As they walked out of the prison, Viktor kept a close eye on the Butcher Bird. The man was clearly, openly furious with him. Was it because he'd made a better case, and the prisoner had chosen to take a chance with him rather than sign on with a crew of ill repute? Was it some ludicrous religious sentiment about the sanctity of the human soul? Regardless, he was wary about the man flying into a rage, and watched out of the corner of his eye.
As a result, he was utterly unprepared when Six grabbed him by the throat and slammed him into the prison wall. The stone wall cracked, but none of the force of the blow was directed into Viktor's fragile trachea. This was a display of intimidation, then, carefully calculated. He pushed his glasses up on his nose, looking the cook in the eyes. The man's face was entirely blank, blue eyes flat and empty.
"Where," Six asked, in a soft, inquisitive tone, "did you get that Devil Fruit?"
"I don't see why I have to tell-"
Six's fingers vibrated, and pain shivered down Viktor's spine. Ah. The cook knew about nerve clusters, and how to stimulate them. Wonderful.
"Where."
"My lab," Viktor admitted through gritted teeth. "The Vita-Vita Fruit transfers to only the Atonovka breed of apple, which only grows in the South Blue. I've been maintaining a stockpile in the hopes that the previous wielder would die on the Grand Line, and my tree would be the closest usable host for the Fruit."
Six's expression did not change at all. "You intend to use it to make servants." The pressure on Viktor's neck intensified. "To make slaves. To break them to you."
"No," Viktor said simply. "No, that is not what I intend."
Something in those empty blue eyes hardened, for the briefest instant. Then the iron grip on his throat vanished, and Six stepped back. Viktor locked his knees - never show weakness, never, never - and restrained the urge to gasp for breath.
"I will be watching you," the cook said with iron certainty. "Very closely." He turned, and walked away, the Butcher Bird falling into step beside him with an unmistakably proud smile on his face. Only when the two had rounded the corner did Viktor heave for breath.
By science, he should have anticipated just what 'weakest member' meant when dealing with a crew like his cousin's.
No matter. He had what he wanted - the guarantee of loyalty. The prisoner - a member of the Demon Tribe, by name of Grundy Elisha - wouldn't need persuasion or threats or chains to keep him in line. Viktor had given him life, and that would be enough.
Honestly, slavery was just asking for trouble. Unless you could compel absolute adherence by technological means - and that usually destroyed all capacity for independent thought, and thus most of the use - it was an open invitation for an opponent to stab one in the back by releasing the slaves from his control.
"Hey, you okay, Doc?" the chief of security asked.
"Fine," Viktor growled. "I'm...fine." He straightened up. "What on earth is his problem?"
Horus blinked. "He...was on the crew of the last person who had that Devil Fruit, doc. Reason he's got that big chest scar, and apparently a shitload more that you don't see."
"I see." Viktor clenched his teeth. "Very well," he said reluctantly. "I will not hold it against him. This time." After all, the fact he could hold his restraint in the matter over his cousin was far sweeter than any temporary revenge he could have.
Also, he had a strong feeling that attempting to take judicial or physical action against Six would end...poorly.
Viktor let out a breath. "The execution will take place in a few hours. I would appreciate your help transporting the body, afterwards."
"Sure thing." Horus gave him a thumbs-up. "Decent thing you're doing, saving his ass."
Viktor laughed. "Sure. Decent."
"I mean it. Poor bastard doesn't deserve what's about to happen to him, and we can't do a thing about it. They're practically lining up to lynch him because he looks weird." Horus folded his arms. "Sometimes it pisses me off, stuff like this."
Viktor shrugged. "Then do something about it," he said neutrally, humoring the brute. "Complaining is pointless - either you can change it, or you cannot. If you can't...ignore it."
"Yeah, yeah, I get it," the huge man said, waving him off. "Fine. At least you're doing something about it, Doc."
Gin gave his new tonfas a dubious glance. Maybe giving them to the Cogs to 'upgrade' hadn't been his best idea. The weights that'd replaced the cannonballs were a twisting, Escherian nightmare that made his head hurt even more than Jack's bookkeeping could. At least the bosun had finally been satisfied with Gin's work, and let off for a bit.
"Okay, what exactly are these supposed to do?" he asked the two Cogs.
One of them, who to Gin's eternal gratitude was almost completely covered in its red robe, let loose a chittering burst of static. Gin sighed, and gave the other Cog - a young man who didn't have any visible mechanical bits, one of the new recruits - a glance.
"We've improved the airflow and the, uh, I'm not sure how to explain it, but the mechanisms inside should amplify your Devil Fruit's effects."
"Amplify. Hm."
"They're also heavier, like you asked."
Gin nodded, picking the weapons up and noting the increased heft. He probably wouldn't have been able to lift them a few months ago, but the Captain's bullshit wonder drugs and Kaneki's terrifying training regimen had worked miracles.
A pity they hadn't saved others, but there were limits. There always were.
The tonfa spun, slowly at first, but faster and faster, a droning hum filling the air as it was channeled through the heads. He added his power, pushing vibrations into the striking surfaces, and the hum changed pitch, rising and falling in an eerie tune. The Escherian heads blurred, obscured by the effects of his power, and Gin smiled, before slamming one into the concrete testing wall. The wall disintegrated, concrete dust billowing out as it collapsed, and he didn't feel a hint of backlash.
Gin grinned. "Nice work."
Another chittering screech came from the older Cog, while the younger smiled. "Our thanks," the young man said. "It is good to know it works properly."
Gin nodded, looking the kid over. Couldn't have been older than seventeen. "How'd you join?"
There were too many new faces, these days. The crew had nearly tripled in size, wharf rats and gutter scum and every sort who hid in the shadows practically lining up to join until they could count over two hundred people on their crew. Gin didn't like it. They hadn't fought and bled with the Nightmares, hadn't been tempered by war and hardship. He didn't know how they'd hold up under adversity. And that would come, no doubt about it.
"I...well, I was a clockmaker's kid," the brat said. "I like machines, but I'm the third kid. First one got the shop, second one got some money, and I got nothing. But I'll show them, I'll show them exactly what I'm capable of, because I HAVE SCIENCE ON MY SIDE, KNOW MACHINES BETTER THAN THEY WILL AND MY INVENTIONS WILL-"
CLANG!
Gin winced as a metal tentacle whacked the younger man in the back of the head, sending him sprawling into the dirt. The other Cog, to whom the clockwork tentacle belonged, burbled an apologetic string of Morse before hoisting the young man onto one shoulder and skittering away on a pair of stilt-legs.
Gin pinched the bridge of his nose, and took a few deep breaths. Then he began fiddling with the hafts of his new tonfas. A few twists and the press of a button later, and the weapons collapsed down into a short hilt and the creepy, eye-hurting weights. He shoved the weapons into the pockets of his coat, and sighed. It'd been a long week. Kaneki had been on edge ever since the town had executed some poor bastard, training relentlessly with anyone willing to try him in a spar and on whatever targets he could turn into rubble.
Honestly, Gin would've been lining up for that spar, eager to test his new weapons, but Kaneki would be leaving shortly for that trip to the quarantined city, and distracting him wouldn't help. Ah, well. Maybe he could rope Jack in, drag the man away from his precious paperwork for a bit. Gin'd been helping him enough the big man could afford to take some time off, after all.
"One Point Strike."
The air cracks under my blow, but the, for lack of a better word, air bullet dissipates before it can travel far. And I can already feel the bruises forming along my fist. Still not as bad as the Two Point strike, but the backlash…
Even with my cooperation, you are still uncentered, the dragon mutters. If not for our ability to heal, and our newly unbreakable bones, you would have crippled yourself already. Temporary or not, that is an opening you cannot afford.
"Shut up, I know," I growl, massaging my aching hand. "Why do you think I haven't been practicing it before? I'd shatter everything in my hand before we ate some seastone, and I wasn't listening to you enough to even achieve this much before that."
You state what we already know. If we joined fully, though…
"Can we even do that without expending a lot of energy on staying all dragon-y?"
Not for long. Our situation is...unusual. So. Meditation and reflection, to center ourselves?
"Sounds like a plan," I huff, grabbing a towel off the rack, scrubbing the sweat from my face. Ends Justified doesn't exactly have a gym, but over the past week as the work crews have finished and the ship has become seaworthy I've cleared out a place in the hold to work in secret. Well, not entirely secret, but my tendency to 'accidentally' throw wing shards at any non-Nightmare who lingered too long nearby has made it so they don't try to spy on me when I train anymore.
Alright, as freshened up as I'm gonna get. I'll take a dip in the ocean and change later, right now I want to stop by the kitchens and see if Six has something going on. Training mode off, time to figure out some other stuff.
Still not sure what to...do about that. Still seeing what happens, feeling out what I want. What he wants, too - it's damn near impossible to read facial expressions with him, and scent can only tell me so much.
Urgh, this really isn't my area. Problems I can't beat to death with their own severed limbs should be delegated to Jack or Vinci, in that order. But Vinci's solution would be to lock us into a room together and Jack...fuck, Jack would Team Mom at me.
Yes, clearly emotional support is to be avoided at all costs.
Shut up, you.
I'll just see how he's doing. No more. No less. I don't want this to be infatuation or worship, nothing like that.
I ascend the narrow wooden steps two at a time, towel draped over my shoulders. The kitchen's humming, I can already tell - Six really seems to have appreciated the work done there. Either that, or he's been bottling up the urge to cook while the workers have been renovating the place and it's all getting spent at once.
A cloud of steam billows out of the kitchen door as I open it, and I squint, peering through the haze. What is he…
Ah.
Six is working.
People with a taste for flowery bullshit might call what he's doing elegant, a symphony of motion, a dance that he's performing alone.
I'm not that guy. But even I can appreciate the sight as Six cooks enough food for a small army, moving through the kitchen unhurriedly. Not a motion is wasted, every single turn putting him right where he needs to be, heating one dish, seasoning another, placing a third in the oven. His face has the first true expression that I've ever seen on him, a soft, quiet smile that fits just right. It's the kind of smile you rarely see, one of peace and solidity. I can't help but smile back as he works, hearing him hum quietly, a quiet, reassuring tune.
I step away, closing the door silently behind me. He's happy right where he is, right now, and I couldn't bear to disturb that.
Besides, I've got a train to catch, soon enough.
I head for the deck, humming that tune under my breath. Maybe there's a song in it.
Jack closed the transponder snail connection with a satisfied smile on his face.
Things were going well. The Hunt was drawing in new crews and new recruits, word of their existence and their power spreading out of the Line and into the Blue Seas. Granted, four new crews weren't a lot, and they were definitely Blue Seas rookies, but every man that flew the Hunt's standard (a triskelion, because they needed some identifying mark and the Captain was too busy cooking up abominations of nature to provide one) was one more body willing to raise hell. And one more that'd be more than willing to fight the Marines, when it came down to it. There were a lot of accounts to be settled, for the government dogs, and Jack would be more than happy to close their books for good.
As for the Ends...well, the shipwrights had worked faster than ever, it'd be a week or less before she was fully seaworthy again. Seaworthy, and deadlier than any vessel her size on the sea. Lauren was practically salivating over the chance to put its new guns to use, and Jack had a feeling she'd have more than enough chances once they made their move.
And then there was the work Kaneki had been doing to dig a path to that bunker under the Center...wouldn't be long now before they hit it, and then...well, the Captain had plans within plans within plans, and Jack'd help make them real no matter what Vinci decided.
Speaking of…
He stood, stretching slightly and cracking his back. Time to get to work. He picked up a black canvas bag he kept next to his desk, before leaving the tiny, completely soundproofed office. The rest of the largely-abandoned warehouse stretched out before him, only a few crates of cargo disturbing the empty expanse. Well, a few crates of cargo, and a naked Marine tied to a chair, a large canvas tarp spread out under the furniture. Jack gave the Fae watching the man a nod, and the shapeshifter held up a vial of blood. Good. They'd be able to use this man's identity, later. Not for very long, under the circumstances...but long enough.
Jack picked up the small collapsible table leaned against a nearby support beam, and unfolded it, placing the bag on top with a thump. The Marine, blindfolded but still conscious, flinched - Jack had moved completely silently, and that was the first noise he heard beyond ambient noise inside the warehouse. Outside, nothing could be heard - mostly because the warehouse, like the office inside it, was also soundproofed. A precaution for times like this.
Jack didn't say a word, only opening the bag. One by one, gleaming metal tools were extracted, inspected, and laid down on the table with quiet, precise clinking noises. With each one, the Marine twitched.
Jack did not smile.
Finally, after the last tool - a hacksaw - was laid down, he folded his hands over his tunic, and spoke. "Master Chief Petty Officer Daudur Dropi," he stated calmly. "Age: Thirty-six. Divorced amicably, two children, still sends a large portion of his paycheck back home to fund their education. Currently serving under Captain T-Bone of the Marine Interservices Liason Department, have for the past two years, earning promotion to CPO and current rank, the former due to displayed valor, the latter a brevet rank later confirmed by the Captain after the Black Coral Campaign. Recommended for commissioning as Ensign by Captain T-Bone, status pending. Considered a personal confidant of the Captain."
"Whatever you want, I won't talk," the Marine snarled. "They'll find me. They'll find you, you stupid bastard."
"You were last seen highly intoxicated, leaving in the company of a dockside whore," Jack explained calmly. "Believe me when I say that nobody is looking for you right now."
"Fuck you!"
Jack tsked. "I assume you're going to make things difficult."
"You're goddamn right, you piece of shit. I don't know who the hell you are, but once I get out of here-"
"Very well." Jack picked up one of his tools. "We'll see if you're more cooperative shortly."
"He's gonna be late," Tashigi grumbled.
Herman shrugged. "It's Kaneki. He's just waiting for the opportunity to make a dramatic entrance and put the fear of God into your Marines."
Tashigi gave him an incredulous look, before sighing as reality sank in. "He would, wouldn't he?"
Herman smiled. Finally, she was getting it. "In three, two, one…"
Right on cue, someone started playing a guitar, the distant tune rippling through the air and causing the assembled Marines and security personnel to look around in confusion.
"When you're burdened and soul-shaken
And remorse hangs iron-laden
'Round your shoulders, grown misshapen…"
Kaneki's voice came from the roof, but when Herman glanced there, there wasn't anyone around.
"When you dared, where battle lines were drawn
Boldly crossed that Rubicon
And searched, but all the stars were gone…"
Down the field, and again, not there. Herman grunted. Of course he was fucking with them.
"And the blessed days left you behind
To a requiem and life combined
To live half-in half-out of time…"
Tashigi's knuckles were going white on her sword's hilt.
"And in that time, ticking fitfully,
You purchased your complicity
In blood and in iniquity..."
Smoker ground his teeth, arms folded.
"When shattered and in grief besot
That late uncertain spectre caught
You in raveling, unresting thought…"
Marines whirled as the voice shifted location again, seeming to come from among their ranks.
"And when the threads of life retrace
A rending tale, a fall from grace
How the monster - piecemeal - took your place…"
And now Kaneki was visible, suddenly standing stark against the field of snow as he walked towards the train depot, hands in his pockets and still singing.
"When you could swear you scarce exist
But art or artifice insists
The show goes on in spite of this…
When you're desolate and all alone
And desperately far from home
When the cold has bitten to the bone...
Come rest these bones where spirits be
In lack-a-day fraternity
For misery loves company."
Kaneki strolled up to Herman, grinning all the while, as the last notes of the tune faded away. "Whaddya think?"
Herman flicked a finger against the ghoul's forehead, sending the smaller man into the snow - a deliberate fall, that blow hadn't had enough force to stagger him for real. "Quit fucking around. We've got work to do."
"Yeah, yeah," Kaneki grumbled, jumping back to his feet. "Right! Let's get this show on the road, hey? And stop using your knockoff Six Powers on me."
Herman growled. "Stop calling them that. I'll use my own damn style, doesn't matter if I steal some techniques to add to it."
"Oh? So what's the point of Shepherd Style? It's all just shouting and hitting things with bits of iron from where I'm standing."
"You're dead wrong. The whole point of my style is so I'm not just doing that."
"Really, now."
"Really," Herman growled. "People don't stop being vulnerable to punches, throws, and holds just because they've got a weapon on them. Might as well be able to fight unarmed as well as armed."
Kaneki cocked his head, then shrugged. "Fair enough."
"LISTEN UP, MAGGOTS!" Smoker barked suddenly, drawing the attention of all present. "For those of you who haven't been listening or were off getting drunk instead of attending the briefing, let's go over this one more time. Emory's a closed city, this rail line-" he gestured at the tracks and the depot "-is the only way in or out. Why? Because there's a plague infesting the city. Doesn't travel easily, not beyond the walls at least, but every man, woman, and child in there has it. The eggheads in the Center have some name for it, but everyone else just calls it Reaver Syndrome. Turns normal, everyday people into frothing lunatics. Stronger than a hundred men, immune to pain, and totally intent on killing as many as they can. The medical shipments we're escorting contain the drugs that keep the disease in remission. We're going to distribute it at our stop in the city, under guard. Marines, your job is simple. Keep an eye out for anyone acting suspicious, exhibiting signs of aggression, or anything else that means they might be about to relapse. Self-harm, muttering, twitching, anything like that. Follow the directions of CDRP security, they're old hands at this. And if someone does relapse, call me, the Ensign, or the two Nightmares, we'll handle the situation. Don't try to be heroes. Understood?"
"Yes, Captain!" the Marines shouted.
"Good," Smoker growled. "Let's get this over with."
