Stronger 06 - Clear as Bell
Tashigi dreamt of flying.
She didn't want to, but she couldn't help it.
Tashigi dreamt of verdant cliffs, and a cool white mist, and the great black-feathered wings that would bear her above the fog and into the vast blue of clarity. A powerful breeze surged around her. She felt unfamiliar muscles tense with strength.
The sun reflected in the water shone like justice. She was going. It was waiting, up there, in the blue. All she had to do was step off of the edge, and...
She had no loft, no luft, no pinions.
Black wings belong to penguins.
There were rocks on the shoreline. And when she fell, she was screaming.
If Tashigi were to remember her dreams, then she'd be obligated to feel guilty about having them. Daydreaming was for layabouts who shouldn't be allowed on the Blue in waterwings, let alone on a battleship. Night-dreaming was for sailors who didn't work hard enough to earn their rum rations.
... that meant that she really must stop sleeping before her subconscious conjured up anything more worthwhile than a cliched nightmare about falling. Like, say, a dream about Roronoa Zoro all sweaty and disheveled and chained up in the brig and begging for his life. Or a dream about first-generation katanas. Or a dream about Roronoa Zoro chained up in the brig, while Tashigi taunted his miserable unarmed self with first-generation katanas. The last thing she needed was a dream that she'd want to remember.
"Urgh," Tashigi blinked herself awake, trying to figure out why she would have gone to bed with cotton balls in her mouth. The last evening was a waterlogged, possibly hallucinatory blur. Entering the magic door to a hot, wet paradise? ... Her alcohol-addled consciousness must have manufactured a strange vision, in order to shelter her from the cruel reality of having to deal with such an atrocious come-on.
Uurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrggggggggggggggh.
Was this what a hangover was like? That figured. This was the penalty that she must pay for being so irresponsible as to go carousing with civilian in potentially hostile territory. It was amazing that Captain Smoker was able to stay so sharp after his own nights on leave.
But then, Captain Smoker was tougher than she was. Captain Smoker never dropped a bunch of swords on himself, or accidentally exploded a fruit stand. And when Captain Smoker got drunk, he got to fall asleep in his office, instead of passing out in a filthy shack. Tashigi wasn't sure if that was because of her horrible luck, or because Captain Smoker was twice her size and could hold five times the liquor.
Er... not that Tashigi was the kind of person that went around testing out how much liquor she could hold. Usually.
"What on earth was I thinking?" Tashigi mumbled, wincing. Hopefully talking would clear the cobwebs out from under her tongue.
There was a strange, sickly-sweet aftertaste in her mouth - an off-putting combination of chocolate, chili, and rancid ginger. Weren't hangovers supposed to be more headachy, and less joints-on-firey?
"... and what on earth was I drinking?"
She squinted intently at a drab grey-brown wall. The noonday sun filtered through stormclouds cast a sickly yellow pall over the room. The whole place looked hazy. Its lone window looked to have been shattered from the outside in, and she could feel a clammy fog creep through it to nip at her nose. Was her vision impaired or were her glasses just really really filthy? At least she still had her glasses, as well as other essential clothing accessories. This ordeal could have been much worse. She could have passed out on a hard wooden floor in a filthy shack... with the bartender.
Tashigi stood, muttered a few not-quite-curses to herself, and began to stagger towards the door.
Then she lost her balance, lurched backwards, and landed right back on her ass. Which HURT.
Tashigi stood back up again.
Okay, this was getting ridiculous. Her balance was not that bad. Usually there was at least some (lame) excuse for her to fall. Things like... a wave rocking the ship's deck, or a really slippery nail in the floorboards, or something shiny and distracting in the background, or exhaustion from a fight. Incredibly stupid reasons for having accidents were still reasons, damn it! People didn't just up and start tripping for no purpose at all! That would be completely unfair. Tashigi refused to believe it.
So what could have thrown her off? Surely not the pain - she'd had far worse aches from her falls and her training. Those didn't usually affect her. Tashigi felt too strange to still be drunk. Was this time to panic? Was that what she should be doing? Panicking? Because she could panic if that was called for. That was the sort of thing that even Marines did, when they discovered that they had been doped up on shady substances. Yes. Tashigi was all about the panicking. If there had been a panicking drill at boot camp, then she would have been at the top of her class. It was only right that she employ this valuable skill in her time of need.
"I'm ... a lush! A horrible, irresponsible lush," Tashigi moaned dejectedly. She had gone AWOL from her ship, in order to indulge in possibly-illegal substances! How had she sunk so low? What would Captain Smoker think? Would the men still respect... A DRUNKARD?
The universe was punishing her for her disgraceful overindulgence, there was no doubt about it.
Tashigi fought off hyperventilation, and reached reflexively reached for the solid-steel comfort of Shigure at her hip, but.
She grasped only air.
Tashigi's eyes widened. Now she knew what had thrown her balance off. She'd been compensating for a weight that wasn't there. The thought that it might be gone hadn't even crossed her mind... she was so careful to keep Shigure with her. Especially here, in a place full of thieves and malcontents. The vagabonds of the Grandline would have to tear her Shigure out of her cold dead fingers before she'd let them misuse it.
But she was still alive.
She was still alive.
Her way, her means, means and her end were gone. And she was still alive.
Why was she still...
Tashigi fell to her knees.
For once, it wasn't by accident.
***
"No."
"Smoker... just put on the goddamn shirt."
"NO."
"What are you, five?"
"The jacket closes. A shirt would be irrelevant. I'm fine."
"Fine for what... commanding a rusted-out trawler!?! I will not have the people of Albasta thinking that Marines conduct themselves like half-naked, boozing privateers! The only Marine who does that is you."
Sigh.
This wasn't at all how Bon had pictured signing his soul over to the angels.
Really, he was quite put out.
"I am not drunk. Nor am I Shanks. How many times do we need to go over this, woman?"
"Don't you take that tone with me!!!"
Why must these uncultured people lack any sense of dramatic pacing? Couldn't they act like properly menacing authority figures and give him something to feel persecuted and melodramatic about? Bon was a swan princess, dammit, not some chorus boy in a tree suit!
"I'll talk however I damn well please."
"Not while you're on my flagship, you won't. Do you hear me? Hina not fucking around!"
"... no, I guess not."
"If that was a comment about my sex life, then you are SO far over the line that..."
"Please. I was only agreeing that you weren't messing around. You always blow things out of proportion."
Bon was pretty! Bon was delicate! Bon was impersonating their uncouth waif! Bon was the dramatic twist, the heroine, and the shocking revelation all rolled into one.
... so why wasn't anyone looooooking at him?
It wasn't like there was anything else even remotely worth looking at in the office. The Marine furniture was mind-numbingly butch, Bon's female captor was a shrieking harridan who probably had split ends, and Smoker-chan's abs were currently covered by that confounded jacket.
"The only thing out of proportion in this cabin is the amount of hot air."
"So you're saying that I'm full of hot air? Hunh. That's the giant squid calling the shark wet."
"I'm not saying that you're full of hot air. I'm saying that you ARE hot air - which would explain a lot what happened to your brain. Wrongheadedness as spectacular as yours can't be natural. Only a Devil Fruit could cause it. It's only a shirt, Smoker. A shirt!"
"This is not about a shirt. It's about PRINCIPLE. I may be Headquarters' publicity stunt, but I refuse to be Headquarters' bitch. I guess that a locked-up-tightass like you wouldn't understand that."
Surely they could find it within their hearts to treat Bon's tragic situation with at least a little dramatic weight. Bon was as flexible on he dance floor as he was on the dancers. He could prance the pliets of tragedy just as well as the pirouettes of adventure, and he could play the vulnerable slaveboy just as well as he could play the domineering captain. Bon was a born queen of drama. They had kept him imprisoned in their grimy brig for days, shutting his light away from the world... and now he was ready to shine.
Except none of these tacky Marines seemed to care!
Why, if Bon thought about it much harder, he'd be liable to give himself wrinkles. And goodness knew that all of this time in such dreadful salt air without his seaweed pack must be doing unspeakable things to his complexion already. The shackles were certainly chafing his wrists. And the iron identification collar that Hina had materialized around his neck was extremely gauche.
"You are such a jackass... just put on the goddamn shirt."
"No. We do this, we do it on my terms. You may like that... getup... but they get a photographic record of me in some damn monkeysuit over my smoking corpse."
"That can be arranged, you know."
"A Marine isn't a Marine without his pride."
"How does walking around shirtless give you less dignity?"
"REAL Marines don't..."
Oh, BITCH, BITCH, BITCH. Was that all these people ever did? It was no wonder that there were so many pirates on the Grandline.
"I don't believe this. I do so much for you - the Devil knows why - and you can't budge one fucking inch to accommodate my agenda. Not even to help yourself!"
"You've done nothing but nag at me since I got here! ... I never asked for your help."
"No, I guess you didn't. You get into trouble so much that you've gotten used to me automatically assisting you. But I stopped needing your help the day we graduated, didn't I, Smoker? I wonder what that says about you? Maybe it says that you're still frigging nineteen!"
Honestly. Another, lesser shapechanging pirate ballerina might have been rendered senseless by the indignity of it all.
Bon resolved to change the situation. He was free! He was fetching! He was fabulous! And between the epaulets, the gender-swapping, the renewed make-up privileges, and the personal restraints, he was feeling deliciously kinky. Bon was on top of the world! There was nothing that he couldn't do. Not so long as he had ... THE OKAMA WAY!
Bon cleared his throat, and the yelling stopped. The Marines seemed annoyed to have had their rhythm broken. Perhaps they'd been on some kind of roll.
"Well, I think you look edible just the way you are, Smoker-chaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan!" Bon leered cheerfully. "Hina-chan! Stop being such a stick-in-the-mud! How can you be sad with such a juuuuuuicy cut of manflesh about? He's practically lickable."
Smoker-chan looked (tastily) aghast. These homophobic jarheads were sooooooooooooo predictable. No matter how many macho phallic substitutes they clutched, Okama wiles always had them completely outgunned.
"Hn," Smoker-chan went all stonefaced (he was the strong-and-silent-studmuffin type,) before wrenching a white shirt out of Hina's hands. "Fine."
Hina mouthed Bon a silent thank-you.
Their reactions weren't particularly awe-inspiring, but Bon would take what he could get. It would do until he could make a change of venue. If this little display was any indicator of Marine competence, Bon would be out of there by sundown.
***
If there was anything that Clarion Bell hated, it was waiting. Time was money. Time was life. Seconds that he spent sitting in his office doing nothing were seconds that he could never get back again. There were only so many years in a person's life, and he'd already wasted twenty-two of them doing stupid things like being born and growing up and going to school and apprenticing as an abalone merchant and NOT being a pirate.
How was he supposed to become an Armed Sea before he died, at this rate? Was it too late already!? Had time already passed him by? That Monkey they'd just issued a huge bounty on was still a minor... and his barely-older brother the Burning Fist was already Whitebeard's second-in-command. How was Clarion supposed to compete with that sort of drive, efficiency, and work ethic? Damn that rubber-limbed prodigy! Damn his equally-successful sibling! They made Clarion feel old and incompetent. If only he'd realized that he wanted to be a great businessman pirate sooner, when he was ten or eleven... then he might have had a chance at competing.
Alas, he'd spent too many years reading about piracy and not enough making his dreams come true. Every second was precious, if he were going to catch up. He had to work harder to become stronger, or be left in the dust!
Which was why he hated waiting. Especially on someone like Jack, for whom being on time for meetings was as easy as walking through the nearest doorway. Clarion had tried to pass the time by reading a fascinating treatise on the effect of black-market blubber trafficking upon the whaling clans of the West Blue, but could not manage to distract himself.
He took to throwing daggers at a dartboard instead. The least he could do was improve his hand-eye coordination during this period of forced inactivity. He hoped that his skills weren't degenerating. Ever since his ship had run aground on this stupid island, Clarion hadn't been able to practice throwing things accurately while the floor moved beneath him. He missed the waves.
He missed the feeling of moving forward.
"Captain Bell?" a timid voice interrupted Clarion's practice. His greeting was cut off by the thunk of steel in corkboard.
"Jack," Clarion wasn't going to bother turning to look at Jack. Minions waited on Captains, not the other way around.
"I, um, have some news, about the Albasta deal," Jack continued, hat-in-hand. Well, okay, Jack didn't actually have a hat. And if he did wear hats, Clarion wouldn't have known if it were in Jack's hand or not, because Clarion wasn't looking at him. But his tone was the tone of a man who should have a hat in his hand, even if the requisite materials were not available. That was good enough for Captain Bell.
"So talk," Clarion threw another knife. His knives were starting to form a pattern on the board. It was shaped like a J. "You've wasted enough of my time today."
"Well, y'see... the product I was sent to deliver... I mean, by now you must know how Crocodile's operation went sour...."
"Does your babbling have a point, or am I going to have to give it one?" Clarion contemplated the last knife left in his belt. It was polished, so that he could see Jack's face in mirrored surface of the blade. Clarion made sure to take good care of his things.
"Er, yes. As I was saying, Crocodile's operation went sour. And, uh, y'see, our old buyer sort of got put in prison, because of all the Marines in Albasta right now that are, um, kind of putting alot of people in prison, on account of they're Marines and all. So, yeah. And, see, what with all the Marines being there... hey, did I mention that they were big, SCARY-ass Marines? Like, that Smoker guy from East Blue was there, and that motherfucker would put his own grandma in handcuffs if she looked at him the wrong way."
Clarion felt that this was as good a time to throw his knife as any. Except that this time, he decided to spare his poor corkbord, and tossed it over his shoulder so that it embedded itself in the wall right behind Jack's head.
"Jack."
"Right. Anyway. I'm trying to sell the Devil Fruit to someone else, because our buyer's in jail. When suddenly, I'm attacked! By this huge swordswoman - the one that took down Mr. One himself! I tell you, Captain, this chick was like a fucking tank. Arms like treetrunks. A total butch, I'm telling you. She might as well have been Smoker in drag. I was powerless to stop her! And she saw the Devil Fruit... and.... I mean.... "
Now, Clarion felt the need to turn around.
"A MARINE took my Devil Fruit?"
"It's just one loss!" Jack said, unwisely. "Once the villagers find another Devil Fruit on the ocean floor, it'll be no problem. They wouldn't dare use it on themselves."
"Devaluing my market share is no problem? Setting back my schedule is NO PROBLEM!??!"
Oh, this was very MUCH a problem. Jack might be lackadaisical with his appearance... but Clarion had never imagined that he would treat his work with the same carelessness!
"It'll be easy for you to make the profit back. Just send out the minions, get some new product, and we'll have a new deal in no time. Like I said: it's no big deal. As long as you have me, and the divers, you're golden."
How was he supposed to finance the construction of a new flagship, if his product was being stolen by shemale Marines? He had to get off of this forsaken rock before his career shriveled up and died of old age! Was all his work for nothing!?
"Do you think that this is EASY, Jack? Do you think that I was BORN a pirate Captain? Nothing about this operation is easy!"
"N-no Captain Bell! Of course not."
"Every day, Jack! Every day I train!" Clarion pulled himself into an intimidating pose, his greatcoat swirling around him like a dark cloud of menace. "I work hard all the time, to make money to buy a NICE new flagship for my pirate crew. All I ask is that YOU take a stroll every few weeks to deliver a package for me. Is that too much to ask, Jack? Do you think that you're too valuable for me to kill - that I'm some lazy person mooching off of your Devil Fruit power? Because I assure you, that's not the case. Running a pirate crew requires careful training and planning. No matter how useful your power is, THERE IS NO 'I' IN CREW."
The greatcoat reared outwards in anger. Jack quailed.
Clarion was particularly proud of his greatcoat. There would be no flash-in-the-pan pirate gaudiness for him! His greatcoat was a coat which was truly destined for greatness. It was woven of black wool as fine as spider-silk - a sultry-soft blend that swirled and slithered with his every move. It clung to his snake-hips, as pliable as a newly-shed skin. Its brushed-silver buttons gleamed with an unearthly inner light. Its double-breasted front cut across his chest with a ruthless geometric strength.
Future generations of greatcoat-wearers would speak of it in awed and reverent whispers, and invoke its legend in ages of fashion disaster.
... and that, naturally, was the whole point. Clarion's pirate syndicate was not going to be any old half-assed operation, running around Blue and Line following sketchy rumors about loot like a chicken with its head cut off. Noooo siree. If he was going to become a despicable outlaw, then he was damn well going to do it right. That meant careful planning and following the right procedures (like buying really nice flagships when your old ones ran aground on islands.) Too many foolish quests and ill-conceived crew themes doomed the glorious institution of piracy to ridicule.
Clarion spared a moment to mourn for the corruption of his (dis)-honourable calling.
"Are you okay in that getup? You look flushed..." Jack rolled up his sleeves, and tried to change the subject. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.
"Nobody asked you," Clarion glared, straightening his lapels with a sharp jerk. He would not allow his standards and practices to degenerate! ... Not even if he felt like he was locked in a pressure cooker. He could ignore the heat. He had to try harder to become more ruthless!
"Now. I don't care if Hina herself has shackled it to a fifty-foot sword-weilding giantess that breathes fire. You're going to go get my Devil Fruit. Or?"
Jack said nothing.
In the spirit of ruthlessness, Clarion pulled a small whistle out of his greatcoat's velvet-lined left pocket. Jack looked alarmed - far moreso than when Clarion had been playing with his daggers.
"Or?" Clarion prompted, brandishing the whistle threateningly.
"You'll kill the whole village, and find some Mermen to do your dirty work," Jack recited.
"Primary industry, Jack. It's not dirty work. It's primary industry. They are the primary resource-acquisition end of this business, and you are the tertiary service-oriented sales and delivery end of this business. How am I supposed to vertically integrate this operation if you're not going to read my memos?"
"Nobody reads your memos," Jack grumbled.
"Don't sulk, Jack. You brought this on yourself. It's not my fault that you brokered a deal with me, and it's also not my fault that you care if I downsize those villagers. You knew that you'd have to pay your debt up when we made our transaction. And until you reimburse me, you READ my memos, or I start demolishing houses. Is that clear? Because I can show you the contract, if you like."
Clarion felt the need for a change of scenery. He picked up his spare belt of knives, swept past his angry-looking subordinate, and walked out onto his wrecked ship's deck. Too many asses like Jack considered criminality an excuse for lax business practices and general lollygagging. The power went to their heads. Where had the professionalism gone, the sense of crew solidarity!? What was wrong with pirates these days? How could Jack let him down like this?!
"I have an appointment with the Mayor and her divers. I suggest that you be gone to find my Devil Fruit by the time you get back."
***
Sunlight filtered through dull grey clouds, casting the village in a sickly yellow glow. The ocean below the boardwalk had lost its lustre. The air had grown thick and humid with impending doom. It looked as though the world had somehow managed to contract jaundice; as if some crucial force of nature had stopped filtering toxins out of the atmosphere. The Grandline was showing its true colors. Justice had left for friendlier waters. Nothing was ever right here.
Or maybe, it was just that something wasn't right with her. Tashigi had never been able to trust her body. Her eyes were weak and her muscles unruly. There was no reason to think that she was seeing things at all properly.
Tashigi marched towards the shoreline, single-mindedly. All her mental resources were consumed with NOT thinking about Shigure. One boot fell in front of the other, one breath followed the last, and she was walking somewhere, to do something, which would probably involve a lot of violence, either to herself or to others. It was better than huddling up in a corner and doing nothing.
"Is anyone out here?" Tashigi said, to no one in particular. The place was deserted. A ghost of a town, for the ghost of herself.
This wasn't Albasta, so maybe last night she hadn't been seeing things. At this point, Tashigi didn't really care.
"COME OUT!" she shrieked. "COME OUT AND FIGHT, YOU COWARDS!"
She was still alive. Unarmed, and still alive.
"WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR!?"
Something warm and solid knocked the breath out of Tashigi, and sent her sprawling on the docks. Apparently, they had been waiting to tackled her from behind. She'd expect an attack like that, from a sword-stealing coward. Roronoa had probably stolen the Wadou from its rightful owner, as well. When he'd gone to buy swords in that shop, he hadn't had any funds to speak of. There was no way that he could pay for a blade as beautiful as the Wadou, and he was too base of a person to belong to some venerable dojo-running family like her father's. Yes. That must be it. He'd STOLEN it. Him, or perhaps that thieving tart he associated with. Roronoa was too debased to do his own dirty work.
Now she would die at the hands of a swordthief like Roronoa. She couldn't decide whether that was unjust or poetic - mostly because she was currently struggling to breathe.
"Hey, are you okay, miss?" the young men pulled her up into a sitting position, from where she'd been pushed onto the boards. Tashigi felt her elbows sting, where the impact had skinned them.
"Sorry about that," he whispered furtively. "You were making so much noise... and the Captain's due out here today. The Mayor said you weren't supposed to be awake for another hour or two, so that was why we didn't have anyone there with you when you came to. Everyone else is out at the diving beach right now. If we don't find a Devil Fruit for the Captain by the time he gets down here, there'll be big trouble."
His hand, on her shoulder, was conciliatory. Tashigi shrugged it away.
"Shi... gure..." she hacked.
"Hunh?" he pulled her to her feet. "Look, we have to get you back inside... the Captain can't know that we've been harboring a Marine!"
With one hand, Tashigi unclasped the empty scabbard from her belt. With the other, she jabbed it back into the man's gut. He gasped and clutched his belly. Tashigi took the opportunity to jump to her feet, and take up a martial stance. The scabbard was the same size as her Shigure, sans handle. She could use it well enough as a makeshift bokken, against an inexperienced person like this.
"My sword. Shigure. Where is it," Tashigi loomed, pondering whether or not to kick the man while he was down. Caution ruled in the affirmative.
"A sword... are you crazy!?!" the man gagged, from where he'd curled into a fetal position. "Going around attacking people who are trying to help you... what's your problem? The Mayor confiscated your stupid sword, to give to the Captain. And you should thank her for it! Only a moron would bring a sword here. If the Captain found you with a weapon he'd kill you! It's better that you get back to your ship and grab some backup, Marine. You can't take Bell on your own even with a sword, believe me."
"I want it back," Tashigi remained unmoved. With Shigure on her mind, everything else was peripheral.
Roronoa Zoro took on a hundred bounty hunters by himself at Whiskey Peak. She would not be overshadowed by him... even if she had the option to call for backup, which she suspected that she did not. Tashigi hadn't been drunk at all, had she? That old woman... she'd done something... something to...
She'd preferred it when this whole thing was a hallucination.
"It's for your own protection!" the man spat.
"I don't need your protection."
Whether she died or not was none of their concern. She was a Marine. They were civilians.
Tashigi pulled the man up by the hair. It was conveniently long, and made him look like a girl. Smoker would have cut it off with a machete. Her troops would have beat the crap out of him. Who was Tashigi to buck a violent trend?
"Take me to the Mayor," Tashigi breathed. "You will. You will take me to the Mayor. Right now. I will not allow the obstruction of justice."
***
Author's note: Chapters are appearing more slowly 'cause I'm in school now. So yeah.
I know I promised some Vivi this chapter, and I didn't deliver. Just set my pants on fire and call me Usopp. Introducing Bell took up more text space than I thought it would. I think I'm going to have to hack what was supposed to be one part into two or three sections. That's why this bit has so little plot.
I know that dream sequences are excessively cheezy. I just couldn't resist the penguin image. ... sorry? I tried to make it as short and painless as possible.
I'm also not a big fan of using fangirl Japanese in English fics, unless absolutely necessary. I consider Bon's "-chan"to be absolutely necessary. It's a dialogue quirk that can't really be replicated in English, the way that (for example) "Mr." can be substituted for "-san."
Next up: Tashigi breaks down, Bon Clay nearly breaks out, and Hina is tempted to break Smoker's face
