warnings. / shrugs.
21.
PICK YOUR POISON
silence.
An explosion detonates in the distance. The flash is nearly blinding, too close, and the burst of noise shatters across the open water and leaves her ears ringing. There's no time to recover as a shockwave violently rocks the boat with such force that Lami is left scrambling to hold onto the railings lest she gets lost to the icy, dark waves that thrash and curl at the sides of the Numancia Mini as the storm rages on around them. Water slaps her face, the sensations cutting and burning as it seeps into her nose and mouth.
Screams shortly follow from the cloud of smoke and fire, their voices loud and echoing over the harsh winds. The hostage laid out on the floorboards is similarly shouting; screaming; begging. A wayward symphony of desperation as his limbs twist and quake in his attempts to free himself from the ropes that bind him.
Law barely offers the man a glance as he injects anesthesia, watching with apathy as their recent quarry quiets and slumps with eerie stillness.
Machvise's large figure floats over, the wind pulling him close to their ship. With a cheerful ton ton he drops- much to the dismay of many of the Donquixote peons who circle the small boat and fret as Machvise sinks into the water beside the ship. His visage is lost shortly after, the oath of the devil fruit taking hold and dragging him down into the depths below them. A dozen bodies jump overboard to find the fallen Officer whose bright blonde hair is already lost from their vision, and it takes nearly all of them to drag Machvise back on board. His loud, deep laughter fills the night air, lackadaisical despite the utter desolation of the mission so far.
Hair soaked and clinging to the sides of her face, Lami presses a hand to her side. A single glance offers the grim sight of red smeared across her palm despite the layers of cloth. She knows that it's a wound that cuts too deep to be dismissed lightly, but even still, she says nothing. This isn't the place or time.
Lami sighs and exchanges an exasperated look with Law.
He shrugs.
The two of them drag the body of the hostage into the small cabin at the back of the boat. Doflamingo's orders were very clear, even if the rest of the crew are more preoccupied with surviving the storm. Looting the hostage's body takes no time at all; his pockets are nearly empty except for the pivotal manuscript that Doflamingo sent them out for. The paper is wedged in an airtight plastic envelope, odd and foreign in this world and leaves her wondering where they had acquired such an item.
While curious over the contents of such a desired piece of information, the children have more pressing matters to attend to. The day has drawn on for too long; ears still ringing and bodies aching from new and old wounds alike. Neither has the energy to exert anything other than the absolute bare minimum of what is required of them.
They retie the hostage's limbs and gag his mouth with firm hands and grim expressions.
He'll wake up eventually.
That's when the "fun" begins.
But, until then, Lami lets Law set the cabin up as she tentatively presses a hand to her side once more. The suitcase that Law drags out from a compartment beneath one of the benches is just as ominous as she suspected. Dark eyes stare with forced apathy as he lifts the lid. The shining metal contraptions inside are familiar in a way that makes her stomach churn. A memory tickles at the back of her mind, static encasing her chest as she breathes in and out.
What had he said, again?
( it's important to know how it feels. )
She remembers the cheerful tremor in Trebol's voice as he said it. Personal experience is the best way to use such devices to their utmost efficiency. If his words were to be trusted, that is.
The boat rocks, boots stamp across the wooden deck, Lami stares blankly at the floorboards. She's not sure how Law can handle the instruments with such blatant apathy as he inspects a device with a spiralling metal head, a curious glint in his golden eyes. The lingering results of Trebol's lessons still litter their bodies with brutal artistry, their wrists and ankles raw nearly to the bone from the rough texture of the ropes that had bound them.
Maybe that's what it is, the appeal of brutal artistry.
Lami watches through the window as the ship in the distance is slowly engulfed in flames. It's not too long before it ultimately surrenders itself to the dreary depths of the sea.
She can empathize.
/ / / / / / / / / /
"Ya know, it's not always this bad."
Despite the man's size, Machvise speaks in a soft, husky tone. There's a towel and blanket thrown over his shoulders, much too small for his mass of muscle. His boots make quiet squeaking noises whenever he moves, which is quite often. There's a moment of silence, sans the waves against the hull and the crew making repairs outside until he takes another spoonful of his soup as Law and Lami continue to scrub the floorboards.
They can't quite get the red out.
She turns off her brain. She just scrubs. Her fingers already feel raw.
"Usually they give'n earlier, ya know? Not'n ya can do about it."
Lami's more concerned about Law's silence. The two of them work in practiced tandem, but there's a certain quality to this silence that bothers her more than others. Maybe it's the carefully blank expression; or the trembling of his voice. Not quite remorseful, but certainly shaken and taken off guard.
She hadn't quite expected it to go this way either.
Law has spent his entire life learning how to put people back together, stitch by stitch. It must be quite discomforting to use these skills to take someone apart, piece by piece.
Pushing herself up from her hands and knees, Lami tilts herself back to sit on the floor.
"Ya did good if that's worth someth'n. Some folks are just built different. We got what we wanted, so don't be so hard on yaselfs."
She reaches out toward Law, fingers brushing against the side of his arm. There's a silent question in the touch, and a silent rejection as he shifts away.
Machvise sighs, shifting again. Lami gets the impression that he doesn't particularly care for silence much.
"Ya know, I get it. We were all just start'n out at one point or another." He takes a large slurp of his soup. "Thems exec officers have it a little twisted, don't quite get it, have'n been here with the Young Master since the begin'n. They chose him. So theys don't quite get what it means to be the chose'n."
Lami adjusts her socks for something to do, quietly contemplating his words. She wonders if he is talking for their comfort or his own. "What do you mean?"
He startles, glasses trailing down his nose to expose a pair of baby blues. Taking a moment to righten himself, Machvise continues. "Some folk have a choice, some don't. Won't knock anyone for join'n by their own volition, but there's a ton of difference between the two." He pauses, retroactively giggling at his pun. "Young Master ain't one to be shake'n from a prey, ya know? When he sets his mind to someone- or someth'n- he's gonna get it. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. He has expectations, ya know? He wanted you and now you have to make it worth his while, even if you didn't wanna be here in the first place."
She doesn't think he understands the reason for their silence. The slabs of meat that had once been a man still lay on the surface of the table next to Machvise. It's so oddly disorienting to watch him eat; to listen to him amount their silence to a fear of disappointment or failing to meet expectations— as though Lami gives a single flying fuck about their opinion of her at all. If she didn't feel so completely zoned out and displaced, Lami might've had a snarky comment to make. However, all she can do is quietly stare at him.
He expects an answer, though, and she doubts that Law is willing to shoulder the conversation this time.
So, she changes the subject.
"You didn't?"
"Chased me halfway 'round the North Blue, is what the Young Master did!" He laughs, though, so she supposes he isn't too heartbroken about it. Her eyes flick to the left, to the blood that drip, drip, drips from the edge of the garbage bag and pools on the floor. Another mess to clean up. "Once he caught me there was no gett'n out of the Donquixote. Tried a hundred times. There's no shak'n him."
Her eyes flick back to him.
Maybe this is less of a comforting tale and more of a word of caution.
"As I was say'n, it's not usually this bad. We just grabbed a bad apple, ya know? Next time will be easier." He pauses, spoon in mouth. "Well, unless it's not."
He laughs again, soup spilling over the sides of the bowl. Lami grimaces at the sight but brings herself to say, "We had a choice, though." if only to be contrary.
"Little lady, if you think you kids ever had a choice then I have some very disheart'n news for ya."
Unsure what to say to this, Lami remains quiet.
/ / / / / / / / / /
Law doesn't talk until they give their report in the Donquixote headquarters. His voice is steady and bland as he describes the unfolding chaos of the mission and the information gathered from their captive. His hands remain folded and stiff on the table.
Unease settles in her chest.
Afterwards, Law doesn't talk. Not even when Baby 5 berates him at dinner or when Buffalo steals a piece of Law's desert.
Lami gives him space. It's not a decision easily made. One night turns into a week— and though she aches to reach out and talk to him, to get to the bottom of what is concerning him, she holds back and allows Law the agency to come to her on his terms. Control, he's always picking on her for wanting control.
She is only partially surprised when, nearly three weeks afterwards, Law crawls into her bunk partway through the night with his hands clinging to the back of her shirt.
They don't talk.
And yet, there's something settled in his expression the next morning. She doesn't ask questions; she simply accepts his silence.
/ / / / / / / / / /
A sharp crack. A bright flash. The sopping noise of the false-mannequin falling to the ground.
The gun held in her hand is firm and steady despite the impact of the discharge, eyes focused on the bullseye set on the chest of the not-man. There is a pull somewhere inside of her mind's eye, the quiet knowing of where to point her shot regardless of where she is looking.
Gladius and Doflamingo watch with scrutiny. She ignores their words in favour of the various targets set before her.
Lami does not like guns.
This is a hatred that she is becoming more and more familiar with, even without the broken record of memories playing in the back of her mind.
There is simply something disconnected and apathetic about firing a weapon; a distance between the violence inflicted and the shadowed perpetrator's desire to harm. The space is discomforting. The ease with which she can simply walk away is dissatisfying. Lami wants to feel the ache in her fists, the violent stab of a rib beneath her knuckles. She wants to feel the shudder of a body as she slides a knife through their arteries, wants to feel the slickness of blood between her fingers and clean the blood from her fingernails until her hands are red and raw.
She wants to feel the loss of life—tangible, within her reach, lingering in the bruises of her skin.
Lami shoots. The target erupts into a burst of wooden splinters. Apathy clouds her chest.
There is clapping once she is done. A hand shortly after lands on her head, Doflamingo privately intoning, "Well done."
Contempt burns in her chest, lighting like a volcano. Words, thoughts, feelings swirl in her mind with such impulse and immaturity that she has to clench her fists into tight balls to refrain from letting them spill past her mouth. With a quiet inhale, Lami looks up at him through her lashes but otherwise says nothing as she tries her hardest to keep her expression schooled to that of neutrality.
Doflamingo's mouth twitches, glasses glinting from the sun as he stalks back into the headquarters.
But, then again, maybe it's just her imagination.
/ / / / / / / / / /
Dark eyes trace faded, careful lines of paint; the old, worn masterpiece of a map on the library ceiling.
Lami lays on the floor, a pillow beneath her head, with Law resting his head on her stomach. The soft crackling of fire sifts through the room, warm and calming alongside the distant scribbling of their captain and Buffalo's quiet snores that are a few inches too close to her ear. She wants to push him away, but it's regretfully endearing how he has curled up like a cat around a book. She sighs, instead choosing to gently drag her fingers through Law's recently shorn locks of hair. The colour is starting to become ashy, now, but her concentration remains on the map depicted above her.
It's a bit outdated, she notes.
A few of the smaller towns on Northview are not depicted and several of the landmarks are no longer around; whether it be through age or industry. Roads, at the time of the painting, were not as pronounced throughout the island as they are nowadays.
It makes her wonder just how long ago the map was made; how long this building has stood hidden between mountain and foliage.
Lami's eyes trail down as her thoughts wander. The history of the island isn't well documented. It relied quite heavily on the spoken word until some point 500 years ago, and even then she hasn't been able to find any decent retellings of the history. Given the prominent criminal activity and the lack of Marines, she suspects that there is a very particular reason why Northview has kept a very quiet take on its history despite the evident monuments that would express otherwise.
She pauses, her focus zooming in on the map once more as her eyebrows furrow. A tree, swarmed between countless others, stands out for but a moment— a small glint catching her eye. Pushing herself up with her arm, Lami strains upward in a vain attempt to get a closer look at what might have been there—
"Hey."
Blinking, Lami's attention turns back to Law. He's looking up at her with a not-pout, apparently dishevelled because she moved. Or, maybe because she stops playing with his hair.
Offering him a soft huff reminiscent of a laugh, she lowers back to the ground and lets him settle back to his comfortable place. Law is still not back to his usual self, so she relishes in the moment of familiarity and comfort. With a couple of gentle scratches to his scalp, she makes the quiet commitment to investigate the map later-once Law has gone to bed and without Doflamingo around to watch her every move.
"If I betrayed you," Law's voice startles her out of what she thought would be the end of an interaction, his voice quiet amongst the crackling fire and Doflamingo's soft scribbles, "what would you do?"
Lami blinks. Her mind tries to process the words as she stares blankly at the mosaic above them. Tilting her head down for a moment to inspect him, she notes his averted eyes and the methodical way his fingers smooth around the corner of his book on ship maintenance.
She can't imagine that's a fun read. Not that it matters.
"Well, I don't know." Lami's never really considered the possibility before. Would he? She's betrayed him in all the worst ways, so it's not as though she could judge him for it. Even then, would it matter? Law does what he thinks is right for them. And though this sometimes, often, frequently conflicts with Lami's opinions she can't rightfully account it as a betrayal. "I don't know if I'd do anything."
"Even though I betrayed you?"
"Well, I mean, I'd certainly hope that you'd have a good reason for it," Lami quickly adds, not wanting to sound too inviting. Her mind spins, trying to place the words he is saying to a tangible reason. Law isn't the type of person who would ask such a thing solely for hypothetical purposes. Does he suspect something about her? Does he think that his continued interactions with Doflamingo might be a sign of betrayal? Is he worrying that his actions in the Donquixote are a betrayal of what their parents taught them— to heal, to help, to be of service? Does he think that his reluctance to believe that there could be a cure is a form of betrayal?
Evidently, she is projecting.
Taking a deep breath, she takes a moment to formulate a response best meant to comfort.
"And the circumstances might alter things… But... Do you think I care for you so little that betraying me would make even the slightest of difference? You're my brother. I love you. It wouldn't change a thing."
He doesn't say anything.
After a moment he rolls over, pressing his face into her stomach as he pulls his hat to cover his head. Though silent, she can feel his shoulders shaking against her side.
Easing her head back, she resumes staring at the ceiling in an awkward attempt to give Law some semblance of privacy. She idly runs her fingers through the hairs on the back of his neck and is only just able to stop herself from laughing when he tries to slap her hand away.
"If you end up being taller than me, though, that would be the highest act of betrayal and we will certainly have some words then," Lami says with a sombre tone.
Law laughs—or scoffs, she can hardly tell—and mutters, "That's not betrayal, that's just what is going to happen. A promise."
"The first step to acceptance is denial. It's okay, I will support you through this."
The sound Law makes this time is most definitely a scoff as he pushes himself up and scoops her head with his hat. "Sometimes it's okay to just stay silent. You can stop. No need to make this harder on yourself, you self-abso—"
Lami cuts him off, rolling them over into Buffalo and startling the boy out of his nap. The subsequent tussle between the three is short and vicious but the smile that paints Law's face makes it all worth it.
Until Law looks her straight in the eyes and bends his wrists like a pink praying mantis.
Narrowing her eyes, Lami accepts that this means war.
/ / / / / / / / / /
( In the background, Doflamingo watches as the children wrestle and throw pillows at each other.
Though his unit leader tries to dissuade the further chaos, Doflamingo merely rests his chin against his knuckles and watches as his family blooms. Something close to a smirk; grin; smile crosses his face.
And, despite this—
words echo in his head and... he wonders. )
/ / / / / / / / / /
The headquarters are chilly at night.
Sneaking into the library is but a simple test of patience; the rotation of the night shift peons are like clockwork and are spread out enough within the headquarters that it doesn't present much of a challenge for her. Lami moves silently over olden floorboards, the cold seeping into her bare feet. The library itself is a desolate place without the fires lit to omit the warm glow; now there are simply shadows that line the walls and floors like long, hanging spider webs and the whistling of gusting wind that rattles the windows.
Taking a moment to collect her thoughts, she starts by closing all the window curtains. The last thing she needs is to attract attention from those outside on watch duty. After this, she makes sure to lock all the doors and strikes a match to light her candle. She holds her candlestick up, the weight and the atmosphere nostalgic and familiar as she glances around the silent library.
For a while, she tries to find the tree that struck her interest in the mural above- understanding the general area of its placement, but struggling to locate it in the dark.
Placing the candlestick down onto one of the long, oak tables, she maneuvers towards the moving ladders and rolls it as close to the general area as she can. It takes but a few moments before she once again has her candlestick in hand and climbs up and up and up towards the faded but striking map of the island.
Still, it takes longer than anticipated—
Until a flicker of the flame.
Lami blinks at the presence of a slight breeze, holding the candlestick in place as she watches the flame dance in front of her. Securing herself on the ladder with her elbow, Lami takes her free hand and tests the air in front of the candle, patiently feeling out the area for the breeze until her fingertips graze the ceiling above her. Much to her curiosity, she feels the cool touch of metal.
Raising the candle, she stares at the small depiction of a tree encasing a small, hardly detectable, keyhole within the trunk. She runs her thumb over it, feels the cool breeze and the metal. Leaning back, she wonders if this particular tree in question has a secret to hide or if it is simply an artistic choice to hide the keyhole in a lively, busy scene.
Her mouth twitches. A quiet, warm pressure encases her chest. There's just something about a mystery that alights her with excitement.
As Lami descends the ladder, she contemplates her next steps. First and foremost she would like to try to locate the tree in the picture to see if it is still alive- and if there is nothing of note, or if the tree has been long cut down. Once this is complete then she will have a better understanding of how to move forward to find what is behind the mosaic. Ultimately, she might simply have to learn how to—
A figure, at the periphery of her vision.
Lami stumbles with an embarrassing yelp, barely catching herself from falling as the candlestick topples and the hot wax of the candle seeps into the sweater of her upper arm and shoulder, dripping down to her exposed feet. Wincing at the burn, she rights the candle before the fabric can catch fire.
Turning to stare over her shoulder, she finds an empty room.
She stares for a long moment, waiting for the quiet to break; for the stillness to erupt. She waits for a light to pop out, or a voice nearby to be heard…
Nothing happens.
A long, deep breath eases out of her. Resting her head against the stair of the ladder, Lami quietly huffs a soft laugh. She takes a moment to brush off the now-dried wax from her arm and foot, slowly descending the stairs. Seeing figures at the corners of her eyes isn't a new sensation by any means, but for a moment she was convinced that she had seen…
She pauses, looking over her shoulder once more. Though the room remains empty, an uneasy feeling settles in her stomach.
Lami knows better than most: just because it looks empty doesn't mean it is.
/ / / / / / / / / /
Weeks pass by in a torrent.
Lami spends rarely any of it at the headquarters, much to her growing ire.
The Donquixote continue to extend their influence on the area around them, dominating the nearby chains of islands and securing anything of note or importance. Lami finds herself in the halls of royalty, in the banks of rich merchants, in the smoke-filled rooms of kingpins. The Donquixote crew treks through forests while hoisting chests and boxes of gold and belli, take art pieces from museums, and crash into libraries for their secret hidden gems. Her nights are spent cleaning blood out of her fingernails, mopping the floors, and listening to Law and Buffalo regale their missions with growing exaggeration and excitement, unable to tell what is story or fiction.
They are leaving their mark on the countries around them; the brutal artistry of their actions gauging out the land and leaving their competitors shaking in their wake.
And though it becomes a bit fun— her mind remains islands away, fixated on a single keyhole.
/ / / / / / / / / /
Wind thrashes through the air, cold and cutting as it sweeps her hair and the rain into a torrent of whipping motion—pulling her closer and closer to tip over the edge of a white-stoned building. What began as a simple scouting mission to find a small group of criminals rebelling against the Donquixote's supply chain changed within the blink of an eye. Cannons fire in the distance, the Donquixote yelling around her with cautious familiarity.
The Marines.
Boats line the harbour in the distance, so numerous that they blot together unintelligibly. Dozens, hundreds. Maybe it's a mirage brought about by the incoming storm; the marines have proven themselves to be tricky and sharp during Lami's time with the Donquixote—Or, at the very least, whoever pursues Doflamingo has an uncanny knack for knowing exactly what they are about to do. Any emotion this might ordinarily bring out in her is numbed by the bitter cold; hands shaking and wooden but ultimately disconnected from the impending barrage of cannon fire that is soon to be upon them.
"How—" Gladius' eyes narrow behind his shaded lens, the hairs on his body bristling in a way that provokes Lami and Buffalo to quietly lean away. There's a pile of bodies beneath them on the streets, the aftermath of Gladius' prior objective for their mission. Somewhere a wealthy merchant is being dressed down and shown the mercy of the Donquixote. None of this matters now that the lullaby of prison chains and cufflinks are tinkling in the distance like wayward sirens conducted by government dogs.
"They shouldn't know we are here."
There is an accusation there, somewhere, but Lami is too preoccupied with a more pressing concern; primarily Gladius' temper and the explosions that tend to follow. Given their recent activity, she can't say that she is surprised that their onslaught of crime has attracted the attention of the Marines. However, she understands that he doesn't want a logical response.
"Buffalo, Lami—you two check the perimeter." He's not looking at them when he says it. "We'll meet at the ship."
With that, he jumps off the ledge of the building; allowing the wind to drag him to the snowy banks below.
"We should check to make sure that-" Lami cuts herself off when she looks to the side, only to see that Buffalo has already pushed himself in the air. Leaving her behind. She narrows her eyes at his departing figure before roughly sighing.
Jumping down to the streets below, Lami does as she was told. She loops around the back entrance of the town, making sure that no Marines are intending on cinching them between two battlefronts. Once she has gained enough confidence that this is not the case, she races through the side streets and towards the Numancia Flamenco. The ground beneath her feet shudders as an explosion goes off nearby, a building slowly toppling over until there is a sudden quick shift of concrete and dust. Marines swarm around her, evacuating the townspeople to safe areas and heaving debris off of those injured and stuck, hardly paying her any mind despite the gun in her hand and the sword at her side.
Lami sinks into the side streets to avoid their detection, back against a wall as she hides behind an empty barrel. There is something innately curious about a squad of Marines already within the heart of the town— wouldn't their main focus be on the docks, where the Donquixote are most likely to be?
She knows she can't waste too much time here; watching the Marines go about their duties. Even still, she finds herself ghosting their movements, curious at the disregard they pay the Donquixote until a weapon is drawn. No intel of import is found during this time, nor does it prove to have any particular merits. It's only when Lami feels she has overstayed her time that she starts wandering away from the desolate scene of the downtown area and the groups of Marines.
A light steals her attention; the voice behind it is strong and decisive, bright and stubborn.
Lami pauses, head tilting to the side as though it will aid her in hearing the voice better. It doesn't demand in the same way that Doflamingo's voice seers into her mind, instead it is a dominant but firm voice. No demands are needed when you and everyone around you understand your strength, is the impression she finds herself having.
Lami hides. There's no thought behind the gesture as she wedges herself between a pile of trash bins and the brick wall of a shop, only the innate understanding that if she does not hide then something bad will happen. Knowing she can't afford to be risky, Lami hunches her shoulders as tight as they can go and sinks into the alleyway flooring as she makes herself as small as possible.
A tall figure marches through the messy streets, their visage showing between a crack in Lami's defence, a Marine coat draped over their shoulders despite the colourful attire underneath.
Something familiar tickles at the back of her neck, but Lami can't put a place to it.
"What a mess," the Marine says to the woman at her side, her withered face becoming clearer as she nears.
"The pirates have fled to the north of the island," the marine with a bucket hat reports, a small den-den mushi in hand. Her voice is soft. Lami gets the impression that there is more going on beneath the surface of this voice; something a bit sharper than is let on. "There have been no sightings of the Heavenly Yaksha or the Thousand Winters gang, let alone any of their officers. While it's too early to make assumptions, it is likely possible that the Donquixote have already dealt with our plants."
"After so many false leads… still it appears we might be too late." The older woman huffs, crossing her arms across her chest, "I wonder what that boy is thinking."
"It's not a total loss. The town, while damaged in the lower waterfront, already has repairs and excavations underway. One of our units has also shared intel regarding the acquirement of Donquixoute members."
Then, a trick in the light, Lami swears the old woman's eyes flick in her direction.
Stiffening against the brick wall, Lami decides then and there that no amount of curiosity is worth whatever might happen if this woman catches her. Though the conversation between the Marines continues, Lami slowly inches herself away; taking deep slow breaths and focusing on the environment around her to mask the noise of her footfalls. Once she has managed to curve around the edge of the building— she sprints.
Her moment of freedom is brief and cruel.
Air rips in and out of her as she runs, but she becomes innately aware of the fact that the light at the edge of her vision never goes away. It simply follows.
Something bitter finds itself home in her throat.
She can just imagine the thoughts of the Marine: either Lami leads the Marine to the Donquixote's meet-up spot or she gets caught and wrung out for information. Huffing with indignance, Lami swerves into an alley that will lead her into the outskirts of town. In the distance, a familiar light sears and Lami frantically rushes towards it.
"Ah. I knew I recognized you."
Panic overrides logic; she skitters away and dodges over a landslide of brick and debris.
Lami has spent so long trying to be as inconspicuous as possible; to hide away from the gaze and attention of those around her. She doesn't know how to catch someone's attention; to have her voice shine bright like a beacon in a sea of many. It hurts her pride to ask for help, from him of all people, but she can't get caught. She won't get caught: Law needs her and Lami needs Law.
She tries. Eyes shut, mind focused, she tries and tries to reach out and burst.
When nothing happens, Lami curses and resumes her sprint.
A voice hums, an alley over from her, loud but in no particular hurry. "I might be old, but I never forget a face."
Lami halts her retreat through the alley, breath caught in her throat as time seems to slow and warp around her. The words cut into her in a way that Lami does not understand. Eyebrows furrowing, she finally tries to place the words to a face to a meaning. Why does this old lady speak as though they know each other? Why is there a familiarity that Lami can't quite place?
Does it even matter?
"You deserve better."
Lami startles, the voice practically behind her now.
Her mouth presses into a line, hands clenching into fists that no doubt will leave bloody red crescents in her palms. Why does the concern of this stranger cause her chest to burn? Why does she feel inclined to stop and listen? There is nothing that this woman can offer Lami. The words are spoken from the perspective of someone who doesn't truly understand who and what Lami is; there is calculation at play here. It makes her chest burn with reproach and envy.
She almost wants to laugh. She wonders if other kids fall into this trap.
"It has been a while, young one. But my ears are sharp, and I can hear the familiar skittering of a mouse." Footsteps echo against wet cobblestone, the woman's voice low and steady, "How far you have wandered from the halls of St. Monroe's. How did you get here, I wonder."
Recognition suddenly sparks.
Lami hesitates before turning around to face the Marine; a tar-like emotion flooding through her chest. There are no voices around them—it's just her and the Vice Admiral for several streets over. It won't stay this way for long. Doflamingo is not far, can feel his singing voice, and she knows that he does not appreciate his things being played with.
Tucking wet strands of hair from her forehead behind her ear, Lami stares and says nothing.
"Given the weapons at your disposal, I can't imagine that you're up to anything good. Ah, how things have changed. I'm sure Madeline wouldn't have wanted this sort of life for you." Vice-Admiral Tsuru doesn't seem to mind the one-sided state of this conversation, as the elderly are prone to, she merely continues in a tone softer than before. "Is this where you want to spend the rest of your life? With him? Is it worth it?"
No, she wants to say, but I have to.
Lami stays silent, anger simmering under the surface as she levels the Marine with a flat stare. This woman is not entitled to hear her truth; nor is she entitled to judge Lami's life choices.
Vice-Admiral Tsuru closes her eyes and sighs. As her hand drifts to the sword attached to her belt, she simply says: "then so be it."
Run. Go. Now.
Jerking back, Lami swiftly turns to leave and—
Her foot slips on ice, her body swerving and hitting the ground with a hard thud that echoes and resounds through her bones.
There is a long, horrid moment of silence where Lami is too horrified to move a single muscle.
The Marine sighs behind her, quietly muttering, "Kids will be kids."
Lami knows that she is shaking as the Marine grabs her arm; shame and humiliation burning her throat and the spot behind her eyes. She hisses as she is rolled over, glaring as Vice Admiral Tsuru kneels beside her.
"What did you think I was going to do, girl? Attack you? Ha. Kids. Never showing proper respect."
Her tone is gruff, but Lami does not miss the way that the Vice Admiral's gaze lowers to her shaking hands. Withered fingers grasp her own scarred and shaking one's— thumb tracing the white lines across her knuckles and palms. Lami feels like vomiting; the discomforting burning becomes unbearable as the Marine twists her hand around to show the white patch that has been growing on the side of her palm.
There's a pause, then.
Dark eyes settle on Lami's jaw; at the patchwork of white that has started to take over her features.
Ripping her hand away, it's with her heart in mouth that Lami scuttles backward with the single hazardous thought to leave, go, now, don't stop. The sword at her side drags against the cobblestones, but the Marine makes no further movements to follow. She practically forgot about her gun in hand, which she now chooses to raise towards the Vice-Admiral.
Despite how unsteady she feels, months of training makes the movement fluid and familiar. The gun remains steady and focused on the older woman's chest. There's no possibility that Lami will actually kill this woman, not a Vice-Admiral, but it's better than doing nothing.
The Vice-Admiral is silent, dark eyes indiscernible as she stares down at Lami. The moment is brief, however, as she turns her head to the side to look at the sky.
"Now now Ms. Tsuru," a lofty voice says from above, something dark and simmering behind the tone. "I think it's best that you not touch things that don't belong to you, lest you lose your fingers."
Pink feathers perched on the roof; and though his voice;light is as silent and cold as ever, Lami finds herself freezing in place instead of feeling relief at a rescue.
Doflamingo is not smiling.
He stares down at the Marine with his hands in his pockets, strings jutting out from his body and layering the alleyway around them with a spider web of sharp glinting lines.
She feels it then; his light;voice burning down on them in a way that has never felt this scorching or nauseating. The mere pressure has her ears ringing and eyesight going dizzy; seeping as its loud and insistent presence reverberates through her entire being and leaves a burning, agonizing ringing that doesn't abate. Scowling, Lami pushes herself up against the intense tide of light, limbs shaking as she gets onto one knee and then a second. Every breath taken feels akin to opening a wound, flaying her own skin with a butter knife, as Doflamingo's voice digs into the cracks of her mind and leaves deep crevices that resonate with his song.
"Come now boy, you're hurting the girl more than you are hurting me," the Vice Admiral chastises as she stands to address him in full, brushing off the pressure with such ease that Lami is left staring with envy and awe. "Though it's cute that you are trying, be a good boy and leave child care to those who are best suited for it. You'll save everyone much grief that way."
"I think you'll find this one, in particular, to be especially unwanted," Doflamingo drawls, unmoving and still. "Would you care to say otherwise?"
Lami flinches at the words, however true they might be.
Vice-Admiral Tsuru says nothing for a moment, her mouth pressed into a thin, wrinkled line before she dryly notes, "An unwanted child with a natural, early on-set of haki usage. How incredibly convenient for you."
Doflamingo grins, then, but there is nothing kind to his pearly whites as he laughs, slow and oily. "How high you stand on your horse, when you would do the same had their tales spun differently. These children have been spurned from the world, and yet with me, they find family and home. Could you ever hope to achieve that same purpose with your rigid rules and changing tune of justice? How amusing that you would chastise us, knowing that the world would rather them dead or abandoned."
Lami's eyes dart between the two, feeling strangely like a child stuck in the middle of a divorce. Should they be discussing morality when there is fighting going on? She can still feel the explosions quaking the ground, plumes of smoke and dust lining the horizon beyond the roofs above her.
"As clever with your words as ever, boy," Tsuru huffs, arms crossing with so little concern that Lami can, again, only stare. "Are your pretty words meant to persuade me or the girl, I can only wonder."
"What you intend to do with the children, I can only wonder. You can misdirect as much as you like, Ms. Tsuru, but we both know that I am right." His grin widens, then, "And that you are trapped in a web of your own making. How folly, to allow me time to set up my strings."
The Vice-Admiral sighs, as though this discussion is a test of patience rather than a death sentence, "Am I? I think you might be forgetting something; someone."
Dark eyes glance in Lami's direction.
Stiffening, she can only stare back. Doflamingo's bright, engulfing song has yet to end— its ringing making her dizzy and her limbs feel like the slush beneath her feet. It's a testament to her willpower that she has yet to drop her gun.
A moment of silence settles between the three before Doflamingo laughs and says, "Do you really believe that I would—"
He doesn't get to finish, a fascinating thing to watch even if Lami would have preferred to hear what he was intending to say.
The Vice-Admiral dips to the side, towards Lami, as Doflamingo begins to speak. His words halt as his strings pull on Lami's arms and limbs, pulling her away and into the air at that same moment. However, The Vice-Admiral swerves and jumps forward- rushing to Doflamingo so fast that Lami only sees the flash of string and steel for a brief moment before Lami is engulfed in pink feathers and an arm has secured itself around her middle.
It takes her several moments to realize that Doflamingo is carrying her, and even longer to realize that he is running. A small tch escapes his mouth as they leap over buildings and fly through the sky.
Lami can only stare over his shoulder; dark eyes focusing on the Vice-Admiral as she stands to her full height and passively watches them escape.
/ / / / / / / / / /
Doflamingo doesn't set her down.
Not when they are free from the Marines' clutches, not when they have reached the meet-up spot at the edge of the island.
The crew is in a flurry of activity as they approach, crates and boxes being imported onto the ship and dozens of crewmembers getting treated for wounds along the snowy shoreline. She looks for Law's signature hat in the sea of people, as he is typically the person who provides medical aid to others, but Doflamingo turns and pivots to the side before she can catch a glimpse of him. No amount of wriggling allows her room to drop from his hold or find a chance to escape. Instead, he holds her tighter, his footsteps quick and with purpose as he stalks onto the Numancia Flamingo.
A man that Lami does not know the name of approaches, a list in hand as he says with a revered bow, "Young Master! There are two down, however, we have accomplished the neutralization and have collected the merchandise."
"Then we set sail."
There is something about his tone that is off.
The crewmember seems to pause, before continuing, "The children—"
"I understand," Doflamingo cuts in, not chastising but firm with his words. "We set sail."
"What about the children?" The words slip from Lami's mouth without any conscious thought. When the crewmember avoids her gaze, she looks to Doflamingo and then over his shoulder to the shoreline. "Where's Law?"
Doflamingo's shoes clack against the deck, loud in contrast to his silence.
"Wait—" Lami's eyebrows furrow, her hands finding purchase on his cloak and chest as she tries to pull herself back, tries to push herself high enough to see over the railings and towards the injured. "No. Wait, Where are Law and Buffalo?"
The tight grip remains, as does the silence. It remains as the boat sets off with Lami's loud, berserk yelling and frantic attempts to leave, go, get away—
Because Law and Buffalo never come on board.
/ / / / / / / / / /
( Doflamingo remains silent. )
happy 2O22, everyone!
thank you for those who have favourited/followed/reviewed and for anyone who continues to read this story. it all means a lot.
just as a reminder to those who don't know, you can catch me at my tumblr blog fic-pickyourpoison where i answer questions, post art, and give chapter updates. otherewise, i hope you are all doing okay and that you all stay safe.
cheers!
[date: 2O22/O1/22] [wordcount: 7509]