could see Boboette tearing through dozens of the manmade beasts, though taking almost as many hits as she was giving. Awkwardly, he pulled himself over the ledge, coughing up a glob of sticky, red liquid as soon as he was stable. He rubbed a hand over his chest, feeling something unnaturally sharp. Damnit, he thought, must'a cracked a rib...

The Witch strode towards him, kicking him sharply in the shoulder, forcing him up onto his side, teeth gritted to help ease the pain. She knelt down low, looking the Fishman directly in one of his eyes.

"Can you determine why the Scarecrow is my greatest achievement, Fishman?" she said, her voice laden with disapproval.

"'cos you made something uglier than you?" he spat in response, flecks of blood hitting the side of her face. Calmly, she wiped them away, before returning her attention to the fallen pirate.

"If you look at these living taxidermies," she said, gesturing to the lions and tigers prowling silently behind her, "I need only use my ability on them once to give them life. From that moment, they will remain conscious until such time as most of their body is destroyed or separated from itself. With the Scarecrow, however..."

She took a few steps back, sweeping her arms outwards, indicating the ground beneath them both. Locke titled his eyes so that he could see the floor; he had barely noticed it before, but all around him lay fraying strands of straw.

"With the Scarecrow, however," she resumed, her fingers twitching ominously, the strings of translucent energy tugging and twisting at their tips, "I gave life to every individual straw in his body; no matter how much you tear, how much you separate and destroy, he will simply stand again..." she pulled her arms high above her head, the strings seemingly becoming taut, the straw beginning to twitch and turn as Locke scrabbled to get himself upright, "as he will now!"

At her command, the straws began to fly in spirals around Locke, obscuring his vision of anything else. They began to rapidly clump together, continuously striking against Locke's person in vital places; he was forced onto the flat of his back, as the barrage took to his face and chest, his eyes watering as the straw dug into the dozens of cuts and sores that littered the Fishman's skin, battering against his broken rib, enhancing his pain tenfold; but Locke grimaced through it. After a few moments, the straw had taken the shape of a human being, straddling the fallen Locke, arms pressed tightly against his shoulders.

He struggled with all his might, but it was to no avail; when it needed to, the straws were soft, and gave just as much as was necessary, but when required the pressure became so great that not even his might could shift them. The Witch towered above him, her face filled with scorn.

"And now, pathetic Fishman, you watch your friend die with me." She said, turning, dismissing him entirely, and facing the cage. On top of him, the Scarecrow shifted, the straws passing around him, lifting him up off the ground against his will, until he was stood, also facing Mujina's prison, the straw man still holding him captive. 

Behind him, he heard a sound that sounded like a heavy object landing on rocks. He grinned.

"Too bad," he said, through bloodstained teeth, "that you forgot the monkey!"

Boboette charged past the Fishman and his captive, swinging another sideways axe-strike that hit Locke directly in the stomach. Coughing up another wad of blood, he wondered for a moment what the hell she was playing at as he was launched into the air; but it soon became apparent that, while the old crone who she proceeded to tackle to the ground was her original target, her strike on her comrade had forced the Scarecrow to disperse into a cloud of falling straw. Once again, Locke grinned, but this time it was short lived, before he felt the hard rock of the mountain give way to his form, feeling fresh light against his skin and fresh pain beneath it.

Much to his surprise, he didn't fall very far after breaching the outside world. Heaving himself up off of his back, he glanced around his surroundings, his vision blurring as the adrenaline in his system kept him conscious. It took him a few moments to realise, but he had landed on the bridge across the towers; the very bridge that Dorothy had stood on as this whole situation began. Shaking the rubble from his head and shoulders, he was about to head straight back into the fray before a realisation dawned on him.

Turning, he surveyed the bridge, and found, to his delight, that it had been left untouched since the beginning of the combat. Taking the few painful steps it required, he knelt down, his hand smoothly caressing the surface of the object he had desired.

Dorothy's rifle lay dormant against the cobbled pathway.

A genuine smile crossed Locke's lips, as he picked up the weapon, inspecting its polished wooden handle, the shining metalwork that covered its form. He ran his fingers along the shoulder rest, noticing the engraved image of a seagull near the base.

"Been robbing the Marines have we, missy?"he muttered to nobody in particular. Pulling back the metal handle half way along the top, he inspected the contents of its barrel. Custom made, it seemed; a spring loaded rifle designed to hold two bullets; no doubt a technique used to catch ignorant enemies off guard. Minus the bullet used against Badger, only one remained.

"Looks like I gotta make this one count..." he muttered, and ran to the hole he had just created in the mountain. Lying down on his chest (which took more effort than it should have), he placed the rifle's butt against his shoulder, and aimed the barrel down towards the fray that was taking place. In the few seconds he had been absent, the Scarecrow had plucked Boboette off of its mistress, and the two were now locked in what seemed like a futile battle, every landed strike of the gorillas being matched by a rapid reformation of the scarecrows body, and a strike of its own in reply. Meanwhile, the Witch stood by the cage, her arms raised, and hands pointing towards the cage, as if about to activate some demonic ritual.



Calmly, Locke closed his eyes, and saw everything clearer than he ever could have naturally. Without hesitation, he pulled the trigger, and watched besides himself as the bullet whirred from the gun, spinning rapidly as it cut through the air, piercing the Witch's left hand before striking against the lock of Mujina's cage, ricocheting against the slick metal, and subsequently penetrating the crone's other hand. In a shriek of pain, she fell to her knees, as the lock hung broken, the door of the hanging cage swinging casually open.

"Still got it," Locke chuckled, placing the rifle gently back against the ground, before jumping back down into the cavern. Painfully leaping the gap once again, he brushed past the distracted Scarecrow and sobbing Witch, helping Mujina towards the door of her cage, and quickly removing her restraints. Clambering out of the cage, her body was shaking as she looked the battered Fishman from head to toe.

"Are you alright?" she said, her voice quaking almost as much as her body.

"'snot that bad," he lied, before nodding towards the Witch, "sorted her out, though."

"That was luck!" Mujina retorted. However, a creak from the ceiling cut her off from any further comment, as the bullet's final action before coming to rest was revealed; one of the hanging ropes that strung up the lanterns had been nicked, and was rapidly fraying down until only a thread remained. Darting out of the way, Locke, Mujina, and a few seconds later, Boboette, managed to get clear as the oil based light fell the dozen or so feet from its resting place, smashing against the hard paved flooring. A number of the sparks caught on the Scarecrow's legs, and in a burst of silent screams, its entire body was up in flames.

"No," Locke muttered in disbelief, "that was luck." He wondered for a brief moment how the Captain was faring. As for Seth, he didn't much care.

"You bitch!!" the cry from beside him came, which, if he was honest with himself, was not the sort of retort he'd been expecting. However, after his somewhat battered brain had processed it properly, he realised that it wasn't Mujina. The Witch was on her feet again, bloody hands twitching in uncontrollable spasms, as she rushed the pair in a final, desperate frenzy. Locke made to protect her, as he always did, but his body refused to listen; the cumulative damage on his system was overwhelming, and it simply wouldn't listen.

He could only watch as the crone's bloodied hands struck Mujina square across the chin, knocking her backwards, and causing the attacker herself to shriek in pain once more. However, the unexpected was, as ever, ready to pounce on the unsuspecting like a horny dog on a businessman's trouser leg. Where most would have fallen, Mujina stopped, seemingly suspended in the air, until one could see her palm flat against the floor, her body bent into as near as a ball as the human frame could manage. The scene remained paused for a few moments, until whatever celestial being held control over dramatic imagery let events proceed as planned, and the Badger's daughter pushed forwards on her one arm with all her might, extending her body to its full.

Her feet slammed directly into the centre of the Witch's chest, causing her to be knocked back, powerless to resist, stumbling, winded, through the steaming ashes that had been her greatest creation but moments ago. Unable to stop herself, the 

woman stumbled until there was nowhere more to stumble, falling effortlessly backwards into the ravine that split the room. A splash of water signified her entrance into the underground river, followed by the splashing and spluttering of her attempted final words.

"I'm... I'm melting!" she cried, amidst the water that poured over every aspect of her body. Locke took two steps forward, peering over the edge of the ravine as the woman's body disappeared into the tunnel.

"No you're not, you're senile!" he shouted at her rapidly retreating form.

As the feeling of the sea dragged her slowly deeper and deeper into its grasp, the Witch's face curled into a smile. It's finally over...

The three pirates stood amongst a hall of inanimate taxidermy, filled with the smell of charred straw. That is, at least, until the largest of the three fell flat on his face, the extent of the fatigue overpowering his will to stand. The other two knelt beside his body, scouting around the area for anything to aid their fallen comrade. And as they did so, the most curious of noises entered their ears from the raucous outside world...

Meanwhile...