After throwing the concrete pebbles across the corridor, the blonde man sank down on the floor. He dragged himself to the bars of his cell, glancing at the hole in the concrete wall where he had aimed his first kick so many hours ago. Deep in the concrete, the same kind of metal bars ran around the whole cell. He had been telling the truth before, the cage was probably strong enough to be able to hold Red-Legged Zeff – but maybe not when the old fart had been in his prime.
The cook looked down at his feet. He could feel his own blood gather in his black shoes, whose shine had matted after hours of endless kicks.
Red-Legged Sanji, he thought, almost laughing out loud as the thought came up in his mind. But since it's my own blood, I don't think it would count...
Trying to kick the door open had been a really bad idea, he had understood that all along, but the moment he was locked in that cell, he had felt like a wild animal in a cage.
Out of habit, he put his hand in his pocket, reaching for the pack of cigarettes he already knew wasn't there. They had been taken from him along with his matches. Probably so that he wouldn't set himself or the shabby blue blanket on fire.
He could hear the sound of pebbles scraping against the floor and looked up in time to spot the marksman's left hand reach out and grab a handful of concrete pieces and then withdraw back into the cell between the bars.
Leaning against the metal bars, the cook's eyes rested on the black cross just above the marksman's wrist for a moment before the hand disappeared inside the cell.
"If you miss, I'll break your nose, Usopp," he said, leaning the side of his head against the bars. "Just so you know." There was no reply.
Then the cook flinched. Something had hit him right between the eyes. It had felt like a grain of sand, just like in one of the fierce sandstorms of the desert, but when he looked down, he found a piece of concrete settled in a fold in his blue and black pinstriped shirt. He blinked out of surprise and looked out from his cell.
"What do you think of my aim?" the sniper's voice echoed across the hall, and now his voice had lost all the fear and worry from before. He was clearly deep within his own fantasy world as usual.
The cook smirked. He knew that if the sniper had meant to hurt him with the rock, it wouldn't have felt like a grain of sand tossed by a strong wind.
"I think that if you can open all three cells and get us out of here, I promise not to cook anything that is about to go bad – for a week."
"I'll take your word on that," the sniper's amused voice echoed in the room.
The cook heard him start to ramble about the time he defeated a zillion-or-so monsters with only his trusted slingshot and one lead star as ammunition. He groaned silently and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. He really needed a cigarette.
Short chapter! I beg your forgiveness, but I just couldn't come up with anything else to write...
Laineychan - I didn't know my idea was that original ; I'm sure there are other people than me who have thought of this before.
