Inkbolt

by Yeomanaxel

When the world has ended, its high time to find another. Damian Volta must learn this lesson, as lightning strikes him from the old to the new. Stranded forever on an ocean full of pirates and magic, two years before Luffy begins his quest for the Throne, Volta must forge a new path for himself. His actions will decide his fate, and that of many others. Für immer weiterleiten!

18. The Old Craftsman

Chapter 18 – The Old Craftsman

Volta left his coat at the tailor's shop. No payment was required; freeing the island was payment enough, the old lady said. That suited Volta just fine.

Akisu had gone above and beyond, giving Volta an address the moment the two met up in the town square. The party was in full swing, but he barely noticed. The sword in his hand felt heavy as he walked around the mountain, moving out of the festivities and into the relative quiet of the countryside. He could still hear the music though, and he wondered why the citizenry wasn't half-deaf already.

More hills rose out of the base of the mountain on its other side. A smaller village sat out of sight of the dirt paths, nestled in a dip between the hills. One hill had a single house on it, an older structure. A rundown shack more than anything. It was here that Volta would know the truth behind his sword, and the gun buried in its scabbard. He felt excited but wary. Already the back of his neck prickled, an ominous sign for what was to come.

As he got closer to the house, the feeling increased, in a way he couldn't articulate. Not even in his mind. Trudging up the hill, sword in hand, it felt like he was approaching the gates of some unspeakable underworld. The sky darkened, and the grass died. Everything withered away, became smoke, and in the smoke, danced silver. Silver blades, silver fire, flowing freely, without restraint. An unspeakable power lay within that silver.

"Gah!"

Volta collapsed, sweat pouring off of him. His eyes rolled back into his head, but with a grunt of effort, he forced them forward again. The darkness faded, and he got back to his feet. The silver fire still danced, even as the sky returned to its normal bright blue. And then the flames flickered out, reality reasserting itself.

…what the hell had just happened? The suddenness of the vision horrified Volta, shaking him in a way he hadn't felt since his dream. Which hadn't been that long ago, but still! Was he having a heat stroke? A mental breakdown? No, this was deeper, stronger. A feeling of overwhelming power, a force trying to wrestle his very spirit to the ground.

"Beruhige dich," he muttered. "Calm yourself. Calm yourself."

"Interesting."

Volta glanced up. A bit higher on the hill stood an old man. A bushy white beard flowed down to his knees, and much of its length had been shaped into weapons. Swords and spears, axes and guns, all sculpted from his impressive facial hair. It reminded Volta of the woman-shaped sideburns Walkaway had sported, dyed blonde to distinguish them from his natural brown.

Beyond that, the man was short and stout, his face shrouded in a brown hood. The hood widened out into a robe, covering all but the impressive facial hair he sported. He wore a big black tool belt, implements strapped all over. Most disconcerting of all, he cast a shadow across the ground, one that Volta found himself enveloped in. Volta glanced behind him. The sun was to his back. How could this be?

"W-who are you?"

The man smiled. At least, Volta thought he did. There was too much beard to be sure. "Nobody. Just an ole craftsman. You can call me Zwergherr like the folk do." He waved a hand toward the village.

"…Zwergherr?"

The man cocked a bushy eyebrow. "You did not have that accent before."

"Zat name iz von I recognizce."

The man rose his eyebrow even higher. "Können Sie verstehen, was ich gerade sage?"

"Perfekt."

The old man smiled again. Maybe. "It's been so long since I've used my native tongue. So long I feel more comfortable with English now, if you don't mind."

"Not at all."

Zwergherr led the way into his home, another great example of how looks could be deceiving. The shack-like exterior concealed a well-built living room, connected to a kitchen that was only a few degrees away from being state-of-the-art. The floor was polished oak, save for a large tile of stone in the center, upon which was etched a crude anvil.

The walls stood tall, a blend of metal and wood and earth, the furniture matching the style. Volta did not doubt that everything had been made by hand, from the goatskin rug sprawled across the floor, to the elaborate knives and pans that hung from the kitchen walls. A great firebrick oven dominated a quarter of the house. To Volta's astonishment, there was a second floor, or rather a large mezzanine that served as a small but comfortable bedroom. He ran back outside. Impossible! The building was too low!

Except, it wasn't. He had been walking downward without even realizing it, the house half-buried into the hill it stood on. The TARDIS-like illusion was just skillful architecture, the slope unnoticeable when one was faced with the interior's rustic beauty.

But one thing caught his eye above all else. A great axe, gleaming above the living room's large fireplace. It was the two-handed sort, double-sided. The blades were broad but not cartoonish, and they looked sharp enough to slice through a bone like butter. The handle was a swirling blend of gold and copper-colored wood, and its pommel had been dipped in a liquid Volta couldn't identify.

Wait, he could identify it. Polished to a dull glow, the pommel was the same green-gray color of his Seastone pin. A tip capable of blunting the power of Devil Fruit users.

Never had Volta laid eyes upon a weapon of such beauty. It was a war axe of the highest caliber, a weapon worthy of the man named Dwarf Lord.

"Admiring it?"

Volta nodded. "Yes."

Zwergherr moved through the armchairs and the coffee table. He pressed a stone on the fireplace and the logs within burst to life. He lifted the axe off its hooks, moving it so that the light from the windows caught the edges. It looked almost futuristic from the right angle, energy shimmering around it. Like an axe wrapped in a lightsaber's cutting power.

"It's gotten me through some hard times," Zwergherr ruminated. "And more than a few tough spots."

"I can imagine," Volta breathed. "What the hell were you fighting?"

The man sighed. Much and many, once upon a time. Mostly trees. That's what an axe is for after all."

Volta didn't believe that for a second, but if there ever was a time to not question things, it was when someone had a giant axe in their hands. And he was well within cutting distance.

"Zwowowowowo! You're so guarded! I'm not going to hit you with this!"

All of his instincts, every last fiber of Volta's being, screamed at him to run, to put as much distance between himself and this man as possible. How had he known? He hadn't even been looking at him! Or had he? He couldn't tell with that hood covering the old man's eyes.

"Don't worry laddie, I ain't gonna do nuthin to ya."

His voice had changed. Now he sounded almost Irish. That only many Volta more guarded.

"You're here for the bullets, yes?"

Of course he knew about that too. That was the last straw. He headed for the door.

"You can have them."

He paused, hand on the doorknob.

"I must have scared ya badly. I'm sorry bout that, sometimes I can be a wee much for folks. I don't go to town often, for that reason."

This was ridiculous. He couldn't be scared off this easily. He needed those bullets. He needed every advantage he could get his hands on.

"You've given me a bit of a fright as well," Volta admitted. "But I'm being rude. How did you know I wanted the bullets?"

"The gun." Zwergherr pointed at the scabbard. "I know me work, sonny. With me own two hands I built it up, and tore it down, and built it up again."

"Your accent keeps changing."

"Zwowowowowo! I've got nuthin ta say ta that! Come now, lemme hava looksie."

Volta stepped closer, unsheathing his sword and handing off the scabbard. Zwergherr reached out, hand callused and wrinkled. But his grip was strong, and Volta swore he could feel it through the scabbard's shaft. Like the aftershock of a small earthquake, miniaturized and lessened into a simple exchange of objects.

The man looked over his former work, his unseen eyes taking in every detail, every imperfection. He shrugged. "Trash."

Without another word, he tossed it into the fireplace.

"No!" Volta leaped for it, but the old man held him back, his grip a vise.

"No good, laddie," he growled. "I know my work. I know my craft. If I say it's trash, it's trash."

He leaned over and pressed another stone, and the fire turned blue, burning with such intensity Volta began to sweat. He watched as his scabbard melted and crackled, the wooden parts igniting and the metallic gears steaming. It was gone in minutes, the fire burning itself out not long after. Volta watched as the last flickers vanished. Like the fires in his vision.

"Zwowowowowo! Alright, let's build a new one! Come Seelenhäcker!"

Volta leaped again, and this time Zwergherr let him go. He needed both hands for his axe, with he raised above his head. Feet shifted until the trajectory was that of the floor's center, where the anvil sigil lay. He brought the axe down.

GMMMMMMMM

There were no bells around, but Volta's ears rang all the same. The axe vibrated as it bit into the stone, and little tremors filled the house. The knives and pans rattled. The bricks shook. The goat's head seemed to shiver.

.~===)==============={%}

The booze in Zoro's mug vibrated. He felt a tremor run through his body, a vibration down to his core.

"The hell?"

Slasher frowned. "I felt it too. Is the key stable?"

"Our best demolition men cleared all the rubble," a nearby scientist explained. "The key's working just as well as ever!"

Zoro frowned. "Good to know." He didn't think it had been the island that had shaken him. He turned his eyes to the mountain, and what lay above it.

Or perhaps, beyond.

.~===)==============={%}

The tile slid away, revealing rectangular indents hued out of the rock, trailing down to form a ladder. A ladder that led into darkness.

Zwergherr didn't even use them. With a yelp of excitement, he jumped down the shaft.

"FOLLOW MEEEeeeeeee…"

Volta pinched himself. Surely, he must be dreaming. But alas, it was not to be. Not like he feared the dark anyway. He climbed down using the ladder, whose edges had been roughened for solid gripping. He wondered if Zwergherr ever used them, or if they had been added for guests like himself.

He only made it halfway before getting annoyed and jumping the rest of the way down. He landed softly, feet hitting solid stone. Much more solid then what he had been standing on above.

"BOO!"

Volta couldn't see a thing, but he gave his best deadpan in the direction of the voice. "Nope."

"Ah phooey! In any case, welcome ta me forge laddie!"

The darkness lifted, one torch at a time. Lanterns flickered on. And a roaring fire blasted to life in the wall behind him. All the light made Volta wince, but once his eyes adjusted…

No, he was dreaming. A place this cool couldn't exist. It just couldn't.

Upstairs…upstairs had been nothing. The forge was a vast cavern, one that likely filled the whole hill. Solid stone encased them, and the fires and torches cast everything in a light red glow. A little natural light shone from the opening above, but a tap from Zwergherr's axe closed it again.

The large craftsman jumped upon the forge's central anvil, a massive block covered in countless scars. A few more anvils flanked it, smaller blocks for smaller projects, and between them plenty of tables and workbenches, many littered with half-finished works of steel and silver. Great fires roared along the sides with a clap of Zwergherr's hands, and a deep rumbling reverberated throughout the cavern. It born many similarities to the unholy work of Dareda, but there was a sense of mastery in the construction of everything, while that killer's creations had been cobbled together out of the man's diseased mind. There just wasn't any comparison.

But the greatest feast for the eyes was the walls. Solid, smooth stone, upon which hung thousands of weapons.

Katanas and falchions, broadswords and broadaxes, halberds and partisans, maces and morningstars. Double, triple, quadruple-barreled blasters, bazookas and gatlings, rifles galore, and enough pistols to slay an army one shot at a time. A sea of shields encircled the arsenal, of all shapes and sizes, each bearing a different symbol. Many were Jolly Rogers, but a good number had the Marine gull on it, or something more becoming of a knight on a holy quest, like a dragon or a grail.

A few especially long ones bore a sigil Volta didn't recognize. A bloodred face on a golden field, red beams shooting off in all directions. Pitch black eyes lined with white brows and a nose and mouth that looked less like a grin and more like a smokestack. Golden circles trailed down like tears and another lay upon its forehead. Stark, simplistic, but menacing in its own way. Which faction did that one belong to?

Once Volta had taken in enough of the walls, he turned his gaze to the ceiling, and bore witness to monstrosities he couldn't see anyone wielding. A flail took up the entire length of the right side, held up by thick chains made from the solidest of steels. Alongside it hung three broadswords and an axe, all far too large for human hands. They didn't compare to the beauty of Seelenhäcker, but the light of the fire gave then an air of majesty. Weapons fit for titanic gods of war. Why on earth had he made these? Only a giant could use weapons this big!

"ZWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWO!"

Volta turned around. "What are you laughing at?"

"Nooothing…"

Zwergherr had tossed aside his robe and tucked his beard into his belt. Smart move, it surely made one hell of a safety hazard. His head was bald, scars running down his brow and twisting around his nose, which had been broken so many times it had shriveled and hardened, like a skin-colored prune. His eyes shone a sharp silver, a cold contrast to the red flames that flared around him.

"Laddie, I suggest you step back. I'm gonna release the rain."

Volta did as instructed, and Zwergherr pulled a lever on the wall. A deep rumbling began to sound throughout the cavern. The hunter gasped as red liquid began to bubble out of small openings around the room, pouring down into crevices that lined the floor. The temperature rose even higher than it had before, until sweat was dripping off of Volta. Zwergherr looked no worse for wear, and quickly set about clearing one of his anvils, getting ready for his new project. The lava poured with ever increasing speed, the crevices coming dangerously close to overflowing. Just before they could, the openings closed off. Hundreds of feet of floor were glowed with crisscrossing lines of lava, bathing the anvils and tables in an orange tinge. Volta felt dizzy, and he leaned against another anvil.

"Take this laddie!"

A water bottle sailed his way, and Volta caught it with a grateful grunt. He took a swing, nearly chocking on the ice cold chill of the beverage. He felt much better in minutes.

"Special water for the guests. Can't take the heat, most of 'em."

"You seem to have a lot of guests down here."

"I like showing off me stuff! Zwowowowowo!"

Volta walked toward him, careful not to step on the now very hot cracks. "Aren't you worried that you're revealing too much to people? What if they try to steal something, or come back to rob you while you're asleep?"

Zwergherr chuckled, a low, amused sound. That was all the answer Volta would get, he realized. And it was all the answer he needed.

"Ya know, puttin a gun in a scabbard, not an easy thing ta do, even for me. But I wanted ta see if I could top meself, even after all these years! And with a Meito blade to boot!"

Volta sat on an empty table, taking another swig from his bottle. "My friend doesn't like the gun. Doesn't like the idea of using anything else with one's swords."

"Swordsmen will be swordsmen," Zwergherr said. "Good lads they be, but I'm no swordsman meself. Got no notion of that sorta honor. I'm justa humble craftsman. And any craftsman worth their salt experiments."

He unrolled a piece of paper on the anvil and pulled a feather pen from his tool belt. "Ah, Blitzeinschlag. A fine blade. Course, I coulda made it a wee bit better, but who am I ta say! Many good craftsmen in the Homeland."

Homeland. Homeland.

"Austria…"

Zwergherr looked up, a frown on his face. Maybe. A frown that maybe became a look of surprise, then probably confusion. "Austria? You speak of a homeland of yer own, laddie?"

Volta nodded. "Yes."

"But…the accent. You are from the Homeland, aren't ya?"

Volta shook his head. "No. I'm afraid not."

Zwergherr set down his pen. He walked over to Volta, placing his huge hands on his shoulders. "I'm sorry laddie. I really am."

Volta flinched. "There's nothing to be sorry over."

"No. Don't bury it. Don't hide from it. Yer pain, I can feel it, laddie. Since you got here, I've felt yer pain. Tis a horrible thing, a wail deep in yer soul."

Volta scowled, shrugging off the hands. "I'm not sure how you're able to read my thoughts, but I don't need some impromptu therapy session."

"That's good," Zwergherr agreed. "I'm no therapist. Just a craftsman. A good one, but not much more than that."

A lava bubble popped, spraying little droplets everywhere. Volta jumped back, but one hit his pants, burning through it easily. Zwergherr walked forward, and as Volta braced for the pain, the craftsman reached out and pinched the droplet, tearing it and the burned bit of pants away before it could touch Volta's skin.

"Careful laddie," he chuckled, rubbing his fingers together. "You'll hurt yourself." He wiped his hands on his pants and returned to his drawing. Volta sat on the anvil, wary of any other bubbles that could swell up from the cracks.

"So, laddie. Where are you from?"

Volta shifted in his seat. Should he tell him? He would know if he was lying, or telling half-truths, as he had so often to Zoro and the rest. The bastard could read his mind, so he likely already had an idea of what he was going to say anyway.

Isn't that right, you shitty old man?

No reaction from Zwergherr. He continued to draw, pen moving across the sheet in straight lines and hard angles.

"I'm from Austria."

"Hmm. Not the Homeland. I see."

"What's the name of the Homeland?"

"Drusselstein."

For a brief moment, Volta felt the side of his head cave in. "Yeah, that's about right."

"A fair place," Zwergherr whispered. "Twisted snake of an island it be. Lotsa mountains, the Great Spine we call it."

"Why does your accent chance so much?" Volta asked. "You can sense my thoughts, so you must know why that's so strange to me, seeing where you're from."

Zwergherr chuckled, much more good-naturedly this time. "I can't read ya thoughts sonny. Just ya feelings, en only ta de extent of the aura ya got around ya. As for my accent, well, it's a product of me childhood. Da fate of a wee little babe born from a line with a mix a everythin. Not that it's somethin I can't help, mind ya. Here, I'll solidify it into something you can understand perfectly. Much better, am I right?"

The change in tone was drastic and eerie, and a month ago Volta wasn't sure he would have believed something so ridiculous as being possible. But at this point he was likely the only sane man in a universe that had lost its marbles long ago. When in Rome, right? He should have realized that when he was fighting a giant chicken monster under an island shaped like a sunny side up, or hell, when fighting a living beer bottle from the start of his adventure.

He wished he knew a little bit more of what was coming down the road, if only so he could make sarcastic quips about it in the now and be self-assured of his own superiority. But no, all he got was a mind-reading German dwarf lord, albeit accompanied by the world's best armory. He supposed that would do.

"…you are the most complicated man I've ever met."

Volta tipped his hat. "Thank you."

"Zwowowowo! But seriously now, you haven't answered my question. Or rather, you haven't answer it enough."

"Austria is like Drusselstein," Volta said. "Grasslands and beautiful mountains. Rivers as blue as the sky. Lots of infrastructure and far too much pollution, but if you turned your eyes in the right direction and squinted, it looked like man had never touched the earth."

Zwergherr smiled, wide enough for Volta to tell. "Yes. That is the Homeland. That is yours and mine both. And the craftsmen?"

"Not as big as they were," Volta said. "My homeland started to become a lot like the rest of the world. Do you know what globalization is?"

Zwergherr pursed his lips. "Is it turning something into a globe? I've done that with bita of sheet metal I'm not using."

"It means everyone starts becoming like everyone else. All the cultures start to use the same customs. Everyone wears suits, everyone eats the same snacks, everyone has the same technology."

The great craftsman nodded. "I see. I sense a trade-off in that, but we're getting sidetracked. What part of the Homeland are you from?"

"Salzburg."

Volta could see it now. Baroque buildings, gleaming churches. The chittering tourists, snapping their photos and whining about the heat. The people who made the city their home, ignoring them as best they could as they went about their days. Shops and streets from a time gone by.

And the fortress. The great stone fortress, lying on a hill like a flaccid white balloon. An ugly place for ugly people, and for children to be bent into ugly shapes.

"I'm sorry."

Volta blinked, startled back into reality. Zwergherr stared at him with big, sad eyes.

"I'm so sorry that you suffered so. This is the pain I feel from you, the raw anger at your torment."

"It's nothing," Volta grit out. "I've endured worse here, in this world."

"Hmm." Zwergherr returned to his sheets, and his pen. The lines of ink slashed out of the tip and onto the page, little flourishes here and there to keep the whole thing from looking too rectangular. Was the conversation over? Volta didn't feel like it was.

"You know," Zwergherr chuckled. "The way your throat moves makes me think you have more than a few accents of your own buried in you."

Volta laid upon the anvil, trying to keep his sweat from running into his eyes. "You're not wrong. I've been around."

"Hmm."

The swishes of the pen and the bubbling of the lava were the only sounds for some time. Volta looked up at the great swords and axes, the flail that looked big enough to bat meteors out of the sky.

"Do giants exist in this world?"

"Yup."

"Ah. Good to know."

More swishing and bubbling. Like the chorus to a song that wasn't being sung. Volta wondered, for perhaps umpteenth time, just how he was going to find and kill Luffy.

"Hmm."

Swish swish

Volta rolled over. "Nothing to say?"

"An old comrade of mine used to say that everyone's got a hundred people they want to kill. It is, as we say in the Homeland, Pferdescheiße."

Volta snorted. "That's about right."

"But eet may be true fahr you, no?"

"Now you sound French."

"Ah, ze old Germa een me."

"German? No, I said French."

"Zwowowowowo! Do not know either of those. But I'd love to hear more about them."

Volta smiled. "Sure. I'll tell you as much as you want."

He was starting to get used to the heat.

.~===)==============={%}

Denny awoke to the glare of a light above him. Was he dead? Had his wounds been too severe? What a waste of time that had been then…

…no. It was a surgical light. Gray-blue metal covered the walls and floor, and the ceiling could not be seen through all the vents and pipes. A screen nearby monitored his heartbeat, little digital gauges dropping up and down as he breathed in and out, chest rising against his bandages.

A stab of pain in his side. The side he'd sliced. Well, so be it. He wondered if it would scar.

"HE'S AWAKE!"

A cry of joy from beside him. He turned his head, seeing a couple of Marine medics jumping up and down. They were young and excitable, and one took off, likely to tell someone about his success. He wondered if this was their first time doing this sort of operation.

Wait, had there been an operation? He slowly pulled the cover away, revealing a small line of stitching on his stomach.

His head! A horrible ache struck it, and he groaned. The room blurred, brightened and dimmed. Why had he hit himself so damn hard?

"Are you alright?" the remaining medic asked. "The pain killers are wearing off. We can give you another shot of morphine-"

"No," he growled, and the syllable was enough to send another spear though his head. He would have screamed, but that would have made it worse. He let it burst within him, and the only thing that came out of his mouth was a wheeze. Still hurt.

"But sir, if you don't get some morphine in you…well, pretty soon everything else is gonna start hurting too."

"Drugs…addiction…can't risk…"

The medic frowned. "Addiction? The Vegapunk Codex has a lot of instructions for how to avoid that. Though, even that makes note of how every person has a different level of susceptibility…"

"Don't…risk," Denny rasped. "Can't risk…anything."

"Stop talking!" the medic cried. "You need to let your body heal, and in this case that means no movement of any kind. That includes your lips."

The medic walked across the room and flipped a switch. The lights above darkened, and Denny sighed as his pain got a little better. Emphasis on little, but he'd take what he could get at this point.

Even thinking was painful, but he needed his wits about him, something morphine would only dilute. He glanced around the darkened room, wincing at the glow from the monitor screen. Only Marines had technology this advanced, and only for medical bays. He'd learned that in his old gang, which had drilled the different Marine vessel specs into his head, and how to approach them if they came across you at sea.

Man o' wars were ship killers, while cruisers could be a command vessel or a transport. Caravels were small and easy to sink, but dangerous in great numbers. Prison ships were monstrous crafts, comparable to the mythic battleships of the Grand Line. But the one thing they all had on common was a well-equipped medical bay. For whatever reason, Marines really cared about the health of their prisoners before condemning them to torture.

Denny could tell that he'd be here for a while. More generally, he was going to be in ships for a while, eating, sleeping, shitting. Bleeding, if there were battles to fight and he wasn't fast or strong enough. He considered himself stronger than a good number of his men, but they weren't exactly the model of musculature, and neither was he. Good thing Kubomi hadn't been either.

At least, he thought that was what his name had been. Denny wasn't sure, but 'his' commander had shouted it a lot, or a variant of it. He'd have to wait for someone to say it. But what about his full name? He'd have to use his 'amnesia' and have someone say 'his' surname for him.

He grinned despite the pain. Because of the pain. Bashing his head and pretending to lose his memory was a near-perfect ploy. He could pretend to know nothing and through that learn everything. And when he had all the knowledge he needed, he'd be able to plan his next move. Survival was the end goal still, but afterward…well, maybe there was a future for him here. Maybe somewhere else. He honestly didn't know and didn't really want to think about it too much, head splitting as it was.

But one thing was certain. He had to lay low, keep a cool head. Any unwarranted attention could detect a moment of carelessness on his part. A moment seen that could breed suspicion, doubt. Why had Kubomi burned that pirate he killed in the catacombs? Why does he walk a little differently from before? Doesn't his posture seem a little off to you? The questions could go on forever, any one of them prying past the deception, seeing what lay beneath.

The pain in his head grew worse, until he was beginning to reconsider his stance on morphine. He'd never taken drugs, but he'd seen others do so, and the results were often the same. He'd rather get sent to Impel Down then suffer that fate.

Hey, had the other medic ran off? He couldn't hear anything. The door was still open, he could tell by the light filtering into the room. He tried not to turn his head too much, closing his eyes and allowing his thoughts to run out of him, like snot from a runny nose. Damn, what a shitty analogy.

Footsteps.

"Flowers? Fucking flowers? Kubomi hates that shit!"

"He does not! Besides, what could be a better get-well-soon present?"

"Chocolate."

"Maybe for you, but you always want chocolate."

"Only when I'm not sleeping. So just for two-thirds of the day."

"Why does that not reassure me?"

Noises. Voices. One female, two males, one of them a bit of a heftier guy by the sound of him. Well, he shouldn't judge on voice alone. He opened his eyes.

Shadows danced along the light of the doorway, and three faces peered down at him. A young woman, blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her smile was bright, and she had a bouquet of pink lilies in her hands. Where had she found them? Flowers didn't grow on the mountain, the altitude was too high. And Kubomi hated flowers? Who hated flowers?

Denny reached out for them as he studied the other faces. He'd been right about the hefty guy. He towered over the other two, arms thick with muscle. But his face had a peaceful countenance, albeit marred with concern at the moment.

The last guy looked fierce, but in a nervous sort of way. His brown hair stuck up in the back, giving the impression of an explosion of spikes kept under wraps with his hat.

Denny placed the flowers on his stomach.

"Hey guys," he said. The effort of speaking pained his head, and he couldn't quite hide his wince. The three soldiers looked more concerned than ever. Well, the big one and the girl did. Fierce guy looked almost bemused, and more than a little relieved.

The girl leaned forward. "Kubomi? How much do you remember?"

A sudden panic gripped him. What did he say? What could he say? There was so much he didn't know, and the wrong answer or facial cue could tip them off. He kept his expression neutral, even as his heartrate spiked. He hoped they thought the sheen of sweat on his forehead was from the heat.

"I remember…my name." He spoke slowly, like a man coming to terms with a great shock. A home struck by lightning. A place of work torn apart by the law. A death in the family. Hell, there had been a death. "I remember that I'm a Marine. I follow the way of Justice."

"No shit Sherhock," the fierce-looking Marine drawled.

The girl punched his arm. "Kona! Go easy on him, will you? This is serious!"

Go easy, huh? Denny felt no malice in fierce guy's statement, only a playful teasing, like an older brother to an annoying younger sibling. Was he ranked below this guy? Or was it an age thing? Had Kubomi's relationship with this man been one of mutual teasing? Or had he harbored a secret anger toward Kona, a desire to be free of his little barbs?

"Kona!" Denny tried to sit up, heightening the performance. "I think I'm starting to remember now, just a bit."

"Hah! See Yor, I told you it wasn't gonna be that bad! He's taken worse than this."

Denny could have laughed, if the room had been empty and the pain less agonizing. Instead he grinned and shook his head. "Sorry Kona, everything's still a little fuzzy. But I'm glad you're alright." He raised his right hand and made a fist.

Kona bumped it with his own, a goofy smile on his face. "Don't worry about it, man! You'll be back on your feet in no time!"

"I wouldn't be so optimistic," the big Marine said. "Heady injuries can lead to lifelong medical conditions. Seizures, dementia, slow loss of motor functions…"

"WILL YOU CUT THAT OUT!"

CONK!

The big Marine rubbed his new lump. "Ow."

Yor glared at him, fist and nostrils steaming. "You idiots can't seem to find a good middle ground for anything. You don't take anything seriously Kona, and you take everything too seriously!"

"Hey, you're the one who invited us," Kona groused.

"Indeed," the big Marine agreed. "The fault is yours for allowing out incorrect responses to enter this room."

Yor was about to give a retort when Denny raised his hand. "Come one guys," he said softly. "Can you take it outside? My head's killing me here."

The big Marine nodded, face as emotive as a rock. "Very well. I shall depart. I need to go find some chocolate anyway." Without another word, he stepped out of the bay, footsteps echoing on the wooden deck outside.

"He'd probably eat his own foot if it was made of chocolate," Kona snickered. "I think you hurt his feelings there Bom-Bom."

Bom-Bom? How would have Kubomi responded to the nickname? Annoyance? A light chuckle? Pretending he didn't hear it?

Denny opted for the third option, and he could feel Kona's disappointment as he turned his head toward Yor. "How's the rest of the squad?'

She brightened considerably. "They're doing great! Hage got a papercut going through some old Trump records, and Hodan got a scrape loading our ship's cannon. That's about it."

How many Marines were in a squad again? Damn, he never thought he'd be wishing he'd run into them more often when he'd been a low-level crook. It was ten, right?

"And the others?"

"Raifuru is his usual crotchety self," Kona said. "Sniped from the ship, didn't get sniped back. The pirates were putty in our hands by the time we stormed the beach."

"And Kat chipped his left cutlass," Yor finished. "He's taking it hard, but it's not gonna be a tough fix."

"That's right!" Denny exclaimed, preparing himself for a dangerous leap of faith. "Kat's the swordsman!"

"He thinks he's a swordsman," Kona teased. "More of a glorified butcher."

"Better than going in with your fists," Yor snipped. "You don't even carry weapons on you Kona!"

He grinned, flexing his calloused hands. "Don't need 'em, and I never have. You're more of a rifle guy yourself, in case you forgot Bom-Bom."

"Please don't call me Bom-Bom."

"Sure thing Bomi-Bomi."

Denny wasn't even mad. The pain had waned, and he felt more than a little relief that they hadn't caught on. Or maybe they had, but they were keeping it to themselves, tricking him as he was tricking them. Or maybe the guy who had left figured it out, and he was one his way to tell his superiors. Or maybe the medics had figured it out, not finding a birthmark Kubomi had shown off, or a molar where Kubomi had lost his to poor dental maintenance! Or maybe the commander had figured him out, and was creating the perfect trap for him, letting him think he'd fooled everyone when-

"Kubomi? You're sweating like crazy."

Damnit damnit damnit damnit. He took a deep breath, expression barely neutral. "I'm feeling a little hot…"

"That's easy to fix!" Kona pulled a fan out of his shirt and flapped it in Kubomi's face. Had he brought it just fuck with him? Huh, it felt pretty nice.

Yor punched him again and grabbed the fan. "You're not doing it right," she complained. "A good fanning needs to be slow and steady."

Denny smiled. "I liked having a strong breeze in my face. He was doing it right."

Yor smiled sweetly. "Don't be silly, Kona doesn't do anything right."

"HEY!"

"Don't sweat it," she chirped. "Literally or figuratively. We'll be here whenever we can, making sure you get back to full health."

"Don't take forever, alright?" Kona groused. "I need my partner in crime back on the scene."

That got a chuckle out of Denny, one that wasn't an act. "Aren't we supposed to stop crime?"

"You know what I mean!" Kona shouted. "Stop making me look bad!"

"I don't need to help you there."

Kona grabbed his chest. "My feeeelings!"

Now they were all laughing, without worry or care. Between the good-natured digs and real concern, they seemed like well guys, though the big one was a little morose. Denny wondered what the other four members were like. Guess a squad had eight instead of ten.

Is this the sort of rapport Kubomi had enjoyed? Is this what he had taken away? Guilt stabbed at him, a noxious feeling, and all at once he wanted nothing more but to hurl the bile in his stomach. How many stitches would he pull though? Couldn't risk it, not with them here at least.

The two medics rushed in. "Hey, you guys aren't allowed to be here unsupervised!"

"We weren't doin' nuthin," Kona slurred. He raised his hands in the air. "Please don't arrest me copper."

One of the medics rolled his eyes. "Get out, both of you. Hey, don't leave flowers on him!"

He grabbed the bouquet and set it on a nearby table. Huh, Kubomi hadn't noticed in before.

"Alright, I guess we'll take ourselves outta the picture," Kona said. "Take care dude. I think the Lieutenant Commander is gonna want to interrogate you soon."

Denny's eyes widened, and if he thought his heartrate had been high before, it nearly tripled. "What?!"

"Kahahahahahahaha, chill dude! It's not a real interrogation."

"Knock it off already," Yor hissed. "Hardy just wants to ask you a few questions. You ran ahead of Kona here, which isn't like you. And with those injuries…well, you have a lot of people concerned."

Denny nodded, and he didn't need to fake his shame. Just his reason for it. "I'm sorry for running ahead Kon. I thought…I don't know what I thought."

"You set you sites on a hot pirate lady, most likely," Kona teased. "Hope this made ya learn your lesson. Hey, no pushing, I'm leaving I'm leaving!"

The medics shooed them out the door, but not before Yor gave him a little wink. The door shut behind them, enveloping the room in darkness for a second before the lights were flicked back on. Kubomi scrunched his eyes closed, preventing another headache from the sudden glare.

"Hey, can you turn those off for a while? Work by daylight?"

"There are things we need to check on, Seaman First Class Kubomi."

So that was his rank. Good to know. He was gonna need all the info he could get, especially about his 'former life.' The guilt was still there, but in the absence of his 'comrades,' it wasn't as sharp. Just the dull ache that accompanied a man's first kill, he supposed.

What did he need to know? His rank, his sleeping quarters, his old habits, the little nooks and crannies he'd crawled into when he was tired or wanted to be left alone. He needed to know the acquaintances he'd had, because there'd likely been many more than just his squad. He needed to know what his schedule had been, what duties were going to be expected of him when he healed.

…Kubomi's, not his. Not him. But then again…he was Kubomi. At least for a while. He wondered if they'd come after him if he deserted. He had no reason to believe they wouldn't. Shit, this could be more difficult then he'd expected, and he'd expected a huge challenge already.

He turned his attention back to the medical bay. There were more beds off to the left of him, all with their own metal attachments and right lights. This was likely the ER, or something equivalent to that.

The medics had gone from joyful to professional. They hurried around the room, checking equipment and readings. The screen to his side was displaying more stable bars, which hovered around the midpoint. He couldn't read the words, but he hoped things were looking good.

…wait. What the hell was he doing? He was thinking so far ahead into the future he hadn't even considered his current condition!

"Hey, guys. Am I gonna pull through?"

One of the medics came over. A young blonde kid with a kind face. "You've suffered head trauma, as well as lacerations and bruising over your chest and legs. But based on our scans…"

The medic held out his hand, and his partner put a sheet of paper in it. Kubomi gaped, as he found himself staring at his own brain.

"See this part right here?" The medic pointed to the white edge of the head, where the usual straightness gave way to a thin fuzziness. "It's hard to make out, but that's what the front of your skull looks like right now."

Now Denny was outright terrified. "I cracked my skull?"

"Only a little. We'll be putting you on a milk IV drip as soon as we can confirm that your skull will heal properly, with no bone protrusions or possible splintering."

Denny's eyes nearly popped out of his head. "Splintering!"

The medic's smile grew wider. "Not to worry, there shouldn't be any problem. In fact, it's the lack of problems here that has us confused. Notice anything off about the brain itself?"

The impersonator grew nervous again. He could tell where this was going. Had his paranoid delusions been right? Were they slowly, sadistically revealing the truth behind his deception? Was the interrogation going to be an all-too real interrogation?

"I…don't see anything wrong?"

"Precisely," the medic exclaimed. He seemed a little too happy that his patient had figured it out. "The brain doesn't look like it's gone through any trauma at all! Considering how bad your head injury looked, we feared for the worst, but in truth you're in much better shape than we thought."

Was the medic just this excited to be sharing his findings? Or was he excited because he was playing a key role in torturing a pirate? Kubomi felt his options dwindle down to nothing. Panic threatened to swamp him, submerge him, drown him.

"But…but I don't remember anything!" he cried. "I can't remember…I can't remember the faces of my parents."

Perfect! He channeled his fear, his terror, into raw emotion. The kind that brought tears no matter what kind of emotion it was.

Through his blurry eyes, he saw the medic's face fall. "I'm really sorry about that, soldier. For someone to suffer post-traumatic amnesia without any major brain injury is very...unlikely. But I promise you, we're doing everything we can to figure this out. It seemed like you recognized your friends. Maybe you just need a few days to recover. You'll be getting plenty of rest here for the next week or two. Maybe you'll regain your memories then."

He really didn't know, Denny realized. The medic had a look of complete honesty on his face, nothing deceptive about it at all. But then again, he sucked at reading faces, at reading intent. If he didn't, then maybe the Bear King would still be in power, the Trump Pirates on the road to world domination. And he wouldn't be stuck in this fucking mess.

Well, no use whining about it. He needed a plan. The pain in his head had disappeared entirely, a relief that allowed him to think a bit more carefully about his next step.

"Oh! The Lieutenant Commander is here."

Shit! Well, he knew what the next step was gonna be now. Survive the interrogation.

The door opened, and the man Kubomi had seen yesterday walked in. He wore his coat normally, a rare sight among Marine officers, and his long mustache and normal uniform underneath gave him a distinguished air. Though the bags under his eyes and slightly disheveled hair dampened the look a bit.

More striking to Denny's eyes was the kind look on his face, which while not out of place on a medic dedicated to healing the hurt, seemed almost comical on a tough Marine officer like Hardy. That had been his name, right?

"Good to see you awake soldier," Hardy stated. "I was worried about you."

Denny blinked. "Me, sir?"

"There weren't a great number of injuries, and no deaths. Remarkable, but I guess that's the Commodore for you. You were the most injured man on the field."

Great. Just great. How had a gambit to avoid attention only caused him more attention?

"I'm glad you're thinking of me sir. But you don't have to go out of your way-"

"I very much will," Hardy hmphed. "Kubomi, your efforts yesterday, however small, brought us closer to victory. A victory we then achieved. The Trump Pirates are a threat no more, and a part of that is because you cleared out the caverns beneath the harbor."

"Did you…send anyone down there?"

"We did."

No!

"We found a burned-up body. One of the pirates you killed, no doubt. As for the others, we couldn't find them, but the caverns go down very far. How many passageways were you fighting in?"

He hadn't been found out. The burning had been successful. That guilt again, churning in his gut, threatened to spill out into some burst of emotion. Buut he repressed it.

"Well, it's a waste of time to go hunting for pirate bodies," the commander admitted. "Your condition yesterday spoke towards your actions. Good thing your injuries were better than they looked."

They hadn't felt very good regardless, though the pain in his head was gone now. Strange that.

Hardy reached into his coat, pulling out two black armbands. "Your rank signifiers were gone. Did the pirates rip them off?"

Armbands? Shit, he hadn't even noticed them on Kubomi. He'd focused on getting the pants off.

"I used them to staunch the bleeding," Deny lied. "But they got so soaked I threw them away."

"You should have kept them in place," Hardy reprimanded. "Medic, can severe blood loss lead to memory loss?"

One of the medics shook his head, a little bemused. "Not unless it's a stroke, or a particularly bad case of dizziness, but that's not a loss of memory. Don't you remember anything from the health class they gave you as a recruit?"

Hardy chuckled. "Not a thing. Maybe I'm having a stroke right now."

"Don't joke about such things sir!" the medic protested, but he couldn't quite keep the smile off his face.

"In any case, try to keep these on you, no matter how soaked they get. Don't want to bleed out."

Would he have bled out from his injuries? Denny didn't think so, but he had hit himself pretty hard. He took the bands and slipped them on. He slid the right one all the way to his upper arm, but there was a gash on his left in the same place, so he slid that band up to his elbow instead.

"Great," Hardy beamed. "Now you look properly Seaman First Class."

"A very wounded Seaman First Class," Denny smirked.

"True enough."

Two soldiers entered the room with a chair. Denny, now aware of the importance of the bands, observed their arms. They didn't have any. Weren't there three classes of Marine soldier? If they didn't have any, and he had two, then that stood to reason the rank in between had one. He hoped that was the case.

They set down the chair near his bed and left. Hardy sat down and pulled a small notebook from his coat, and a pen from his hat. Denny took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves.

"I want to ask you a few questions Kubomi, based on your experience. It's a survey, required for all Marines who have gone through especially harrowing circumstances. I'm sure you've heard of it."

Denny hadn't, of course. That didn't stop him from nodding his head.

"Question one. How did you get separated from your squad?"

"I saw some pirates enter a tunnel in the back of the harbor. I thought they had some means of escaping aside from the cave entrance, so I gave chase to stop them."

The response was automatic, something the commander would want to hear. But if he just gave the most patriotic answers, it could alert suspicions. He needed to be 'honest' as well. A plan began to form.

The pain in his head did not return.

"Question two. What happened to you after you were separated from your squad?"

Denny took another deep breath. He needed to be as precise as possible.

"After I entered the tunnel, I realized that it would be difficult to shoot my rifle with a light in one hand."

"Where did you get this light?" Hardy asked. "You weren't equipped with one."

This was an interrogation. But Hardy looked concerned, not calculating. He seemed a little uncomfortable with his own questioning, but he was bound by the Navy's procedures.

"There were a bunch of lanterns near the tunnels, set up by the pirates. I took advantage of one. But I couldn't hold one and fire at the same time. So, I meant to turn back, but when I did, I was ambushed. There was a struggle. My rifle was knocked away, but he got a hand on his knife and turned it on him."

Hardy nodded, unexpressive.

"I then continued forward, but with the knife instead of the rifle. The pirate's lantern broke during the struggle, and that's what set him on fire. I think. It was confusing down there."

"We found the body a little deeper into the tunnels. But you continued afterwards?"

Hardy was disbelieving. Denny wasn't sure he believed his own survival either. It had been a moment of true darkness, an escape through the blood of another. The guilt stabbed him again.

"I continued forward and killed three more pirates. In the first of these kills I took the wound to my arm. In the second I got sliced on my back. Punching them bloodied my knuckles. Finally, while fighting I tripped and bashed my head on a rock. But I'd already brought down the third pirate. I was dizzy with blood loss at the time, so I lost track of where I was in the tunnels. I don't think I could lead you through them. I'm…not even sure how I got back out."

Hardy waved his hand. "Like I said, a few pirate corpses aren't worth the trouble of going back in for. What's important is that you got out. When did you get the wound on your stomach?"

Denny almost froze. He wracked his brain, trying to think of an answer. Damnit, why had he claimed to kill more then one pirate? If Hardy was even vaguely more investigative, he'd be a goner!

"I'm not sure."

Hardy didn't question it. And all at once something clicked from Denny. This man had a prior relationship with Kubomi. Had he been a man he'd brought in personally, a family member of a friend? Or perhaps he saw potential in him, as an officer in the future? In any of those cases, he didn't want to question anything because he had personal reason to not be suspicious.

Denny cracked a smile. This was good. This was useful. But there was another challenge in it, because if Hardy ever suspected something was off, he would do everything he could to figure it out. Because that's what a man did for the comrades he cared about. A righteous desire that would damn him if he wasn't careful.

"Question three. How has your experience affected you personally?"

…what? What kind of question was that? Who wrote this survey? Denny didn't need to be 'honest' for this one, just flat-out truthful.

"…I'm scared."

Hardy's eyebrows quirked at the slight tremble in Denny's voice. Damn, he should have gone into the acting field!

"I can't remember much about myself. About my likes and dislikes, my hobbies and aspirations. I can't remember anything from my childhood. I can't even remember…remember my father's face."

Oh, what he wouldn't give to forget that bastard's face.

"I can't remember entering the Navy. I can't even remember where I got the idea."

"I brought you in," Hardy said, his own voice full of emotion. "You were a bystander, watching a bust go down on Shady Island. While I was cuffing one of the dealers, another pulled a gun on me. You, a citizen who had no reason to step in, jumped on him and threw off his aim. Took a nasty right hook for it, but my men were able to subdue him. You saved my life Kubomi."

Woah. Denny's eyes blurred again, and he reached with a trembled, bandaged hand to wipe at them. "I remember a gun. I can't recall the rest. But there's one thing I haven't forgotten. If I jumped in to save you, then I did have a reason to step in. I didn't want a man of the law to fall to petty crooks. I didn't want them to win, even for a moment. I wanted the good guys to triumph, completely and utterly."

Hardy wiped away a tear. "Funny enough, you said something quite similar that day. I offered you a chance to be part of the good guys, and you took it gladly. My doubts are gone now. You'll definitely recover, because what makes you brave, what makes you a Marine, what makes you Kubomi…"

The Marine tapped a finger to Denny's chest.

"…will never disappear."

"WAAAAAAAH!"

The two medics near them burst into tears, complete waterfalls of snot and water. It was the perfect antidote for the pain in Denny's chest, a maelstrom of grief and horror.

He's killed a good man. Not a Marine, or an enemy. A fucking good man. And he'd replaced him with a his pathetic, criminally stupid self, an idiot who'd destroyed his old crew.

For a moment, he entertained the idea of revealing the truth to Hardy. Allowing himself to be arrested for his crimes. Piracy, drug-running, impersonation.

Murder. Murder of a good man.

But then…Kubomi would really die. He'd be gone forever. How would his squad feel? How would Hardy feel? How would he feel? For such a good man's legacy to be snuffed out, all because some piece of trash with a knife had been a bit luckier than he had?

No. Fuck that.

"You're right, sir," Denny whispered. "I'm not going anywhere. I'll get my memories back. And I'll be a great Marine someday."

Hardy sniffled, his professionalism gone. "You don't have to wait for that day anymore. I've discussed this with the Commodore, and after I told him of your exploits, he's more than happy to approve it.

Exploits? That word had grand connotations. A sinking feeling entered Kubomi's gut.

Hardy stood up, professionalism returning, but the joy in his eyes was plain to see. "Seaman First Class Kubomi, I hereby promote you to Petty Officer."

The medics started bawling all over again, holding each as they did so. Denny stared at Hardy as if he had just shot his puppy.

"Are you alright Kubomi?"

"It's just…it's just so sudden."

"You'll be instated properly as soon as your injuries are healed. Congratulations soldier. You'll be commanding your squad now."

The trembling wasn't from fear now, or any sense of shame. It was the tremble of panic, of raw fear. "But what about the squad's current leader?"

"Ah. Well, to be honest, this promotion isn't just due to your recent experience. Petty Officer Hage was found asleep in the liquor stores, three empty bottles in his lap. He's been demoted back to Seaman Apprentice. So, you and he are switching places."

If Denny was scared before, he was outright terrified now. He couldn't imagine a worse scenario for resentment and insubordination to breed. He didn't even need to be a Marine to know that.

"Sir…what if Hage is unruly?"

"Don't worry soldier," Hardy said with a smile. "If he's insubordinate, then you make sure he's properly punished for it. I'll give you some pointers in the coming days on how to lead effectively, but I'm sure you'll get the hang of it without too much trouble. I believe in you Kubomi. Whatever may come, you have my support."

And with that, Hardy picked up his chair and left the medical bay. "I'll check up on you tomorrow!" he called. Then he was gone.

Denny collapsed into his bed. The pain was starting to come back, in his head, his back, everywhere. Even his fingers ached.

Damn Hardy, and damn the emotional rollercoaster he'd sent him on. He didn't know how to lead a squad, certainly not one as quirky as his!

What would his relationship with Kona be now? Would he have to punish his 'friend' for his teasing? Could he still maintain his authority if he allowed it to continue? What about the others? He hadn't even met them yet. Hage was going to be a pain in the ass for sure. Maybe the big morose guy as well.

Times like this required more planning, but Denny's head was starting to throb. There would be plenty of time for panicking tomorrow, after he'd gotten plenty of sleep.

But just before he drifted off, he came to a decision. He wasn't going anywhere. He didn't expect forgiveness for his murder, not by man or God, but damn it all if he couldn't find atonement. He'd be the best damn Kubomi he could be.

But restful sleep did not come to Denny. His dreams twisted around him, a kaleidoscope of dark tunnels and haunted faces. His face. Kubomi's face. He couldn't tell them apart anymore. Knives burst out from eyeballs to slice and claw, and if he ran away, Hardy and his squad were behind him, ready to shoot him dead. An eye for an eye, a stab for a stab, a body for a body. Denny fell ever deeper into the darkness. The body fell with him, sightless, merciless, grasping for purchase in his own screaming form.

.~===)==============={%}

"Volta, do you know how to make a gun?"

"No."

"Do you know how to assemble one?"

"Yes."

"Do you know how to make a scabbard?"

"No."

"Do you know how to maintain one?"

"…yes."

Zwergherr stroked his beard. "Alright. Watch carefully."

The first steps were already done. Blitzeinschlag's measurements had been marked down, a blueprint drawn for what was to come. The sword's blade was thirty-nine inches, and the scabbard would have magnets set near the gun block, keeping the blade from jiggling around in all the extra space.

"Albedu was a punk," Zwergherr sneered. "Only reason I acquiesced was because I'd never made a gun scabbard before, and I wanted to challenge myself. But you don't strike me as punk, even though you dress like one."

"If you're going to make me a new gun," Volta said. "I have three requests."

Zwergherr frowned. Maybe. "Don't leave me hanging."

"I want it to be light. I want Seastone in the bullets. And I want it to be loud."

His eyebrows twitched, in a way that Volta could only perceive as amusement. "How loud we talking?"

"Loud. I want everyone to hear it, to know I'm around. To know what's coming after them."

"Zwowowowowo! You are a bit a punk after all! But I can't say I dislike the energy there. Who are ya planning to kill with these uproariously loud Seastone bullets?"

"A man who fancies himself the Pirate King."

Zwergherr froze. His eyes narrowed, and for a moment Volta felt that terrible grip of madness, a little spark of fire dancing on the edge of his vision.

"Is that so. Well then…"

He turned and returned to his work. "Forgive my last statement. You're an edgy little brat, but certainly no punk. You're a punk hunter."

"Is that what you perceive throne seekers to be?" Volta asked.

"That's what the Pirate King was, kid. A man too big for his britches who chased after things he had no business getting involved in."

The measuring stopped, and for a moment, Zwergherr's hands fell limp.

"Then again…if we use that definition, my old boss was a punk too."

Volta smirked. "Boss…or captain?"

"Oh? Gonna arrest me after I've given you your toy?"

He shook his head. "We both know that's never gonna happen, even if I wanted to. And I really don't. You're not causing any trouble out here."

Zwergherr finished his last flourish, and he set down the pen. He hopped over a little lava stream and pressed his hand against one of the few parts of the wall not covered in weapons. It opened to reveal another room, much smaller and filled to the brim with materials. He set his axe against the wall. It was the first time he'd put it down since taking it off his mantel.

"What about all the weapons I've made for others? Albedu and the like?"

"How many bullets did you make for him?"

"Two."

"He never used them. But he probably cut down a few innocents with his sword."

"And is that on me, or on him?"

"Him."

"Hmmm…interesting."

Zwergherr returned with a massive crate. He slammed it down next to his anvil and ripped the top off. But with the metal he pulled from it, he had a delicate touch.

"What about…the civilians that died to Bear's reign? Will you put that on me too, for not stopping him?"

"I wish you had," Volta said. "Why didn't you?"

The craftsman shrugged. "I wanted to see where it would all go, I suppose. To see if he could really get to the Grand Line and make something of himself there. A rare find, that Fruit of his, and as Paramecia go it's quite frightening. I've got a friend who can shatter the air with his fists, and I don't think even he'd be able to harm him without a touch of the black stuff."

"Black stuff?"

{%}===============(===~.

"This is such a lovely blade," the man commented, as he held the tip between his fingers. Fingers that had turned black as midnight.

{%}===============(===~.

"The black stuff!" Volta cried.

"Oh, you've seen it before? Interesting."

He turned to him, a million questions in mind, but Zwergherr stopped him with a wagging finger.

"I know you want to know boy, but it's best if you find out on your own time, in your own way. This is one spoiler you'll not get out of me."

Volta growled. "I need to know. If it's something I can counteract. Or perhaps something I can learn. Because it wasn't a Devil Fruit."

"That it isn't," Zwergherr admitted. "But to your other questions…well, mum's the word. Come on kid, I'm making you a badass shotgun, aren't I? Why don't you settle for what you've got?"

Volta continued to glare, but the man clearly wasn't budging. He thought of ways to change his mind, perhaps soften up his resolve. But anything he considered of, the geezer would sense, in his weird sort of way. And it could jeopardize him getting a new scabbard to replace the one Zwergherr had destroyed.

And, he didn't really feel like trying to manipulate the guy. He wasn't bad by any stretch, albeit not good either. Just neutral. Was this another way of enforcing his own neutrality, by withholding important info from him?

"I have an idea of what you're feeling about me right now," Zwergherr said, and this time Volta could clearly make out his smile. "It's far simpler than that. I want you to explore. The same way I did, so many years ago. Learn on your own, and from those experiences come to your own conclusions. If you do that, I think you'll find any mastery you obtain to be infinitely more rewarding."

Volta smirked at that. "Can't cheat your way through the journey, huh? Well, it's a bit late for that, I've already found some stuff on Devil Fruits here in the East Blue."

Zwergherr's smile widened. "But you still sought out that information, yes? You still explored. That's different from taking advantage of a present circumstance. It may be a value in its own right, but not always. Not for the things that matter to me, and maybe not for you either, I think."

Volta winced at how easily the old man was getting into his head, but he wasn't entirely wrong. "Yeah, it would be more rewarding to find it on my own. I was taught to take advantage of everything in my path."

Zwergherr winced. "A foul teacher you had, if that was the main lesson."

"He was a hell of a lot worse than foul. But he won't be troubling anyone ever again."

If anything, that just make Zwergherr wince even harder. "A student killing their master is never a good thing, boy. Did you expect me to praise you, based on what I had just said before? Eh, our talk has gone on too long, the time has come for me to craft. Watch carefully, so you'll know what to do for maintenance."

"I can't bring you along to maintain it for me?"

"Like a squire for a holy knight? Zwowowowowo, that'll be the day!"

The metal was wide, cylindrical. And it was thinner than Volta had expected.

"The scabbard you had was a good inch and a half wide. This'll be just an inch and a quarter. The slugs will be of a lesser caliber, but I've got some tricks to make then go a lot further, and with even a bit more force."

"A strange contradiction."

Zwergherr grinned. "If I'm being honest, figuring out all the little tricks of a weapon like this has been the most fun I've had in years. Better then fixing up some of the junk on this island."

"You consider their inventions junk?"

"Zwowowowowo, not at all! I've learned a thing or two from these folks, including how to work this out. But that doesn't mean there ain't junk lying around."

Volta conceded the point with a nod, watching as the master worked his magic.

And what magic it was. Zwergherr sliced away the excess material with a metal shaver, his other hand polishing the tube until it shined. He dug deeper into the crate, pulling three blocks out and setting them on the anvil. He took out a hammer on his belt and smashed one to pieces. The second one dented badly. The third didn't budge.

"As expected. This is what we want."

He tapped it, and the side popped open, revealing all manner of delicate clockwork. The influence had clearly been felt most strongly in the gun bits, the part that held the slugs and the gunpowder.

"Black powder is a volatile substance," Zwergherr explained. "It's the shit Marine firearms are stuffed with, along with most pirate guns. Cheap and easily ignitable; a good shock or some heat will do the trick. I've had to invent a whole new type just for this weapon."

"Smokeless."

"Not what I call it, but I'm sure your folk had it figured out long before I did. Probably a good number of folks here too. I don't mind, not interested in winning any races. Just wanna make the best product possible. But anyway, I call it White Powder, cuz I'm so original, and it's much easier to manipulate. Less smoke, less fouling, but most importantly, more power. Even slugs as small as what's poppin outta this baby will be tearing through blokes like they're not even there, and that's without the air pressure."

"A nasty little trick you gave Albedu," Volta grinned. "I'd love it for myself."

Zwergherr gave another of his dark chuckles. "Ask, and it will be given to you."

That got a gasp out of Volta. "The Bible?!"

"Wow, guess our worlds aren't so different after all! But I bet your version is a hell of a lot different."

Volta grimaced. "That's…an oddly disquieting thought."

"Are you a man of faith?"

He shook his head. "Not at all."

"Hmm."

The work continued. It became clear that this would be no hard task for the craftsman, having already practiced on Albedu's weapon, and likely protypes on top of that. The tube was looking especially polished now, his left hand rubbing and turning it at the same time. Some strange grease? Or was there a cloth under his grip? It was hard for Volta to see.

"I thought of putting slots in, but it's too wide for that. The edges have been tempered so that if your blade hits them while you unsheathe it, it'll be sharpened, like a kitchen knife. Not as clean as a whetstone, but enough to give you just the slightest bit more edge as you cut."

"It seems like you've thought of everything."

Zwergherr smiled. "Almost everything. I couldn't quite fit the grenade launcher in."

That got a laugh out of Volta, but his eyes never left the anvil. Strange that he was working on one, since he wasn't using it for its intended purpose. Perhaps he had something in mind for the blade itself?

Soon the polishing and shaving was finished. The scabbard's length was smooth to the touch, and a little on the hot side.

"It'll cool soon," Zwergherr explained. "I must warn you, it's temperature resistant but only to a point. Blitzeinschlag could probably cut fire if you gain enough skill with it, but the composition of the scabbard itself won't allow it to take anything above a thousand degrees without suffering some kinda damage."

Volta rose an eyebrow. That's a damn high bar."

"Not as high as you think," Zwergherr grumbled. "There's some damn hot islands in the world. Point is, if you leave your sword in your scabbard while in extreme temperatures, the heat will be magnified through the metal, and that could damage the blade! Same for cold temperatures, though that's gonna take a lot more the other way. Not to mention the havoc it will play on the mechanisms that make it fire, Extreme temperature is this thing's only weakness."

He banged it hard against the anvil. Then, before Volta could protest, he slammed his hammer onto it, and while it was at a diagonal angle to boot. There wasn't so much as a scratch, let alone a bend.

"Key word being only. This thing has Seastone reinforcement. Not too much, but enough that any Logia user's gonna get a nasty surprise if ya decide to hit a home run."

"Baseball too?"

"Yup."

The next part was harder, Volta could tell. Zwergherr tucked his beard in even tighter and dug a welding mask out of the crate. But a quick glance into it revealed no blowtorch.

"Ya might wanna stand back for this next bit."

Volta complied, just in time for another rumble to shake the forge. Two giant hammers unfolded from the ceiling, their attached chains twisting them so they'd clash right over the occupied anvil.

The hunter covered his ears. Zwergherr held up the gun block.

CLAAAAANNNG!

His ears rung so hard he feared his drums would burst, but sound slowly returned to him. He didn't need his ears to see though, and what he saw astounded him. The gun block, naked side gears and all, was still unharmed.

"Alright, that's the second strength test. Volta, hand me that scalpel over there."

He looked in the direction of Zwergherr's pointing, to a thin, long blade on another table near the wall. The shock of the hammer blow still coursed through him, and his ink lashed out and snatched up the instrument. The tendril moved across the heated floor, steaming a little as it got to close, until it was within Zwergherr's reach. He grabbed it, then bent over, letting its tip soak in the lava. He made no comment on Volta's ability.

"Lava welding. Nothing beats the thrill of almost burnin yourself! Especially over something as crazy as this. It takes a certain level of skill to keep the stuff from melting through your craft. The kind you only get after decades of experience."

"I thought you just said it couldn't take anything above a thousand degrees?" Volta questioned.

"Exactly! In the hands of an amateur this tube's toast, but it's precisely because of this small weakness that I can make something even better!"

The scalpel was white-hot now, and with a delicacy those thick fingers should not have had, he traced the edges of the tube's bottom, spreading the heat around and softening up the metal. Then, quick as a flash, he set down the scalpel and put the gun block under the tube, a gaping hole perfectly matching the edges. He fused them together and used the scalpel to scrap away any excess.

For what felt like hours Volta stood, mesmerized by the careful work. Zwergherr scraped and sliced, then paved, turning the metal into putty under his care. He started to etch little figures in it, runes that Volta couldn't understand.

"I have a raven tattoo on my back," he said. "Can you etch that in as well?"

"Certainly. I'll put it on the gun block."

And that was exactly what he did. When the long scalpel showed signs of melting under its own heat, Zwergherr tossed it aside, letting it sink into a wider lava crack. He whipped a smaller, even finer one from his toolbelt and kept right on etching. He even used his fingers to wipe away some of the liquid-like waste, provoking a sharp breath from Volta.

"Not to worry lad, this is all part of the process. Almost done with the decorations."

He was actually quite far from done, if his trailing up the rest of the scabbard was any indication. Volta left him to his work, walking around the forge and seeing if there were even stranger things within it.

He took note of the firearms, some of which looked advanced enough to have been from his world. He traced his fingers along their ridges, wondering what it would be like to fire one. There was a whole section dedicated to rapiers, many of them shining different silvers against the red glow of the lava beneath him. Because of the red cast, Volta wasn't sure exactly what they looked like under the light of the sun.

He pressed his hand against one of the rapier's hilts, and accidently knocked it over. He grabbed it before it could fall and make a noise, and in doing so he brought its tip to the stone wall.

Click

"Of course it's this one," Volta groaned, as another section of wall slid away. But it wasn't a storage room. It was a smaller workshop, even lower set in the ground. One that looked ancient, as if it hadn't been used in some time.

Tentatively, he entered. The steps were covered in dust, and every move kicked up a small storm. Bunnies of the stuff lay clumped in the corners. An old smell lingered, one that lay somewhere in between ash and potato ships. The racks had no weapons, and many looked rusted.

But amidst all the ruin, one thing looked relatively clean. An old photograph, on the corner of a rotting table. It had faded with age, but two figures were easy to make out. One was Zwergherr, his beard darker and much, much shorter. Only a single weapon had been sculped out of it, a two-bladed axe.

Seelenhäcker itself lay slung over Zwergherr's right shoulder, his other arm wrapped around the shoulder of the other man. He was taller than the craftsman by several orders of magnitude, and Volta almost laughed when he realized that the craftsmen must be standing on his knee. His chin jutted forward, his eyes narrow but full of mirth. Golden locks fell to his chest, and under his pointed nose was a fabulous mustache, a crescent moon of pure white perfection. In a way, it was even more impressive then the beard Zwergherr had, because not a single hair stuck out of it, and the tips were as solid as the horns of a ram. Strangest of all, Volta didn't get the impression that it was greased, or full of gel. Just a 'stache maintained through light combing and an incredible level of self-esteem. In the man's left hand was a giant naginata, one that seemed to sparkle through the age of the photo.

"Ah…that's where I put it!"

Volta jumped. Zwergherr's shadow filled the entrance, and he marched down the steps. He swiped the picture and put it in his beard. "Thanks laddie, I was wondering where that photo went."

"Who was that?" Volta asked. "An old friend?"

"Zwowowowowo! To call him just a friend does little justice to him! He was the first man I ever made a blade for!"

They walked out of the old workshop, and Zwergherr tapped the wall. It slid closed again. "I've got so many of these little hideaways. Why, I think every other weapon in the room opens one. A good way to pass the time, building more rooms for my forge. But anyway, that was the best damn weapon I ever made! Murakumogiri was the name I gave, and ole Newgate never saw fit to rename it. Think they consider it one of the twelve now."

"You made one of the twelve Supreme Swords?!" Volta was starstruck. This man was a true legend!

The old craftsman rubbed the back of his head, what could be seen of his face turning a bright red. "Haw, don't compliment me too much! If I'm being honest, I'm right pissed that I could never match that one. These hands aren't as nimble as they used to be."

Volta patted him on the shoulder. "Don't beat yourself up. You're far more accomplished then most blacksmiths in the world."

"Haw! That compliment was far too nice! Doesn't make me happy at all!" But there was a little spring in his step as he headed back to his anvil. The scabbard was close to finished, Volta could tell. He wanted to be surprised by the end result, so he purposefully averted his gaze. A childish act, but one that stoked his anticipation.

The old craftsman grabbed the hot metal weapon and dunked it in a tank of water, one he'd likely brought over while Volta had been exploring.

As the air filled with steam, a question came to mind. "Zwergherr."

"Hm?"

"Are you lonely down here?"

The craftsman paused. He scrunched his nose and blinked his eyes, as if there were a bug on his face. "Well…I suppose…but it's nothing I can't handle! I get visitors every now and then. I get out and about in the world every now and them."

"You mean the village? Have you ever been to the city on the other side, the main one on the island?"

"Oh, for sure! How else would I know about the Bear King and his lunacy?"

"What about the island itself? When was the last time you left for another?"

That gave him even longer pause. Zwergherr rubbed his head. "Well, I'm not much of a carpenter. Steel and iron are my fortes, not so much wood and cloth. Plus, the Bear King wasn't letting anyone leave."

"You could have stolen a ship."

"Well…yes."

A silence fell over the forge. Volta had a dozen more holes he could poke, but as Zwergherr's expression fell, he suddenly felt ashamed to have pushed him as far as he had. "I'm sorry."

Zwergherr waved his hand. "No need for that laddie! You're right, I could have left. I could have done a lot of things."

He rested against the anvil, unmindful of the heat. "I suppose I've grown tired of the world beyond this island. As I'm sure you might have guessed, I'm not from the East."

Volta hadn't guessed, but he said nothing.

"I used to be a man of war, a real brute on the battlefield. And a maker of weapons, which of course I still am today. But the longer I fought, the more wary I grew. The kills kept piling up, and the smell of blood started to stink in my nostrils. Then, shortly after my captain died, I came to a stark realization. I'd butchered so many that I could no longer see people as people, just bodies of meat and blood. I'd become a beast, no better than a lion that hunts guiltlessly. And when I realized this, I couldn't keep looking at myself in the mirror. I couldn't keep being the man I'd been. So, when my old crew broke up, and Newgate invited me to join him on his next adventure, I turned him down. Said I was done with the pirate life. I still loved making weapons, and I still love war, but I found that I could no longer fight in it myself. I…I didn't want to raise my hand against others anymore."

Volta lowered his head, hat hiding his eyes. "To be violent is to be human."

Zwergherr chuckled, but it was a sad sound. "No, laddie. It is the absence of humanity that breeds violence. I know I'm a wee little minority on a subject like this, but out there…"

He pointed up, to the world beyond his roof of dirt and stone.

"…is a sea where violence reigns. It's a place I no longer want anything to do with."

Volta considered this. He turned it over in his head, picking at it with his mind. And an idea came to him.

"Just defend."

Zwergherr raised an eyebrow. "It's no use laddie. Defend or attack, it's still violence. I don't want to be a part of any of it. Any part of this violent world."

Volta wanted to argue, to counter. But what could he say to the haunted look in the old craftsman's eyes? What magical question would make his pain fade, or his fears dissolve?

The photograph.

"I'm young. I don't know a fraction of what you do. About the world. About life."

"You certainly act like you do," Zwergherr smirked.

Volta bristled at that, but he pressed on. "Regardless of my age, I have a question for you. Just one."

"Ask away."

{%}===============(===~.

"…you know…huff…I ever thought…that after what I've been through...huff…I'd make a friend so soon."

"Heh, from partners to friends…huff…huh? We've only…just met."

"I know…huff…and I don't really care."

"…yeah, me neither."

{%}===============(===~.

"Don't you want to see your friend again?"

That gave Zwergherr the greatest pause of all. Volta didn't wait for his response. He walked to the exit. "I'm famished. Do you have any food in your kitchen?"

The craftsman nodded. "Help yourself. I need to stay here and watch the water."

Volta left.

As he disappeared back up the ladder hewn from the rock, Zwergherr sat against his anvil, beard getting a little too close to the lava cracks. He pulled it back and took the photo from it.

He stared at it, and at the joy on the two men's faces. At the radiant smile of his oldest friend.