"Do you hear the people sing?"
It was, Diceros Keita reflected, almost intimidating how easy the Fae made things.
"Singing the song of angry men?"
One of Grigori's little shapeshifters - or what he thought was one, it was nigh on impossible to tell for certain, for obvious reasons - had come along. A dozen, across the entirety of the Hunt detachment, maybe, including two from his own crew who had a background in intelligence work and who he trusted implicity. Just twelve men.
"It is the music of a people
Who will not be slaves again!"
Arranging the rebellion against Wapol had taken two hours.
"When the beating of your heart
Echoes the beating of the drums."
Winning it had taken ten minutes, as Wolves led the charge into Wapol's stolen castle with Diceros himself at the head.
"There is a life about to start
When tomorrow comes!"
Well, fifteen. Vespucci had caught some of Wapol's guards attempting to smuggle some of the treasures of the Shrouded Kingdom through a back alley, and lured them into a clever trap involving a cart full of beer kegs and an enraged bat colony.
He'd have to keep an eye on that one, clever little bastard that he was.
"Will you join in our crusade?
Who will be strong and stand with me?
Somewhere beyond the barricade
Is there a world you long to see?
Then join in the fight
That will give you the right to be free!"
He tightened his grip on Wapol's neck, dragging the would-be usurper behind him as he walked out of the gates of the royal palace.
The cheers of the people - his people - were nearly deafening. The sounds of the song faded away, replaced by a new call.
"Mthunzi inkosi! Mthunzi inkosi!"
A title. An old one, in an old tongue.
The Shadow King. Ruler of the Shrouded Kingdom.
Diceros Keita smiled, for one moment...and then shook his head. "I AM NO KING!"
Silence fell instantly, confusion on the faces of his people
"I am no king." Keita repeated. "I failed you once, my people. I fled, rather than stand and face death to preserve our traditions. And you suffered, for my failure."
With his other hand, he reached under his robes, and took out something he had carried on his person since that fateful day he had been forced to become a pirate.
It was a simple thing, really, an iron circlet, but it seemed to weigh more than anything he had ever held, as he set it down on the steps.
"So," he said. "I am no king. This-" he added, shaking Wapol's unconscious form roughly - "-is no king. So I leave this kingdom to you, my people. Choose your own king...and enact your own justice." He threw Wapol down the steps, the fat man's bloodied form hitting the ground hard.
"Do as thou wilt," Diceros Keita said, echoing words that had not been true in the past, but would be true now.
The people made their choice.
"Mthunzi inkosi! Ukufa kubambisi!"
Shadow King. Death to the usurper.
The Grand Line was a treacherous ocean, infested with pirates, filled with weather more lethal than any in the world, and torn apart by conflict, more often than not.
However, on a certain wave-tossed, battered caravel, that was difficult to tell.
"Well, well, well," Nico Robin said, scanning the latest newspaper. "It looks like someone's moving up in the world."
"Why does that make me worry?" Nami groused. "Who's moving up?"
"Grigori 'Alley Doc' Vinci. He's a new Warlord of the Sea," Robin explained, setting down her copy of the World Economic Journal.
"Already? That was quick."
"Indeed. It would appear we will have to keep an eye out for any pirate crews flying a triskelion symbol, though - that is the flag of his organization, and they'll be hunting pirates, now. They've already taken part in taking over a country, deposing King Wapol in -"
"WAPOL?!" Chopper shouted. "He's a king?! But Drum just got rid of him!"
"Well, not anymore," Robin said with a chuckle. "The people of his new kingdom wanted the old one back, and when he showed up, Wapol...well, there's pictures."
Nami glanced at the open newspaper, and grimaced. "He was a jerk, but he definitely didn't deserve...that," she said, looking green.
"No, that's an expose on a beef exporter's bad product," Robin explained. She picked the paper up again, and flipped to another section. "Here we go," she said, showing Nami the picture of Wapol tied, upside-down, to the mast of a ship that was sailing away from a shadowy kingdom. Judging by the way his face was swollen and the lumps protruding from his head, he'd been beaten pretty badly beforehand.
"Oh, well, he definitely deserved that," Chopper said. "Wait, does this mean we have to worry about fighting him? The Warlord, I mean."
"Well," Robin said, smothering a smile. "I think Zoro will, at least."
"What the hell do you mean, witch," the crew's swordsman growled from where he was pumping weights.
"Why, I mean this interview from one of his officers," Robin said, turning the paper around so the green-haired man could read the headline.
ALL SWORDSMEN ARE C****
"He's a dead man," Zoro growled. "Other witch, where the hell are these people?"
"Wrong end of the Grand Line, Zoro," Nami deadpanned.
"Some of these people look scary…" Usopp muttered, glancing at the photographs. "Captain, please don't make us go fight these people…"
"Shishishishishi!" Luffy got out of his hammock with his trademark grin still present. "Nah," he said. "I've got a good feeling about them. Maybe we can meet up with some of their crew!"
Robin glanced at one of the photos of the Butcher Bird, a huge grin on his face as he was caught mid-slaughter of a Sea King. She found herself wondering what he was. A Devil Fruit user? Some kind of fishman? "Maybe," she said.
"So I guess Luffy is gonna punch another Warlord in the face before the year's out…" Nami groaned. "What happened to my life?"
"Nah," Luffy said sunnily, as he hopped up onto the Merry's figurehead. "First we're gonna get the Merry fixed up! Then I bet we'll run into someone who's met these guys!"
"We're doomed…" Usopp moaned.
Cawl Prior was, as far as such an emotion could be quantified, happy with its assignment.
This vessel was far more representative of most of the glories of the Machine's offerings, after all. It had taken a great deal of persuasion to convince Prior's fellows that it, not they, had been more deserving of being stationed aboard it. And by persuasion, it meant threats involving its implanted welding torches and metal shearers.
Other Cogs would have to make do with starting at the bottom, aboard vessels of wood of all things, and have to improve from there. Cawl Prior had an entire ship to study and learn from, a metal-skinned beauty that, thanks to the offerings of the Machine, sailed under the seas rather than over them. Improvement would come soon, small things that would make the Polar Tang truly sing, but that was for the future, and for now Cawl Prior learned. It was assisted in this task by the baseline-organic known as Shachi, who served as general repairman. He seemed excited by his tasks - Cawl Prior registered heightened metabolic activity whenever it joined Shachi on a repair task, heightened still further when Prior utilized his gear-arms to perform such tasks more efficiently. Perhaps he would join the Cogs?
That was a decision for the Captain, though. The Maker had been particularly clear that nobody was to be Augmented in any fashion without the consent of the Hunt's commanders. This particular Captain was not part of the Hunt, but the decision, by consensus of the Cogs, still stood. And despite the small crew of the Polar Tang and the presence of a Captain capable of rapid Augmenting, eight of the twenty remained baseline (excluding the Mink and the Captain himself, as well as the tiny baseline-organic that accompanied them). It was...inefficient, but orders were orders.
"Hey, tin man? You awake?"
Cawl Prior ticked furiously, gears restarting as it woke itself fully and straightened from its slightly slumped position in the corner of the Polar Tang's barracks, where it spent all three of it's non-waking hours. Its gear-arms extended sluggishly, and half of its vision turned bronze-hued before resuming normal function.
In response to the question extended by one of the Wolf-organics, it nodded.
Proper communication was difficult with most organics. Most could not comprehend the Song. Three, the Cogs had found thus far: The Maker, The Hierophant, and The Artificer. All on board the Maker's vessel, and sadly out of contact.
The Cogs as a whole were nothing if not adaptable, though. Orders had been given, and the half of them stationed across the Hunt had manufactured the necessary devices.
+I++A+M++A+W+A+K+E, the ticker-tape dispenser measured out, completing its processing with a triumphant ding.
"Uh...great. Captain wants to see you."
Cawl Prior flashed acknowledgment patterns from its three artificial eyes (all mounted on the right), and began to move. This was a significantly more involved process than it would have been two weeks ago. Cawl Prior had arrived on board with two crates full of machinery and parts, and put them to use augmenting the frail fleshy pieces that had been its legs into something derived from centipedal organics. Twenty-four jointed, pincer-tipped legs sent Cawl Prior moving into the hallway, all of them moving in sync smoothly thanks to the clockwork cogitators embedded in the length of segmented bronze and copper that made up the last two meters of its body.
It moved down the passageways of the Polar Tang at a speed equivalent to a baseline-organic sprint, at times upside-down as it moved around crewmen who occupied the passageway. In short order, Cawl Prior found itself on the bridge. The only others there were the Captain, the Mink navigator, and the tiny baseline-organic, who was staring at Cawl Prior as if it could induce ocular disintegration.
Cawl Prior considered methods for dealing with tiny baseline-organics, and nodded as it came to a decision.
The speaker implanted into its left pectoral began to play 'Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star'.
The tiny baseline-organic's glaring intensified, as did that of the Captain, and Cawl Prior ceased playback.
"Alright," the Captain said with a sigh. "Prior, right?"
Cawl Prior flashed acknowledgment lights.
"I'm going to assume that's a yes. Right. You can talk to...all the others, yes? Without using a Transponder Snail?"
Cawl Prior considered whether engaging combat protocols was the correct response. It had not noticed anything…
"Uh, yeah, sorry about that," the Mink said. "I'm really good at hiding. Devil Fruit."
Ah. That would explain it. Well. It had been found out.
+W+H+A+T++A+R+E++Y+O+U++P+L+A+N+N+I+N+G+?+, the ticker-tape machine processed.
The Captain steepled his fingers. "I want to talk to Vinci. Can you arrange that?"
+O+N+E++M+O+M+E+N+T+
Cawl Prior accessed the Song with no small amount of trepidation, fearing retribution for its failings.
Instead, as it downcycled its mental state into the shared space between every one of the Cogs, it found only amusement.
We have known, the Song whispered in its ears. And anticipated. Now, examine this.
Blueprints flitted in front of Cawl Prior's perception, sacred pieces of the Machine, ancient principles...and it understood. It always understood.
It required slight adjustment to the systems replacing its left arm, new connections to the speaker implant, and numerous other alterations to Cawl Prior's own form, but it was accomplished. According to Prior's internal clock, five minutes had passed.
A full-sized, albeit transparent, image of the Maker burst into existence.
"Is this thing on?" he asked. "Oh, there you are. Was wondering if you'd want to be in contact."
"Grigori."
"Trafalgar. Look, I can understand not wanting to be heard, I'm fairly sure the World Government has enough black Transponder snails snooping on me to cover a small country, but if that's the extent of the message..."
"For fuck's sake," the Captain said, face impassive. "Let me speak."
"Fine, go ahead, grumpy bastard."
"You understand why I left?"
"Personally? You actually have some common sense and some residual pride, unlike the other members of the Hunt. Pragmatically? You've got something running long-term, and the Hunt would fuck with that."
"...The second one. I left because my own long-term plans involve being a Warlord, at least for a while."
"And since I practically declared I was going to betray the World Government, if you happened to be a subordinate at the time, it would make them more suspicious of you trying the same thing."
"I was expecting you to be angrier."
"Nah. Either you actually have a spine, or it's simple rationality that made you do what you did. Or both. Either way, not something to be upset about." The Maker grinned. "But I guess this isn't the only reason for this call?"
"It isn't. I...well, pride or not, I'm not stupid enough to think I can take...him on, without allies. And thanks to you, I've got a kid to look after, too, and I don't want to leave him without parents."
"So, when your own plans are ready…"
"An alliance. It'll take years."
"I have years, my dear Trafalgar. An eternity of them, if I'm careful."
"Hell might freeze over, first."
"Dahahaha...true. Well, how about this. If I die...the command of the Hunt will fall to you, Trafalgar Law."
The Captain froze. "I…"
"Oh, you seem to be under the impression I wanted them. I wanted the opposite, Trafalgar Law. I wanted them to call me to task, rein in my worst tendencies. I deserved it. Instead, they knelt. Except for you. You had pride. So if I leave...you're the only one worthy, to take them in."
"I...thank you."
"Law." The Maker paused, flickers of emotions crossing his face. "Be careful. Be very, very careful."
"I will," Law said shortly. "You should do the same."
Gotz Helsing couldn't help but smile.
Part of it was the fact that, for once, not everything hurt. Oh, the old scars did - the iron socket that marked the end of his left arm at the elbow, most of all - but everything else was fine and dandy, and considering his career choice, that was a rarity. A day to celebrate with a pipe full of good tobacco, strong drink, and whoever was willing for a good lay.
The song, obviously.
There was a bigger part to it, obviously.
Helsing grunted as he sat back in his chair, and ran his flesh hand through his hair. There was more grey and white in it by the day, where it wasn't outright missing thanks to the scars on his scalp, but at least he wasn't losing more of it. His craggy face creased into a smile as he set down the day's newspaper.
INTERVIEW WITH A (REFORMED) MANEATER, the headline proclaimed, the main picture showing a very familiar face indeed.
"Moving on in the world, just like you said, old friend," Helsing said softly.
There had been four of them.
Pirate captains, each worth over fifty million in bounties, each of them great warriors and leaders of men.
The fact that an old man had knocked them out, taken them from their crews, and brought them here (wherever this jungle was), without even the slightest bit of effort, scared the hell out of everyone, enough that the four had stayed within their little forest clearing. They'd been left their weapons and equipment, but all of them knew that some forests had monsters in them.
What made it weirder still was when the same old man showed up, one eye shining and a sheathed sword in his hands.
"Ah, hell, we're fucked," one of the captains muttered. Two others growled, hands going to, respectively, a sword hilt and an axe haft.
Gotz just leaned back against a tree, and puffed at his pipe. "If he wanted us dead, we'd be dead," he called. "What do you want, old man? What's the purpose of bringing us here?"
The old man smiled, long beard swaying in the slight breeze. "It is quite simple. You are...practice."
Something stepped out of the old man's shadow. A young man, clad in jeans, t-shirt, and a long red coat, with close-cropped brown hair. His face was gaunt, belying his muscular frame. And his eyes...red. Black sclerae.
Gotz put a hand on the hilt of his sabre.
"Child," the old man said. "No tails for the weakest three. This is a test of your learning in unarmed combat. The last...do as you will."
"I understand," the creature said calmly. It slipped out of its coat, and regarded each of the four in turn.
"Begin," the old man said.
Gotz ran like hell.
Helsing was shaken out of his reverie by the sound of screaming coming from outside the pub.
He sighed, and stood, plunking down a few bills to pay for his drink and the paper, which he tucked into his dark green peacoat.
Yup. Bandits. Twelve of them, one busy stripping a corpse of everything of value while the others menaced the remaining townspeople.
"What the fuck you lookin' at?" one particularly ugly bandit growled.
Helsing smiled pleasantly, and then shot the man in the head.
As he ran, he risked a glance behind him.
The two captains who'd been itching for a fight had decided, foolishly, to give the creature one. Axe and sword lashed out, and shattered on the creature's skin.
The creature moved like wind, and one captain's scream started as a swift kick turned his kneecap to pulp, and then ended as a vicious backhand removed the man's lower jaw. The other man fell just as quickly, and Gotz turned his attention to running faster. As he did, he ran through what he knew. This was no jungle beast or rampaging monster, this was something else entirely. He had a small arsenal of explosives, knives, flash-bangs, and a dozen other tricks of the trade, but something with a hide like the creature's wouldn't be much more than inconvenienced by that, and his sabre might as well have been dead weight for all the use it would be...unless it was like a Nemean, and he could get at it through the mouth or eyes.
Another warbling scream.
So that meant that he was alone.
And whatever 'tails' meant, he was -
Gotz dodged to the right, long-honed instincts kicking in, and bit back a scream as something sliced through flesh and bone just past his left elbow, removing his forearm neat as you pleased. He rolled, sabre springing to hand, and parried a half-dozen streaks of red that lanced out of the forest around him, blade ringing with the weight of the blows.
The 'child' dropped out of the treetops. Its arms were red to the elbow, its mouth streaked with blood. Maneater, then, and part of Gotz wanted to laugh. Of course he'd die to a monster that didn't look like one until it was too late to do anything.
His knees gave way, and he sat down hard, back against a tree trunk. Fuck, he was losing blood fast.
The six tails retracted into the creature's back with an audible slurping sound, and it cocked its head. "You were better than the others, at least," it said.
"Go fuck yourself," Gotz growled, pulling a length of twine from his satchel and fashioning a tourniquet in moments. The blood stopped flowing quickly.
The 'child' drew closer. Gotz glared at him. "Well, go on," he said. "Finish the job! Isn't that what you want?"
"It's what's necessary," the creature replied. It crouched in front of him. "I don't have a choice in what I am. Or in what I have to do."
Gotz laughed. "Why, then? Why...all this?"
"I need to eat. And I need to become stronger. The old man offers both. Bargain was made and struck."
Gotz sighed, leaning back against the tree. "Fine, then. What's keeping you?"
"No screaming? No hysteria?"
Gotz smiled at the brat. It was not a nice smile. "Nah. Ain't much point in it, is there? I've spent my life hunting down monsters, figures there'd be a point where something took me down. Hell, you're a strong bastard."
"A monster hunter, huh?" The brat sat down. "Seems we're two of the same."
"Coulda fooled me."
"Well, my career isn't properly started. Still, pirate captains are bad enough to qualify, aren't they?"
"Heh, if only my kid could see me now…" Gotz muttered.
"Your kid?"
"Eh, brat kept his mother's name, but he's still mine. Left him enough to take on the family trade, before I had to leave. Didn't have much choice in being a pirate, either, not after that whole mess with the Marines…" Gotz paused. "Don't have the slightest idea why I'm telling you all this. Must be the blood loss."
The brat chuckled. "Maybe. But I think I've eaten enough for the day. And honestly...heh, doesn't matter." A tail extended. "Still getting the hang of this trick," the brat muttered. "Don't know if I can use it in a fight…" The tail began to shimmer with heat, glowing brightly.
"Hold still," the creature said, as the tail approached the stump of Gotz's arm. "This is gonna hurt."
It did. Immensely.
Gotz whistled off-key as he strolled away from the scene of carnage that, two minutes ago, had been a bandit gang. The socket that held his prosthetic ached in that semi-pleasant way it always did after he'd used it to take down a local scumbag, and now he had what he'd come to this flyspeck for.
"Please, please don't kill me," the bandit leader whined as Gotz dragged him along by the scruff of his neck.
"Not yet, little shit," Gotz said conversationally as he tossed the man onto the ground and applied his boot to the back of the man's neck. "First, you're going to answer a couple questions for me. Mostly about...Wallachia."
The bandit started to spill everything he knew.
"Isn't the old guy going to be pretty mad at you?" Gotz grunted, as the brat led him through the jungle.
The brat shrugged. "That depends. You know what'll happen if you try to tell people about me?"
"Beyond not being believed for a second, one of you will hunt my ass down?"
"Probably."
"So if I don't…"
"He's probably not going to care." The brat shrugged. "And besides. The world'll hear of me, sooner or later, once I move on up in it. Nobody'll care what you say, then."
Despite himself, Gotz chuckled. "True. Bit hard to hide if the entire world's taken notice." He paused. "This is how you keep going, isn't it?"
"Pardon?"
"Letting someone go. That's why you're doing this."
The brat huffed. "Maybe. Maybe your little story tugs at my heartstrings, and since I didn't smell a word of a lie on you I decided to believe it. Maybe it's something I can do to keep from going mad, to give myself something I can say to prove that I'm not totally evil. Or maybe, just maybe, I don't give a shit, and if I don't need to kill you, why should I waste the effort?"
"You're putting in effort, escorting me," Gotz said.
"That's true enough."
There was a bit of silence as they exited the jungle, reaching a small cove. A few boats were grounded there. "Well, take your pick," the brat said. "Any one of them'll reach the next island, like as not, even with only one arm."
"You have my thanks," Gotz grunted. He trudged down the sand, then stopped. "What the hell's your name, brat?"
"Yoshimura Kaneki. I know yours, Gotz 'Beast Slayer' Helsing...so in trade...what is the name of your son?"
Gotz looked at the creature. "Bargain made, and bargain struck, huh? Akira Horus. That's the brat." He stepped into a sailboat. "Oh, and Kaneki?"
"Yeah?"
"No hard feelings, but I'm going to try my best to kill you, next we meet."
The creature laughed.
"You're very welcome to try, Gotz. Who knows? I'll probably welcome it."
Gotz got the boat free with only minor difficulty.
He had places to be.
And he wanted to see his son.