"Avoiding the navy put us way off course," Karmen muses after Pierce had flown to scout ahead.
Those twelve ships had been more tenacious than she had first expected. They'd used up their air tanks and had been skirted three days off course. They'd delayed another day to treat wounds, human and otherwise. They'd brought an emergency supply of sunscreen which has been proven invaluable now that they did not have the luxury of traveling underwater.
With rationed food, the hot sun, and little room to stretch one's legs, complaints had begun to rise from the nearly two hundred rescuees. If this kept up, they'd have to ask the rays to line up like a walking track for a change of scenery and exercise.
Karmen rubs the back of her head in thought. "We didn't plan to be out for this long or to have this big of a group. Even our emergency extra rations will be gone by the end of the day."
"I can smell an island nearby," Pierce reports. "I believe we could replenish our stores there."
"I think some of these men would kill for dry land right now, even if there were little food to be found. If anything, Parvati and I could do some fishing. We've done it before," she says. "I don't think some of the patients would be happy about that though. Unless… no. We shouldn't be lighting any fires. Someone may see the smoke." She turns to them and raises her voice. "We'll be stopping at a nearby island to resupply. We're going to make sure no one goes hungry."
When the island is in sight, the early morning light shines over them in a green sheen that is reflected off the gentle waves. The island is heavily forested and they can hear the calls of birds and animals from half a mile out. It reminds Karmen of Treasure Island, but a single sweep of haki tells her that this one is completely uninhabited by humanoids, boxed or otherwise. There are plenty of animals and insects and the wind off the island carries the fragrance of fruit and flowers. There must be a variety of roots and vegetables to find. This will get them home.
They step off onto the beach and everyone gives a deep sigh of appreciation once they're fully back on solid ground. "Right." Karmen sets her hands on her hips. "No one has to help search if they do not wish to. There will be no consequences if you say no," she reassures them. "But any help we get will ensure we get back on course that much faster."
"Those were Marines that we ran away from," one woman says. "They'd have food. Why don't we go back to them?"
Stifling a sigh and fighting the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose, Karmen explains. "Because those Marines had orders from their superiors to work with the very people who were keeping you in chains," she says. "You can't always trust the system because most of the people you should be able to trust follow the highest bidder. Trust me. We've seen it firsthand. I understand that this trip hasn't been the most pleasant voyage in the world, but I'm asking you to bear with me for a little while longer."
Her tone must have been convincing, or maybe their slave training has left them unwilling to argue, but no one asks any more questions.
In a huddle of three, one man with dark blue hair gives a luxurious stretch. With his cuts and bruises, the motion must have been agonizing, but he shows no sign of complaint.
"I don't know about anyone else, but not having to do hard labor under a whip and the barrel of a gun for these four days has been pretty nice," he says. His dandelion colored eyes focus warmly on her. "My wounds have even been treated. The way I see it, this is paradise in comparison. You've earned my trust, lady. You and your devil-fruited friend. I don't mind helping out."
The two men near him, one with mango hued hair and the other's the color of seafoam, give an easy grin and nod. "Taking a walk around the island will help our clothes to dry," another agrees. "Food would just be an added bonus."
Slowly nearly half the group volunteers. "Thank you," Karmen says. "Let me get oriented and we can get started."
She sits down cross-legged in the sand and closes her eyes, letting her arms rest on her knees.
"How does this help us find food?" someone mutters.
"Give her a moment," Pierce says. She can feel his shoulders squaring as he speaks. "This is part of my lady's process."
Karmen shuts out the whispered conversations around her and lets her haki sweep the lifeforms of the island. Animals. Birds. Insects. Above. Across. Below. She registers their abilities, speeds, traits, and battle tactics. "Memorization Sync: Water Vole, Squirrel Monkey, Flea Beetle, Hercules Beetle." Her list continues methodically until all discussion ceases and the only noise when she finishes her last creature is the cicadas in the trees.
When she has the proper skills registered, Karmen organizes the volunteers into groups, giving them specific things to look for and a few plants to avoid. The trio of men who'd spoken on her behalf volunteered to join her group. Rolling her shoulders and stretching her legs, she selects the flea beetle and takes springy leaps into the deep, humid jungle foliage. The men follow her as best they can. They're strong and capable and their attitudes are a refreshing change. She makes sure to go slow enough that they don't get lost while still keeping track of her quarry.
Pierce flies off on his own. She can sense him in full bat form, using motions that can only be instinctual. Perhaps he still feels self-conscious about letting anyone see this side of him, especially her, even though he knows she's keeping track of him. He sweeps low over the trees, snapping up insects and spiders, using his hat like a collection basket. She wonders if the humidity of the jungle canopy is also a factor, that he doesn't want to overheat and become "useless" should she need him.
She keeps the corner of her mental gaze trained on him as she expands her haki forward, searching for animals and insects eating the roots of plants. Her survey leads her to a runoff depression made by rainwater, carving the land into sloping hills. Down in the ditch are several large-leafed plants and short-leaved shrubs, tell-tale signs of taro and cassava roots.
"These will provide plenty of food for the group," she tells the men, making sure they can identify which plants they're after. She removes a few darts from a quill and empties them into her bag before handing them to her teammates. "These are strong and sharp enough to serve as knives. Don't worry about getting them dirty. We can wash them when we clean the roots."
The man with the seafoam hair scratches the back of his head. "You found this place awfully fast," he says. "Have you been here before?"
"No," she responds. "I simply followed the animals." She gathers the elephant-ears of one plant in a big bundle. "We should take the whole taro plant when we dig them up. We can use them as umbrellas."
With the men's help, they have thirty-five large vine-bound root bundles dug up and ready to transport to the beach in a matter of hours. While the men's limbs and clothing are caked with dirt and sweat, Karmen barely has dirt under her nails and has a dewy glisten, despite doing the same amount of work. During their time together, Karmen had learned that the dark blue-haired man's name is Myron, the mango-haired man is Lionel, and the man with the seafoam colored hair is Everett.
The men do not seem tired at all as they hoist seven root bundles each onto their back, leaving fourteen behind. "Don't push yourself," Myron says. "We can come back for the rest."
Karmen examines the bundles with a critical eye from a few different angles. "Perhaps not… If I tie this here and attach this over here…" With a few simple knots, she ties the remaining bundles into a semi-round ball. "That should do it. Now for the final touches," she says. She can sense certain insects fighting over mates and territories nearby. "Sync: Hercules Beetle."
Her arms extend with one of her feet in what may be a yoga position. One arm arcs high above her head as far as she can reach while the other is barely extended under her chin. Pushing forward with her back foot in a graceful slide, she positions herself beside the ball, gives a mighty heave, and hoists it above her head. She balances the weight to perfectly offset the strain on her muscles. Turning carefully, she uses the weight of the mass to propel her forward, back toward the beach. The men stare on in shock, but end up chuckling and following behind.
Pierce meets her near the waterline and effortlessly takes the load from her, setting it near a large rock where others had piled vegetables and berries. Behind it is a large pile of insects that the group is eyeing with distaste and skepticism. The three men place their loads with it, trying not to pant too loudly.
At that moment, Karmen senses movement beneath the waves. "Pierce."
No more instruction is needed before he's sweeping onto her back and hoisting her into the air. The ocean boils under them in a mix of fins and tails. Fish are catapulted into the air where Karmen pricks them with a quilt using her Bee Swarm technique and performing an aerial jig to kick them to shore where they land without moving. As her quills dance along with her feet in a blur of motion, the new patients can only stare open-mouthed or grin until it's over.
Finally, the ocean stills and they land back on the beach as Karmen disposes of empty capsules. She gives the fish a respectful bow. "Thank you for giving your life so that we might eat."
Pierce's muzzle pokes up over her shoulder. "Mistress, do you know how to clean a fish? I do not," he whispers.
"I do," she whispers back. "I choked on enough fishbones when Kudra had me trapped on the island to learn a few tricks."
Pierce climbs off and returns to human form, stepping aside to let her work. She takes her dagger and finishes off the fish with quick efficiency before filleting one. She puts the meat on a rock and stares at it hard.
"Maybe, just maybe, we won't have to eat this raw." No matter how hard she stares at it, imagining the smell of grilling fish, herbs, or butter, nothing happens. "I admit, I never expected to be disappointed that food I thought of cooking didn't catch on fire," she says with a sigh that is lost in the rumbling of her stomach.
After examining all the food around her and puts samples of everything on a large sheet of bark balanced on the rock. She closes her eyes and stabs the point of her dagger into one of everything until it's decorated like a shishkabob. With a bite of each, letting the flavors mingle on her tongue, she carefully samples the display in front of her.
"Right. W.W.S.D?"
"W.W.S.D?" Pierce repeats.
"What Would Sanji Do?" she explains, clearly distracted by her thoughts. "Memory Sync: Sanji." Karmen twirls her dagger in a fluid motion that is nothing like her usual movements. With a kick, she jolts the bark table and sends all the food flying into the air.
The pieces fall and are arranged and mashed together into something that resembles jeweled sushi. Karmen observes it for a moment, still suspicious that it may still burst into flames. Thankfully, or perhaps sadly in this case, nothing happens. She selects a roll wrapped in glistening green beetle shells and offers it to Pierce.
"I wouldn't say my tastebuds are exactly normal. Would you mind testing this for us?"
If he's anything less than enthused to accept her entreaty it doesn't show on his face. He takes the spiraled hodge-podge from her hand, sniffs it, and pops it into his mouth. His jaw works at a steady pace for a good fifteen seconds before he swallows it before a small coughing fit into his fist.
The ex-slaves watch the pair with failing hope for their stomachs as he straightens his wings formally and clears his throat for a final time. "Forgive me, Mistress," he says. "It would appear that my human form is not accustomed to eating spider hair and insect wings."
"Oh." Her shoulders slump slightly in defeat. "I can make another batch and eat these ones myself." She takes a bite out of an orange roll and swallows it down. The wings catch in her throat and the hairs itch, and the rest of it is palatable at best. The plan had worked in her head, but she clearly still has a lot to learn.
Pierce takes the bark table and throws it violently above his head, projecting the whole batch into the ocean where the rays swarm it. "Forgive me, my lady, but that is not suitable sustenance for you either," he says as he lays the empty bark down for her once more. "But it does make acceptable fish food."
Karmen sets her hands on her hips, palms out so she doesn't get raw fish on her clothes. "We'll discuss the proper handling of spare food and what you're allowed to feed the rays later."
"Yes, Mistress."
After carefully shaving the remaining spiders and creating a small pile of wings beside her, she gives it a second attempt. This time the results come out looking like little cucumber sandwiches. Sanji would come up with a use for the spare parts, but she can't find a place for them in the meal. Pierce readily samples this batch, not seeming to mull over the flavors much this time, and gives a satisfactory nod. "This should suffice as sustenance."
"Does it taste good, or is it simply edible?" she asks, not quite trusting his answer.
"It's not quite on the level of the five-star meals we ate growing up, but it's clear you've picked up a few tricks while we've been apart," he says, not entirely answering her question. "I'm glad to see that you've come this far in your culinary skills. It is truly commendable."
Not quite sure if he's complimenting her or subtly having some fun at her expense, she takes a bite of these new concoctions. It's definitely better than the first batch, being hairless and wingless, but there's still something off about it. There is a distinct crunch from the insect shells, roots, and raw vegetables and a contrasting bitter squish from the insides. The fish adds a firm texture and a distinct layer of salt that is salvaged by the sweetness of the fruit.
She sighs. Clearly studying Sanji's movements isn't enough. She doesn't have anything that even resembles his training with Zeff and the others at the Baratie. She doesn't hold a candle to his taste profile expertise. "It'll do for now," she says, clearly not pleased with her own work. A little louder she calls out to the surrounding people, pasting a large grin on her face. "Right, breakfast is served. It's survivalist at best, but it'll get us through until we're safe enough to cook over a fire."
The patients move in, some readily chowing down immediately while the others try dissecting the meal to get the choicer bits. Once everyone looks at least sated, Karmen and Pierce move in to eat their own fill. Sitting off to the side, Karmen pulls out a bottle containing brown powder and sprinkles it over her selection.
One man lets out a small gasp. "She's seasoning her food! She kept it all for herself!"
Pierce's visor bobs as he raises an eyebrow at the man. "It's poison."
This gives the man pause, but it's clear that his preconception is winning over his thoughts. "You can try it if you don't believe him," Karmen tells the man, "but you will not enjoy your experience."
He steps forward and snatches a sandwich from her, popping it whole into his mouth. He chews, swallows, and then his eyes lose focus. He falls to the beach foaming at the mouth as he seises. The rest of the group stares in surprise.
Unconcerned, Karmen pops a "seasoned" sandwich into her own mouth with a shrug. "Told you." When she's swallowed, she levers a liquid into her quill and pricks the man's ankle. By the time her second sandwich is down, the man's recovered enough to sit up. "I poison everything I eat," she tells the group. Her voice echoes over the silent beach. "It's necessary for my way of existence." She observes the man who's brushing sand off his cheek. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine," he says sheepishly. "Sorry for not trusting you."
Lionel leaps forward. "Can I try some? Does it taste good?"
Karmen can't contain a small snort of laughter. "Don't give me a reason to waste my antidotes."
They finish their meal and pack up the rest of the produce and return out to sea. The three men that helped her gather roots pile onto one ray and Karmen directs it to come up alongside Parvati.
"You're them, aren't you?" she asks, giving them a soft, sad smile. "The remaining crew of The Heralder."
Myron returns her sad smile, if distantly. "We are. Or, were. Not much of a crew now that the Captain's gone," he says, dropping his gaze before adding some warmth to his expression. "I didn't realize our ship was so well known."
"We were the best, brother," Lionel says, flashing a grin. "Don't go selling us short. We had a reputation and we earned it."
This gets a laugh out of everyone, including Karmen. "But we had to have run mail for you at some point to be picked out of a group as large as this," Everett says.
"You all have faded calluses on your hands that come from seafaring, but the ones on your fingers come from holding a quill." She flips hers for emphasis. "Trust me, I know," she says. "In my crew, I'm the secretary. It takes long hours of writing on a weekly basis to build up ones like yours, faded or no."
Myron nods. "I was the first mate, Lionel was the chief mail sorter, and Everett was our ship's bird trainer."
"You said you're a sailor too?" Lionel asks.
"A pirate."
They look surprised, but grin.
"It makes sense, I suppose. Don't tell me you were one of the crews that tried to raid us," Everett jokes.
Karmen's sad smile thins reflectively. "When I raided The Heralder, yours was not the crew piloting her," she says, giving them a moment to let her words sink in.
It's Myron who speaks first. "What did they do to her?" His voice is low and gruff with barely restrained emotion.
"She'd been turned into slave transport," she tells them, unable to tear her gaze away as she sees the pain and anger light in their eyes. Her haki registers every muscle in their body tensing. "She resisted them at every turn and did everything she could to help the prisoners aboard her. Eventually, she wrecked herself on a rocky sandbar. She saved me and seventy-three other lives."
"So she's gone," Lionel says solemnly.
"I gave her a ship's funeral," Karmen says, matching his tone.
Myron nods heavily. "We appreciate that. Thank you."
"She loved you dearly. I'm sorry I cut her voyages short."
Everett looks at Karmen with confusion through his pain. "You said she wrecked herself. We knew she was special and… aware, at least. It was her choice to make. She must have hated being used like that. You did right by her."
"But I did wrong by you," she responds gravely.
"What do you mean?" he asks.
"About eight months ago, I declared war on Gallowcomb," she tells them. "I sent a letter proving my death, complete with evidence. I believe that is the document that led to your capture. I'm sorry."
"That was your-!"
"Lionel!" Myron cuts his crewmate off with an authoritative tone, not harsh, but ultimately commanding. The man's anger seems to build, but he complies without another sound.
Pierce, who had been standing by quietly during this conversation, discreetly moves his hand to his tonfa.
Myron eyes Karmen carefully as he decides how he'd like to respond. She feels weighed, measured, and sized under his gaze. "Part of our job as mail couriers of our caliber is to flag documents that may have been forged or tampered with. We don't open them, of course, but we examined every envelope. Captain Turig was one of the best. He could spot a forgery from a mile away," he says. "That letter you mentioned, we all remember it well. He'd flagged it as suspicious and had it separated from the rest of the mail." There is a small pause before he asks, "Do you have a writing sample I could look at?"
Surprised by his sudden request, Karmen fumbles through her bag for a water-tight container where she keeps writing materials and letters she's yet to finish. Her hand touches a letter-in-progress to Mihawk and she almost hands that over, but decides to pull out a blank piece of paper and write a new one instead.
Research Notes:
Need practice with raw ingredients for emergency rations.
Goal: Improve taste.
She hands over the scrap and Myron studies it carefully. "Just as I thought. Look here, boys. Recognize this?" He shows his crewmates and their eyes widen.
"It's the same writing as the Tampered-Stamp Letters."
Karmen blinks with confusion. "Pardon me?"
Myron gives a prideful snort. "There was a series of letters that had been coming in over the past two years that Turig had also flagged. They had beautiful script but something was odd about them: All the stamps had been removed and replaced," he says.
Karmen looks sharply up at Pierce. "Didn't you say that was one of the things you were asked about?" He nods and a twinge of excitement grows inside her. Had it been Kuma? "This may sound strange, but did the stamps look as if they'd been blown off? Perhaps with a devil-fruit power?"
"No," Everett says. "These were definitely cut."
"The person who did it knew how the mail system works. We can tell where a letter is sent from by the stamp placed on it and the mark left by the couriers that handle it," Lionel says. "It makes it easy for us to track back to where it originated if something ever gets lost or can't be delivered."
"It was hard to notice because it had been done so well," Myron continues, "but a little of the envelope would sometimes be cut away or a layer of the original stamp had been left. Sometimes it had been stamped twice from different islands, but the original ink was unidentifiable. Whoever did it knew what to look for and didn't want the letters tracked back to the sender."
"So in other words," Lionel adds.
"Back to you," Everett finishes.
Pierce's shoulders drop a millimeter. He'd thought it had been Kuma as well. She can sense his confusion but knows he won't comment on it unless she brings it up when they're alone.
"I have no idea who it could have been if that's the case," she says slowly. "We know plenty of people who might have been able to get access to them. But who would have done that?"
It had to have been someone she knew before she escaped. Someone who either wanted to protect her or wanted to control the information being spread. The narrowing list of possibilities brings names to mind that do not bring her the slightest bit of comfort. Pierce senses her growing unease and places a hand on her shoulder. The touch of his warm hand breaks her out of her thoughts and she covers it with her own welcomingly as she relaxes into him.
"We couldn't figure it out either, but the stamps had been the only thing tampered with, so Captain Turig allowed them to be sent through," Myron tells her. "When he flagged that last envelope, he matched indicators in the handwriting and said that it was a very well-crafted forgery. Even he had trouble with it. If you hadn't used the same ink as before, he may have not caught it at all."
"He was tortured and killed for that information," Lionel says harshly.
Myron silences him with a sharp look but nods a confirmation. "Turig's reputation was well known, so when we delivered the mail to Valcour that day, we weren't allowed to leave."
"That moth-moth sniper man had the waters blockaded by his bounty hunters," Everett adds in. "They forced us to shore and into the basement."
Karmen's face immediately falls emotionless at the mention of that place. Pierce's hand tightens on her shoulder. Whether it's to comfort her or from a similar reaction, she doesn't quite have the capacity to discern at the moment. The trio in front of them also looks haunted.
"Turig was asked again and again if the document was faked. Where it was sent from. If he recognized the handwriting. If it matched a stack of letters he had," Myron says. "He made us watch."
"Captain insisted they were 100% genuine," Everett says. "He wouldn't admit to anything, so we didn't either."
"Wouldn't have mattered anyway," Lionel says with a shrug. "A man like that, he doesn't care whether something is true or not. It wouldn't have kept him from killing."
"We could smell the blood every time we came to the island. Had to avoid sea kings the whole way," Everett says. "We should have steered well away. Sent a bird. Only my birds wouldn't fly there."
"We knew the risks and we upheld our duty," Myron says. His statement ends the cascade of speech from the other men and he levels a sigh as he leans forward and focuses on her again. "Our Captain saw something about those letters that he felt was worth protecting. Now that we've met you, I think I understand."
"Well I don't!" Lionel growls. "Our crew is dead!"
"Why don't you let her tell her side of it, Lionel," Everett says softly, giving Myron a nod.
Karmen feels as if she should cry, but not even a single tear will roll down her defensive mask as the memories flood her mind. "I am truly sorry for your losses. I was selfish and only thought of myself. I should have planned for contingencies, but I was blinded by my desperation," she tells them. "I wrote the original string of letters because my best friend was in that same basement being tortured on a daily basis for information that he didn't have. I was trying to keep him alive."
Lionel almost looks guilty for his earlier aggression, but it's clear he's having difficulty mastering his rage. "Did it work?"
"It did, for a while," Pierce answers. "But eventually she began to fight back and they found her."
"I knew the only way I could ever be free of him was if I were to die, so I did." Karmen kneels and lowers herself into a deep bow. "I am not asking for your forgiveness. I cannot make up for what I have taken from you, but I pray that you will at least allow me to ensure that he can never do it again."
"You've been down there too, haven't you?" Myron asks softly. "Please, sit up."
"We have."
"How long?"
The question triggers a myriad of memories and Karmen finds herself unable to answer. How many hours of the first eighteen years of her life had she spent feeling puddles of blood cooling around her feet? How many screams and sobs had echoed off those walls around her? How many pleas for mercy and death went unanswered?
How many people had she seen cut up in front of her? How young was she when she finally developed a deep understanding of anatomy and what it took to kill a person or keep them alive in sheer agony?
How many times had she been relieved when no more sound echoed off the basement walls past the slowing drips of blood leaving a cold body, meaning she could escape? How many years will she still feel guilty for being the one who survived?
"He tortured us both. I was down there for two years," Pierce says. His voice cuts through the memories like a hot knife that threatens to shatter her. "Somewhere near eighteen years for Karmen. She's probably the longest living survivor of Gallowcomb's favorite brand of torture."
She can feel the men sizing her up again, trying to figure out just how old she is in comparison and wondering what kind of life she's known.
"Pierce. They don't need to know my life story."
Karmen wants to deny it. She wants to say that he never harmed her, that she was let off lightly compared to what she was forced to watch, but she knows that isn't true. He'd damaged her, perhaps beyond repair. Perhaps there won't ever be a day that the memory of her childhood isn't a painful wound, an ache in the core of her being.
"This isn't about me," she says softly.
"Don't blame yourself for what happened," Myron says gently. "It was Turig's choice to protect your secret. If anything, we got to see the extent of his strength to the very end. He had dignity and pride, and that's something we can always remember him for." The other two men nod in agreement.
"About The Heralder, you said she saved the slaves she was transporting," Everett says after a moment. "What happened to them?"
Karmen manages a soft smile. "They were given a similar treatment as you, minus the extended detour. I took them to my island for recuperation and safety," she says. "You can meet them when we get there, if you'd like."
"We'd like that very much," Lionel says. "It's not every day you get to meet the people your Captain and your ship saved."
It takes two more days of carefully rationing their food stores to make it back to the island, but eventually this group is documented, bathed, and have been sent on their way to be doctored before dinner.
Karmen carries maps into the dining hall to compare them to patient's reported island homes and make future travel and reintroduction plans after recovery.
She notices when the courier trio enters. They're heavily bandaged around their bare torsos and wrists and they look half-famished. Truthfully, the sight of them reminds her of Pierce shortly after she'd gotten him back. All their fatigue disappears when Karmen nods her head toward The Heralder's name plaque on the wall.
Their eyes widen with reverence as they walk toward it as if in a trance. She meets them there and takes it down so they can touch it with their own hands.
As they trace the scrawling letters, a warm blue light appears and lights the name with tiny flames.
You found them, Ghost, a familiar voice says. Thank you for saving them.
The men's hands still as the voice silences the room. Patients new and old turn towards them. They can all hear her now.
"You're welcome, Heralder," Karmen says. "It was the least I could do. I thought you'd gone."
I was hoping for the chance to say goodbye, she answers as her presence turns to the men. Myron, Lionel, Everett. We had many, many wonderful travels together. I loved every moment. I know you loved me because it woke me and gave me life.
"'Course we did," Lionel says tearfully. "You're the best ship a man could travel with."
"You carried us through the dangers of the Grand Line without fear or question," Everett says. "Who couldn't love a ship like that."
"Sorry we scuffed you up a little when we were greenhorns," Myron says with a choked chuckle. "You made us brave. We'll never forget that."
My journey ends here, but yours carries on. Be well, and live unafraid. Free, as we all now are. Goodbye. I will always carry our Captain and crew with me, always.
The light fades and the men burst into tears. The sound of their sobs echoes around the dining hall and Karmen steps away to give them a moment of privacy.
