thank you's to these afternoon rays of sunlight: bananapipie, Xielle Sky, Tea-Madness, YuiYua, tabi404, Asususasa, imsadnow, Ladyktbaby, TaintedLetter, Leynadoodles, MenoMelissa, LurkingFish, Hinabi, ansegiel, wise whale, WastinTimeWatchinGrass, LiLy Resh, alexc123, shethoughts, PyroPoet, Lucinda M. H. Cheshir, calynrabka96, and guests!
notes. guuuuuys your reaction last chapter killed me (not as much as ace, but i keep it all in perspective). i think way too much about mnp so it's always incredibly enjoyable to hear people's thoughts about it. i know i made a few of you sad last chapter, so i must warn you that this chapter isn't going to be much better. it's a lot bleaker than the usual fare, so please exercise caution! but hopefully i'll make up for it in the end. hurt/comfort is all about the catharsis, after all.
—
methyl nitrate pineapples
hypothesis #37
her, at the end of everything
—
Beneath the waves, a pilgrimage of ships sailed forth.
The Red Force led the procession, her magnificent sails coated with special resin, her golden lamps lighting the way. The remaining Whitebeard warships followed, damaged heavily, barely hanging by their shredded keels.
These ships were bearing loads far heavier than any cargo they would've carried on any other day. They were carrying the dead. In the creaking passageways below deck was grief beyond human imagination. Thawed out from Aokiji's ice and newly missing an arm, Jozu had woken up to being told Whitebeard and Ace were gone. Whatever he may have screamed was muffled by the silence of the deep sea.
They sailed past island-sized whales singing a mournful dirge, past kelp-forest mermaids who wept in sorrow, past the Red Line.
And they kept sailing.
The ocean kept her currents gentle for these weary ships. Water flowed past the Red Force's portholes, peered in as the captain rested his head in his hands; a map of Whitebeard's territories sat before him with one island marked with an X, the last stop for Edward Newgate. The current moved onward to the porthole of the first mate's quarters, where inside dim candlelight flickered over an injured young woman on the bed.
A blood transfusion and an intravenous drip were hooked up to her arm. Bandages wrapped around her legs, and she was sweating through a grey blouse that was far too big on her. The smell of gunsmoke clung to her skin like an obstinate lover. Her head tossed and turned. She twisted, eyes screwed shut, imagining a sneering mouth pressing against her lips, until it a supermassive black hole that devoured her, stripped her flesh from her bones, until not even an atom remained.
"I've stopped the infection from spreading," the doctor murmured, taking off his bloodied gloves. "Now there's just the matter of keeping watch on her fever."
He was speaking to the first mate, who was leaning against the doorframe of his cabin.
Beckman watched as she shook with chills and whimpered under her breath as if in a nightmare. Weak as she currently was, he could tell she had the spirit to overcome her physical injuries.
But the real troubles of recovery, he knew, would come after she woke up in this new age.
—
A withering winter: snow and more snow. Trudging through the landscape was a boy, white piling over his back, his breath fogging in a ghostly imitation of the vice he had yet to pick up. He had been young when he tasted defeat for the first time. Shivering and alone, he had cursed the desolate sky at the top of his lungs… but that did not make the heavens stop winter.
Old proverbs from North Blue.
Beckman exhaled a stream of smoke and flicked ash from the end of his cigarette.
He stood at his usual spot on the shady aftdeck of the Red Force. It was not winter here, at this final resting spot for the Emperor. The sky was a cloudless blue. Gulls soared over the coast, where a fleet of battered ships were anchored, swaying over the water. Their sails were ripped, their masts sagging like exhausted soldiers marching home.
A spot of red made its way up the Ice Witch's ship. Shanks had gone to speak with Whitebeard's Division Commanders.
The rest of the crew remained aboard the Red Force. Rockstar and his fellow rookies watched solemnly, sitting high up on the masts' rigging and the crow's nest, as if in vigil. Beckman picked up a few quiet lines of chatter here and there, but for the most part, the youngsters had the sense to be silent out of respect. Though, young was subjective when compared to an old bear like him.
A light breeze plucked at the sash on his waist and the pearl earrings hiding between strands of salt-grey hair. Vibrant flowers sprawled over the small, grassy island, and his sharp eyesight picked up humming bees and jackrabbits.
No, it was not winter here. Yet the sunlight felt colder than the coldest night in the North.
Whitebeard was one thing. An aged Yonkou, he had lived a full and grand life. But Beckman remembered being as young as Fire Fist, once.
The creak of a door opening brought him out of his thoughts, and he turned to see Lucky Roux. A mustard-yellow cloak swirled behind him as he closed the cabin door. The big-bellied man was abnormally somber as he carried out plates of untouched food.
This was becoming a regular sight. "She's still not eating?"
"She's eating." Roux's grim tone was not remotely comforting, and the reason was made clear when he added, "Not the food. She's eating the ship."
The first mate was known to be the shrewdest, most prudent, and most level-headed among the Emperor Shanks's crew. Therefore, when he heard that, his only response was to rub the back of his stiff neck and sigh. Today, he had forsaken his usual cloak, and his shoulders, though covered by a black shirt, felt pointedly bare. The reason for that was the other young rookie who had upended the world at Marineford.
Beckman went to see what exactly the lass had done to his cabin.
—
The candles were blown out and the curtains were pulled shut over the portholes. It wasn't completely dark; thin grey light from outside stubbornly strained in through the curtain fabric.
Beckman had a damn nice cabin. Astronomical timepieces glittered on his desk, works of art hung in tasteful disarray, books ranging from illuminated manuscripts to principles of mathematics filled the shelves. And the walls. Made out of mahogany he hand-picked from the rich forests of Ybira, carved in rhythmic foliage by the artisans of Fayruz. In the right lighting, they gleamed in dark reds and browns.
A fingernail clawed at the mahogany.
It stopped as soon as he entered, but the scratch marks were as plain as day. Her nails had scoured the grain. She was eating the goddamn wood.
The blanket went motionless, as if that would render her invisible. The part of his duvet that she had pulled over her head was riddled with teeth marks from a small jaw. She was eating the cotton, too.
The bed dipped as Beckman sat on the edge. There was a barely perceptible creak from the porthole; it hadn't been shut completely after it was pushed open. If he had to guess, and he'd always been particularly good at guessing, he had puked out the side of the Red Force. At least there was some consideration for his cabin.
He considered the lump. The dark purple edges of his cloak peeked out below the blanket, as if she had it swaddled around her. She didn't say anything. No, he hadn't assumed she would. She hadn't uttered a peep or even sat up since awakening. But she was conscious, and the doc said her vitals had stabilized.
Beckman cleared his throat.
Nothing. He could hear her shallow breathing through the blanket.
After an awkward hesitation that didn't befit a pirate of his stature, he reached out and patted the lump. "Eat something edible," he said gruffly. "You're making Roux go out of his mind. The man's starting to fret."
The lump pulled the blanket around itself tighter.
He remembered her different on Lunetuktu. She'd fallen straight out of the sky. Without any noticeable Haki, or power, or anything, she had fixed up one of Yasopp's old guns, brought Shanks to tears with laughter, and with her pockets full of fireweed berries she held his grizzled face in her hands and pecked a quick one on his mouth. Beckman had never been the target of adoration from a kid like her (and when he said kid, he meant it, because he had some damn propriety), so if she had made an impression, who could blame him?
But she'd been a different pirate on Marineford. They heard the gist of the broadcast as the Red Force flew through the seas, on its way to stop the war. They heard everything Blackbeard said, how he had thanked her. And she fought Beckman tooth and nail to jump between Kizaru and her submarine, trying to get herself killed. Her Haki was so potent it burned like radioactive decay, and he had to wrap her up in his own Armament. Later, after she slipped unconscious, the doc said there were signs of torture on her. Starvation, beating, your average punishment for a pirate in Impel Down.
She'd already been through hell and back. It seemed like a great cosmic horror that the universe decided the bad hand it dealt her could still be worse. Perhaps she wasn't ready to speak, which was fine. He wasn't like Shanks. His methods of fixing someone up wasn't with gentle crooning nonsense, or plying them with alcohol until they forgot all their troubles. He was the quiet, stern sentinel, his manners curt and frank, unsuitable for comforting the sort of girls who hid under blankets from the world.
Shanks was far too busy frantically making arrangements for the funeral, but maybe he could drag him over here. Shake some vim and vigor out of his captain, to charm the lass awake. Beckman braced his hands on his knees, about to stand.
He stopped and looked down. A burned hand was sticking out of the blanket, grabbing onto his sash.
That could've melted a glacier. "Telling me to stay, darlin'?"
The lump wiggled.
"Mighty talkative, aren't you."
She had started crying again. Her tears were very quiet, and the small breaths she took strained painfully to sound even. Beckman sighed. This was like attempting to communicate with a nervous, mute chicken.
Still, he was the unflappable right-hand man to an Emperor, and he sat back down. Pulling out a carton of cigarettes, he scooted the lump's butt out of the way so he had room to lean back against the wall. His lovely, scratched-up wall. If he was a younger man, perhaps he would've thrown a fit. But in his age, he knew that things, inanimate objects, could usually be fixed.
People, however…
Beckman lit another cigarette. Long, wispy curls stuck out from the top of the blanket cocoon. The ends were blackened by fire, and the gold was a greyer hue, ash dusted on her hair. The amount of times he'd seen a pirate throw themselves with reckless abandon at an Admiral could be counted on one hand, and none of them had ever been a young lady in her underwear.
Truth be told, Beckman didn't know what to do with her. Despite the fact that he had carried her aboard the Red Force himself, after Shanks had refused to let Vista strike her down. They took her onto their ship because no one else on that battlefield would lift a finger to help her. Now they were a long way from Paradise. A long way from her crew…
His back stiffened. His Haki felt a spark of rage.
Beckman stood up right as the door burst open, and Diamond Jozu muscled inside. Half a dozen Red Hair pirates clung to him, trying to stop his warpath.
Muscles straining, he roared, "WHERE IS SHE?"
"Jozu," Beckman said calmly. "Not here."
His right arm was gone, and his shoulder was bandaged into a sling. He was in no state to be stomping around, but that didn't stop the Whitebeard Commander. He honed in on the terrified face behind Beckman and bellowed, "I'll end you right now, evil wench—"
Jozu landed flat on his back, winded and blinking.
Beckman lifted the hand that had easily overpowered him and tapped out some ash from his cigarette. "Your stitches are about to rip. Settle down."
"We got every right to take her head!" Jozu puffed as blood stained his bandaged torso. "An eye for an eye! You heard how she helped Teach! It ain't right that you're keeping her safe, Beckman!"
"Emotions are running hot," he acknowledged. "It's been a tough few days. But she's still under our protection." He raised his cigarette back to his lips. "Or would you like to take it up with my captain?"
Jozu gritted his teeth, and Beckman jerked his chin at his crewmates, telling them to haul him out of there. The youngsters sprang into action. He went to make sure his door was properly locked this time, and through the cabin window he saw Izo and Blenheim there to pick up Jozu, apologizing to Yasopp, who seemed to be nursing a stinging nose as he glowered back. One punch from Jozu would've crushed the entire skeleton of a normal man.
Cool and composed, Beckman thumped back over to his bed. "Alright, lass?"
The lump was turned away, pressing itself into the wall. Right. Now she'd never leave the safety of his blanket.
He sat down, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Something caught his eye—a leather-bound journal on his desk. For lack of anything else to do in this bleak silence, Beckman set it beside where her head ought to be. Maybe it would cheer her up, just a bit.
"Garp passed this book to us. Said it was yours. Found it in some… Marine ship you and Fire Fist destroyed."
For a moment, nothing.
And then the blanket was flung aside. A mess of curls flew across her bruised face, eyes blazing. She ripped open her book and tore out the front cover. No, not the cover—a hidden pocket.
Inside was a vivre card, pointing somewhere in the east. There was a horribly-drawn doodle on it, which looked like a bunch of nonsense squiggles, or perhaps the Revolutionary Army's crest if he squinted. The edges were a tad scorched, not badly, it was still a full card. The owner wasn't in real danger. But it meant something terrible to her, because she gripped it tight and screamed into her fists, hunched up like a piece of driftwood drowning in the sea.
In an instant, Beckman wrapped her up in his arms. Small and absolutely unfragile, she butted her forehead against him, that horrible wail shaking into his chest. She punched and shouted and attempted to suffocate herself in his shirt as she spasmed with full-body sobs. Holding her tight, he murmured quiet things to her, soft things, things he hadn't known could still be pulled out from him.
Benn Beckman was one of the smartest men the North had ever produced, but even he didn't know the reason for her current tears. He didn't know that they were simply because she was unable to speak the words they were brothers into existence.
—
The end of everything arrived gently, like spring without water.
Flowers bloomed over the hill where Ace and Edward Newgate were buried. Hibiscus, roses, yellow chrysanthemums, white lilies.
The funeral ceremony had begun. It would continue for days, weeks, perhaps even months.
As if the hundreds of surviving Whitebeard crew members and allies weren't enough, ships had arrived from near and far. It seemed like half the world had come to mourn and pay their final respects. Fishman, human, sky islander; young, old; pirate, civilian. South Blue accents, Kunlun incense, Ryugyu hymns. Dozens of banners from various crews and islands were raised high. The crowd was so enormous that it flowed from the top of the hill to the coast of the island where more than a hundred ships were docked.
The sea of people parted reverently for the Whitebeard Commanders. While covered in numerous injuries, they carried Edward Newgate's enormous naginata up the hill like pallbearers. The subordinate captains stood like an honor guard, lifting their gleaming weapons in the air.
At the very back of the crowd stood a lump in Beckman's purple cloak. Despite the warm weather, the swirl-patterned fabric was draped over her head and hung around her bare legs. She was hugging a broken rifle to her chest as if that would fend off the suspicious stares cast her way.
"It wasn't your fault, lady." A man with a spider tattoo on his brow stood beside her. "It's mine. If I hadn't been tricked by Akainu… if I hadn't hurt Pops…"
It was Squard the Whirlpool Spider. The subordinate captain who stabbed Whitebeard in the chest during the war. Having been refused the gift of death, he was also standing at the back with her. He sniffled heavily, wiping his nose with the edge of a damp sleeve.
The procession of Commanders arrived at the top of the hill, where Shanks and his crewmates were setting down the carved headstones for Ace and Newgate. Marco drove Murakumogiri into the earth. He tied a tattered Whitebeard flag to the top of the naginata, and it waved proudly in the wind.
At the sight of that, Squard collapsed. "I should've died with Pops," he howled, tears running down his face. "I should've died with him! I—ow, ow!"
"Have some dignity, you fool. Don't make this funeral all about yourself." Whitebeard's head nurse pinched Squard by the ear and dragged him upright, stern in her pink dress and iconic leopard-printed boots. She glanced over her shoulder at the cloaked girl, her mouth pressed into a thin line.
"Oi," said a voice from the cloak's other side. "Leave her alone, y'hear? She's with us."
Yasopp had returned with a plate of food in hand. Between his dark-butter braids, his gaze was wary (they were technically on a rival Emperor's territory, after all) and three more pistols than usual were strapped to his belt.
"My father was the strongest pirate in the world," the nurse replied coolly. "As if I'd believe some scared little girl was responsible for his death, or Ace's."
"The rest of your crew know that?" Yasopp called after them. His question went unanswered. He looked down at the cloak, then yawned theatrically, scratching his ear. "I take one minute to grab some chao fan and the whole road's covered in snot. Palms and his crew are cookin'. They're from Kunlun, so you know the food's good. Here, eat something. Roasted sweet potato? Fried breadstick?"
No response.
"Suit yourself." He dug in, aware of the intense attention on her—and him, by extension. It grated on Yasopp's nerves. Several times he had to bark keep walkin' at the pirates who got too close. They scrambled back once they noticed the famed gunslinger standing right beside her.
Vista was higher up on the hill, but his eyes narrowed at them beneath his black hat. Yasopp glared back, feeling the old flames of rivalry stir up in his chest. Sure, it may have been Shanks's orders to make sure no one jumped the wee thieving lass, but Yasopp didn't want her harmed, either. She'd been an annoying little bugger on Lunetuktu, talking shit about him leaving Syrup Village and stealing one of his guns, so who the hell knew why he felt fond of her.
She was hugging the rifle that she stole from him. It was broken now. Cut in half, completely useless. She was hugging it like it was a lifeline.
Yasopp thought: Ah, damn it.
He cleared his throat. "Heard you went one-on-one with Mihawk," he said, forcing cheer into his voice. "Can't think of a finer opponent for a last duel."
From the corner of his eye, he saw her squeeze the rifle tighter. Misery emanated in waves.
"Lots of folks would consider it an honor to be defeated by him," he rambled on, feeling old and dumb and, and he hadn't been around his kid in years, he'd forgotten this parental shit a long time ago. "Strongest swordsman in the world. Mihawk's a geezer, he's got years of experience on you. But look. No one can say you sacrificed nothing in that war. No one."
Up on the hill, Marco arranged a cowboy hat and a curved knife atop Ace's headstone. The now de-facto leader of the Whitebeard Pirates gripped the front of his loose shirt, and then pressed his face into it, crying soundlessly.
A breeze blew over the million flowers.
Yasopp shifted his weight, wishing Banchina were here.
"Yeah," he said, after a while. "It'd be nice if the things we love could stay with us forever. It'd sure be nice."
—
Footsteps lurched inside the cabin. Books fell from the shelves as she searched. Pushed aside candles and maps, kicked away clompy Beckman boots. She yanked open chests until she found what she was looking for—the liquor stash.
Popping out the cork with her teeth, she drank from the bottle like a dehydrated fish. Her head ached. It hurt throughout the entire funeral. It felt like a hurricane howling inside her brain. Grieving and anguished, forty-foot-tall never-ending waves.
Lowering the bottle, she then noticed several dull curls falling around her dirty feet. She peered down, squinting closer. Clumps of hair.
She reached under the cloak and touched the top of her head. There it was: a coin-sized patch of an undeniable bald spot forming.
You have really great hair. The last thing Ace had ever said to her.
A bark of laughter. Not anymore, Habanero-kun. She drank whiskey until it felt like her throat was going to melt, pacing in a heated frenzy around the cabin as if she were caged. She paced so hard she tripped on the floorboards and snorted whiskey up her nose. Sen dropped from her hand. And that was funny. She rolled around on the floor, spluttering, her whole face burning like she was just smacked with a spiked bat in Impel Down again.
This was ridiculous—here she was, flailing in the cabin of an Emperor's first mate, after leaving the funeral of another Emperor and his son that she spent eight days in jail with, and whose execution she was semi-responsible for—that she started laughing, and she pulled herself up on Beckman's desk laughing and thinking, this is ridiculous and my armpits smell.
The cloak fell from her shoulders. There was a small mirror hanging over the desk, and in that mirror she looked for evidence of a pretty crier. Maybe, maybe she could be kinder to herself if her sadness was beautiful. If her eyes were huge and lamplike, her lips all red and nibbled-puffy. A heartbroken beauty.
In the mirror was a witch. Her limp hair was short in weird places, long in others—she vaguely remembered Tashigi slicing off a chunk in battle. Bandages, stained with sweat. Haggard eyes. Sunken cheeks. Dry, grey lips. She looked destroyed.
You have really great hair.
You have really great—
A knife sat on his desk. It was large and unwieldy, encrusted with fancy jewels. But more importantly, the edge was sharp, sharp enough that it could easily slice through heavy curls. Seized by a nameless, frenzied urge, she gripped her hair tight and started sawing through the thick strands.
It stays with you, and you live.
Law had said that to her on Machinastein. She repeated it to herself every so often as a source of comfort, a reminder in dark days. So what if the terrible poison inside you could never be burned clean? It stays and you live. Took her a while, but she finally found out the truth: she found out it was bullshit.
When she was done cutting off all her hair, she stared herself down.
Sophie said, very slow and clear to better understand all the razorblade-shapes in her mouth, "You shouldn't have left G-13."
Her reflection stared back, squinty and stupid and red-eyed.
"You were wrong to have left G-13. You were wrong to have come to the ocean." She let that hang in the air. Took it in. It sounded true. "Everything they said about you was right. You ruin things. You can't help it. You don't know h-how to d-do anything else." She giggled frantically. "What, wanna make a joke to feel better? Shut up. Don't y-you get it?"
Do you finally understand?
"Nobody poisoned you. The World Government didn't make you like this. You were always… this."
Her reflection smiled.
"Fuck you."
The mirror shattered beneath her fist.
—
Beckman yanked open the door and an empty whiskey bottle smashed itself into the doorframe, right by his face.
He didn't flinch, though he did lift a brow.
Glass twinkled to the floor, adding to the sparkle across his cabin. Mirror shards reflected the movement of legs, and the swish of an oversized blouse, and her hand that she wiped across her mouth.
Backlit by a grey light that outlined her in sharp angles, the witch glared. Her hair was chopped short, short like a boy's, uneven and badly cut. The curly ends stuck up like a newborn bird. Sophie watched Beckman's head tilt in exasperation as he looked at the mess, and told herself not to feel anything.
In a sick way, she was glad she wasn't on the Polar Tang. She wouldn't have been able to do this on her ship. She would've done her best to stem her tears, try to convince everyone that nothing was wrong. But she didn't have to here.
Because she didn't give a flying fuck if the Red Hair Pirates hated her.
"Are you finished?" Beckman inquired, his gaze steady.
She stepped back, stepping on soft tufts of hair and mirror shards, and tried to hide a tidal wave of embarrassment. She was surrounded by the pathetic aftermaths of her tantrum. Beckman should rightfully berate her, but for some reason he didn't… feel like he would. He felt calm like how an old, mossy stone in a river felt calm. She guessed this was Observation Haki.
She didn't want it.
She didn't want to know how she made the people around her feel just by existing—
"H-hurts." Sophie went down on her haunches, burying her face in her knees. Lacked specificity, but, well, it was true. She hurt everywhere. She dug her fingers into her scalp. "My head… the voices w-won't stop…"
"It'll settle." Beckman thumped closer and kneeled beside her, the floorboards creaking under his weight. "Observation takes time to adjust to. Knocked me flat out when it awakened for me. I was just a little younger than you."
Sophie squeezed her eyes shut, her entire body stiff and aching as she rocked herself. She was only sure of one thing: that Beckman was wrong, and that this pain, this constant stretch of helpless internal screaming, was never going to end. This was rock bottom, and there was no way out, and she was so… tired. A lightbulb flashed overhead.
"I have a great idea," Sophie announced breathlessly, standing up. Even with Beckman kneeling, they were practically eye-level. "You should kill me."
His unflinching expression softened. Just a bit, at the corners. "That won't solve anything."
"It will!" She pressed her hands on his shoulders, her eyes bright and feverish. "Take my head and give it to Marco—"
His sigh was a rumble, almost patronizing in its calmness. "No."
"…Why?"
"Here, I'll run you a bath. How's that sound—"
She whacked Beckman in the shoulder, which would've been very satisfying had it not felt like hitting cement. "Why won't you!"
"Darlin'—"
"Don't darlin' me, coward," Sophie spat and shoved him aside. She burst through the door, startling Lucky Roux and Yasopp, who had been eavesdropping and were now inspecting the wood paneling in fascination. "Cowards!" she yelled at them, shaking her fists. "Come on, cut off my head! H-hang me in the gallows! Rip my heart out a-a-and feast on my guts! Are you p-p-p-pirates or not!?"
"Wear some pants before you throw yourself off the plank!" Beckman yelled after her.
"You wear some pants, Benn Beckman!"
But that gave her an excellent idea.
After scattering Red Hair pirates with her hissing, snarling, pantsless rampage, Sophie scrambled onto the plank of the Red Force. And it was here that she stood, hiccuping, on the flat rectangular piece of wood hanging over the ocean, her white blouse whipping around her thighs, her arms outstretched for balance. She peered down at the long drop.
A whistle caught her attention.
Behind her, Red-Haired Shanks was sitting on his ship's hand-carved wooden railing, one foot perched over his knee. He was sitting casually in his tropical-printed pants, shirt open around his suntanned chest, his empty left sleeve swaying in the breeze. The Emperor of the New World gave her a cheerful wave.
"What's the rush, canary?" The laugh lines around his scarred eye crinkled as he smiled.
Sophie had the dire need to inform Shanks of the reality of this cruel universe. "Life is f-f…futile!" she revealed, laying bare the secrets he was surely unaware of. "You make a m-million mistakes, and then you die. That is all that life amounts to, Red Hair. Nothing matters."
"Wow." Shanks looked mildly impressed. "Intense."
"Yes. It is." She felt the wind against her bare neck, and instinctively tried to shake away her curls—before remembering they were resting on Beckman's cabin floor. "Right. I've d-decided I'm departing today. Forever. This is farewell."
"Drowning is quite thrilling," Shanks acknowledged. "But painful. Long. Full of suffering. And you'll get all blue and bloated. Your face will be just… ugh." He shuddered, poking out his tongue, and then smiled again. "You know?"
Her nose scrunched up. "I—I don't care! The sharks'll eat me and no one will ever see my face again," Sophie declared, wobbling closer to the edge and ripping open the top button of her blouse. As if a hint of her unimpressive cleavage would alert the local apex predators that they were about to be graced with something truly mediocre.
By now, pirates all over the Red Force were watching the show, bewildered by the young woman dramatically threatening to hurl herself off the ship's plank. Though, to be fair, they didn't often see a mangy, unhinged nymph with crazy eyes, appalling amounts of leg, and dignity in the negative digits.
Shanks tutted. "Look at you, all skin and bones. No respectable shark wants to eat a stick. At least have a meal before you hurl yourself to your doom."
She wiped her drippy nose, trying to scowl through the angry flush on her cheeks. And then she saw the audience, all the pirates sitting on the rope rigging, laughing to each other and pointing down at her. Her face warmed. Sophie outstretched her hand. "G-give me your sword. I'll cut open my stomach. It'll be a quick death."
"Hmm… no. You're not qualified to wield my Gryphon."
"W-what do I have to do, take a test!?"
"Three tests," Shanks said brightly. "Hand-written. I'll let you try it if you step down from there."
"You rotten tomato—wah!" Sophie stomped the plank so hard it split in half, and she dropped into the sea with a loud, "Iyaaaa!"
A distant splash.
Beckman, who had ambled over to his captain's side during the commotion, blew out weary rings of smoke. "Look at what you did," he said to Shanks, waving at the ocean. "This is what women do when you talk their ears off. Well done."
"Me?" Shanks gasped. "I was trying to talk her down from the ledge! I had no idea she was doing so badly. You should've mentioned it."
"You had your hand full with the funeral arrangements, Captain."
"Ever seen a one-handed juggler, Benny boy? We're quite talented at multi-tasking."
"Hm. Well, go juggle your way to rescuing the lass."
"I have a better idea, crankypants. You be the dashing hero and I'll make fun of your backstroke."
Beckman motioned at his cigarette, which he had just lit. Shanks rolled his eyes. Their conversation was broken by a remark by one of the men that the lass wasn't swimming back up because she was busy drowning herself.
"Oh, for crying out loud," Beckman snapped, and shoved his boots at Shanks before jumping over the railing.
—
Sophie was still kicking a sopping wet Beckman as he yanked open the tub's faucets. He didn't even let it warm up before he dunked her in it. She shrieked and spluttered, rising back up and scrabbling to grab hold of the bathtub's rim. Her shirt dragged behind her, waterlogged.
"—let me drown, I said let me drown, you brute—"
He pushed her back under the ice-cold water and air bubbles escaped her mouth as Sophie yelled. Beckman pulled her up by the scruff of her shirt. She couldn't form any more words because she was coughing so hard. He scrubbed dried blood off her cheek, which made her yelp, "Ouch! Watch your big dumb hands!"
"Pipe down." He held her still, which was a feat considering how much she was wiggling, and picked kelp out the back of her shirt.
"It's true, he is an oaf," Shanks agreed, by the doorway. "Benny, maybe we should trade places—"
"Captain." Beckman pointed. "Stay right there."
Shanks laughed charmingly, watching her with that friendly little smile that Sophie knew not to take seriously. The glib lightness in his eyes was the same as the surface of a thousand-meter-deep lake tricking you into thinking it was shallow. But Shanks also seemed different than how he was on Lunetuktu. He rested his head on his shoulder, even as he smiled, as if the invisible crown he wore was heavier these days.
Well, if he wanted to kill her at any point, that'd be fine. It didn't matter. Beckman let the dirty water drain and filled the tub back up with warm water. She sat, shivering, in his baggy, semi-translucent blouse (like a proper North Blue gentleman, Beckman threw a towel over Shanks's head and turned around to dry himself off). She didn't remember the last time she had a bath. She didn't even know how many days had passed since the Marineford War. She supposed that, too, didn't matter.
Staring at the play of orange sunset light on the water's surface, Sophie whispered, "How are the… W-Whitebeard Pirates doing?"
"Not good," Shanks said. "But that's to be expected."
At least he was honest. She scraped her fingers against her scalp, through her shorn hair, and thought of everything Ace told her about his family. How friendly and loving they were. "Should I… go over there? To…" Repent. "Say… something?"
His smile shifted. Briefly. It looked genuine again as Shanks swung himself down on the bathtub's rim. "No, no. Best if you stay on my ship for now. I'll get you another cabin to destroy. Been meaning to renovate the gun deck."
Her head lifted a centimeter and fell again, in a semblance of a nod. Her eyes were dim.
Shanks rubbed his stubble. "Listen, canary," he said, resting his elbow on his knee, his other empty sleeve dangling in front of Sophie. "You can't change your fate, but you can rise to meet it. Life ebbs and flows. The future is unpredictable. Tomorrow could be filled with wonders."
She opened her mouth. You weren't fucked live on an internationally-televised broadcast by a pathological megalomaniac. "…Okay."
"I know it feels impossible," she heard Shanks say through the hiss of the bathroom's pipes and the creak of the rocking ship, "but you have to believe things will get better."
It sounded a lot like: keep suffering, keep suffering, keep suffering, and die.
After a silence, Sophie inhaled and slipped below the surface, looking up at their figures distorted by the ripples. She looked up until they blurred into a circle of light, the shape of a yellow submarine as it sailed into view, until she was almost back home. Until Beckman's hand descended through the water and her lungs betrayed her by rising in breath again.
—
Though dusk had given way to deep, velvety night, the line of mourners on the hill never thinned out. They left offerings beneath Whitebeard's grave. Ships were still arriving, a ghostly parade of lanterns in the dark. At the top of the hill, a steady blue flare on top of Whitebeard's naginata was undoubtedly Marco. A spectral guide for those coming to say goodbye to the dead. She wondered if he was sleeping up there, where Ace was buried.
Sophie watched from the porthole, her forehead pressed to the glass. She would probably feel worse about kicking Beckman out of his own bed if he hadn't ruined her grand plans for self-annihilation.
He was sitting with his boots up on his desk. Paper rustled softly as he flipped a page in his book and the pearls on his ears winked in the candlelight. Dainty earrings for a grizzled old man. She only noticed when she glanced over after he drawled in his rumbly, hunter-of-the-woods voice, "Fire Fist paid us a visit once. About three years ago."
"…He did?" Sophie cocooned herself tighter in the blanket. She picked at her fresh bandages. "How… was he?"
"Polite boy." Beckman blinked slowly, and his mouth turned up. "Funny."
"Yeah," Sophie said distantly. Then she said, "Gold Roger was decades older when they executed him," and didn't know why. It was just another thought floating around her brain that she couldn't coherently spool together. Alongside a dozen other formless thoughts, like: it's not fair, and the Pirate King sucks, and Ace never told me he was his son. She didn't want to say the last part out loud but selfishly wanted to be comforted anyway, which just goes to show how stupid grief was.
Beckman nodded, slow as molasses. Sure enough, there was something comforting about him and his deliberate shoulders and his dainty pearl earrings. "A terrible cruelty. He can't be much older'n you."
They should be speaking about Ace in past tense. "He isn't."
Smiling bloody through chains, the beatings, the determined laughter afterwards, his mouth on the top of her head, never looked back—
She didn't want to think about this. Her mind gently refocused her thoughts, and reminded her of her own age, and that on Lunetuktu she had plopped a big fat kiss on Beckman. She hoped he'd forgiven her by now. She'd caused way more of a mess this time around. Well. He was a total silver fox, his tight black shirt with the slutty v-neck showed off all his veiny old-man muscles, and he had responded to her the way an ancient fir tree responded to a ladybug frolicking around in its leaves. Her first kiss could've been worse.
She touched her lip. The phantom of Teach's wiry beard scraped against her chin. She imagined putting her head through the window, glass cutting into her cheeks and the inside of her mouth, so she'd never have to feel anything again.
"The last time we met," Beckman spoke with calm pensiveness, "you spoke of love."
Sophie went back to watching the starlit mourners on the hill. "Yeah, that was hilarious of me."
"You find it?"
"…It didn't want me. Which is fine." For a moment, she felt like her old, faraway self again, tapping her knees, smile lopsided. The moment swiftly passed, however, and Sophie flopped backwards in her blanket cocoon, overcome with the dregs of her sad, lonely feelings she thought she had recovered from. "My captain's never going to love me. Not even after I blew him."
A beat.
"Which makes sense. I don't even know if I did it right."
Beckman set his book down and pinched the bridge of his nose.
The cocoon rolled on its side and informed with a judging scowl, as if he was personally responsible for her suffering, "Giving blowjobs is really hard, Benn Beckman. There is a lot of maneuvering involved. You would think it's a relatively straightforward process, but it's not."
This, understandably, made him think she'd gone through his liquor stash again, because Beckman opened a desk drawer to check if any of his bottles were missing. Hmph. Sir Rugged Grunts-a-Lot wouldn't understand the depths of her tragedy if it offered him a begging bowl and whimpered, Do you love me now? How about now? And now? Law had almost liked her. And then she went to Marineford. Impel Down. Back to Marineford. And then she ruined everything.
"I know it doesn't matter," she said, because she had to make that clear, how self-aware she was, how she was capable of viewing her emotions as impersonal things in glass petri dishes, "and love is, like, silly and ridiculous, but I just f… I just feel a bit stupid about how much I wanted to be happy."
Beckman tsked. "Boys your captain's age," he said gruffly, "don't know jack about anything."
A small, sniffly laugh. "Speaking from experience?"
He simply raised a brow as he lit another cigarette, which was quite sexy, really. "It'll take near a week to sail back to Paradise. Longer, actually, if you're sailin' o'er the currents instead of in it, like a coated ship. Don't know how you'll find your crew, but maybe if you follow the papers…"
"I'm not going back."
The words left from her mouth without a second thought, and Sophie rolled over to face the wall, staring at the scratch-marks she'd made. She heard him ask why, and pulled the quilt tight over her ears. She had dreams of Bepo not recognizing her. Of kissing Law and him pulling away in disgust. Shachi and Penguin throwing her out of the Polar Tang, their faces warping into Jozu and Vista, and then into Lisbeth and Lettidore and Hippo and Teresa and every G-13 marine who despised her at some point or another. If she went back to the Hearts, it was only a matter of time before they ended up hating her, too. The thought of that was so awful it choked her with terror.
Sophie pressed her eyes shut. Nonetheless, a few tears leaked out. "I can't. I just—can't."
The floorboards creaked as Beckman left his chair. "We'll bring you to one of our island territories. Somewhere peaceful. You needn't be a pirate anymore." A callused hand smoothed over her forehead, brushing aside the short, ragged curls there. "Yeah, you've been through enough, darlin'. Rest now."
"Thank you." She pressed the words into the blanket, barely audible. The enormous bleakness of her future was crashing down around her. A long time ago, after Cat's Eye, she had wanted to escape. Run away to the circus; to a village in the middle of nowhere; to a life of piracy. Beckman's offer was profoundly kind, but she didn't want to start over again. She didn't want to reinvent herself when she already knew she'd find some way to ruin it, just like she ruined everything else.
Everyone kept saying how important it was to keep trying, but no one ever talked about how much trying could hurt more than death.
—
Morning came quiet and silver and misty.
Sophie didn't remember falling asleep, only that every hour—or minute, it sometimes felt like—her eyes would blink open, taking in the dark-blue shadows on the ceiling, feeling nauseous and dry-mouthed. She'd sluggishly roll over again and drop back into slumber like a stone falling into the depths of a very deep lake. She didn't dream, which was the important part.
Being unconscious was pleasant. Much more agreeable than the alternative.
So it was with great, bitter disinclination that she opened her eyes yet again and saw the grey light of morning on the walls of Beckman's cabin. She didn't want to get up, but she didn't want to keep lying down, either. Her spine peeled off from the bed, joints working in tandem to lift her skeleton to a slouched sitting position. Her brain, her bones, her crusty eyeballs, all her insides felt soupy and rancid. She stared at the opposite wall for a while, and then remembered to blink.
Beckman had taken the rest of his liquor stash from his room. She didn't blame him, not after yesterday's debacle. Sophie still wished he'd left behind some beer. She didn't even want to drink again, but the idea of being tipsy and unfeeling seemed more bearable than dead and unfeeling.
There was Arsenic, or what was left of her, sitting on the desk. The other half of her was lost in Marineford, no doubt rusting beneath rubble.
"Well, you look awful," Sophie told her gun.
Arsenic didn't reply. Of course it wouldn't. Arsenic didn't speak. Arsenic had never spoken. Sen was quite simply a bolt-action rifle, and it had never been anything but that. Certainly not some magical unbreakable weapon, blessed by the gods because it once belonged to the greatest marksman in the world. It had always been just a gun. Her fingers curled loosely into the blanket, cotton falling out where she'd chewed it up. Ha. How embarrassing.
"What now?"
She slowly turned her head, her stiff muscles aching. A man was leaning against the opposite wall, just beside the porthole. It was hard to discern his face, which was backlit by the morning light, but she knew him regardless. Lettidore stood there in his clean marine whites, square-jawed and moustached.
His eyebrows lifted expectantly. "Well?"
She didn't know. She wondered if he knew this would happen to her. Well, not this this. But something like this.
"It's what I wanted you to understand," he said, unkindly and ungently and completely familiar. "You don't belong out here, in this world. Eight hundred years of madness and death in your bones. Can't run from it. Can't fight it. Living with it may destroy you."
Dream Lettidore was just as annoying as reality had been, but it was made worse by the fact that he was right. His physical atoms were now a part of the atmosphere; he had returned to the universe like Ace and Whitebeard. Couldn't he at least use this time in her imagination to repent for… anything?
The former Vice Admiral of G-13 hummed. "Would be nice if I did that, wouldn't it?"
Whatever. Didn't matter. Too late, anyway. What's it like, dying?
"Easy."
Like falling asleep?
"A childish comparison." His mouth twisted, half-disappearing in the light. "But, perhaps."
Do you miss anyone?
This man, who had verifiably tormented Sophie for a good portion of her childhood, went silent. Then he inquired, "What are you hoping I'll say?"
That you wish you lived. That you regret it. That you, in your final moments, didn't care about dying for a reason, for justice, for anything—that you wanted desperately to stay alive. You looked—when Teach killed you, you looked… afraid.
A smile that wasn't quite a smile appeared. "I did not care," he said, with cold gravitas, "about you, at the end. Don't waste your kindness on me, fool. I taught you better than that." The light behind him brightened slowly, turning him faceless, all in shadows. "I died. So do paupers and emperors. The world continues."
The heaviness in her chest sharpened, became clearer, turned into terrible joy. She thought about falling asleep in in the ocean shallows, caressed by seafoam and disturbing nothing in the world, the world no longer disturbing her. Sophie unpeeled her tongue from the roof of her mouth. "Is it warm over there?"
"Interesting way of asking if I'm burning in hell," Lettidore remarked, and laughed merrily at his own joke.
She blinked. Curtains rippled, wind whispering in. The light gleamed, and what was once a marine was now the shadow of Beckman's bookshelf. Her arm was bleeding where she'd been digging her nails into her scabs, but she hardly felt it. She'd been alone, of course. The only conversation that took place was the one in her dreams, but it didn't matter, because she felt more clear-headed than she had been in ages.
Okay, she thought. Okay.
She threw the blanket off, feet touching floor.
—
The cliffs were mostly solitary, save for the seabirds that nested along the salt-encrusted rocks. Long grass and dandelion puffs tickled her knees, pastoral-green, humming with bumblebees. Far below, the grass stretched into a coastline where more ships were arriving. But the colors they struck were the flags of countries, not jolly rogers. These people weren't pirates; they were civilians from the islands in Whitebeard's protected territories. Their hats were in their hands as they marched solemnly up the hill, many of them weeping over the loss of their guardian and their now uncertain futures.
Sophie sat on the clifftop, legs crossed, running her fingers over the soft leather cover of her journal. Arsenic sat beside her on a bed of wildflowers. The breeze plucked at her thin, loose blouse and ruffled the short yellow curls sticking up around her ears.
She looked up from reading, her gaze following a dragonfly darting through the grass, and smiled. She always worked best with a plan, and today she knew exactly what she was going to do.
She looked back at page she was on, reading the words she'd once written.
Hippo-sensei told me to live.
I am going to live until I burn into a shooting star, until every bit of my matchstick-self is chewed up into ash. I am going to live like drinking clear clean water out of the palm of my dusty hand. Until I wrangle everything out of myself, everything.
I will not forget.
How quaint.
Sophie gripped the edge of the page and carefully, little by little, tore it out from the thread that bound the book.
It felt so good that she tore out the next page. And the next. And the next.
Like cuts across her skin, every tear was satisfying enough to draw blood. Pages ripped and ripped until a storm of them whirled around her, floating down to the grass. Strangways. Named after a boat that died. That's what she was. A thing that people died on. How melodramatic. She was done with curses. And names and legacies and destiny. Sophie nodded calmly. Yes. I'm done with everything.
"Thank you for everything, Sen-chan," she told her rifle, tapping the cracked barrels twice. "I've had my coffee and brushed my teeth. I'm heading off now."
Sophie closed her book and stood up.
It was a lovely day. With her toes braced on the precipice, she looked down at the waves breaking on the rocks. She lifted her journal. The movement was easy, a quick flick of the wrist. She threw the book over the edge, and it fluttered downward, pages weeping.
There was no one else around on that grassy cliff, but if you'd been there, you would've seen a young woman lift her arms a little, as if preparing to fly. You would've seen her raise her foot.
You would've seen her tilt forward.
Aqua fire blocked out the sun. Flames pulsed with gold, spreading wide, shadowing her with its massive wingspan. The Phoenix materialized so swiftly that Sophie shrieked, flailing backwards and landing on her butt with a loud, "Oomph!"
Marco touched down in human form, lanky brown limbs and a mop of dirty-blond hair. She had only seen him from a distance at the funeral, but here he was in front of her. Unlike the rest of the Commanders, the war left him mostly unscathed but for the bandages around his neck and forehead. His shirt was open, baring the cross-and-crescent that she had last seen on Ace's back.
He tossed the book at her. "Don't jump, Dagger."
Thwarted again. "I tr-tripped," she lied, dumbfounded. "I—d-did you follow me?"
"Anyone with proper Haki could sense your presence, yoi," he retorted, and Sophie only gaped, confused and unsure how to reply. He scratched his head, his hooded eyes flicking to the side. "Red Hair didn't stop me from tailing you. Not that he particularly trusts me, but he knows I know what's at stake if I let you get harmed."
She kept gaping, still not comprehending anything he was saying.
"If you did something stupid to yourself," Marco clarified, hands on his hips, "I'd have to deal with a pissed-off Yonkou, on top of everything else. You're under his protection, even if you don't seem to get it."
Sophie averted her eyes. Marco the Phoenix himself was here to speak with her. His eyes were narrowed and even her crude, fledgling Observation could sense he was a well of barely-restrained emotion. She hoped the talon he'd aim at her heart would be quick.
A silence stretched between them, which he broke with a sigh. "Whitey Bay said you brought Ace back to us. Why didn't you mention that?"
After a stunned pause, she stammered, "…W-would it have changed anything?"
"No," Marco conceded. "But… might've helped. Maybe." He gave her a glance-over, measuring her age, her bruises, and the limpness in her stare. His entire body sagged. He had that look that Beckman sometimes got around her; an exhaustion at the concept of time, as if just looking at her made them feel incomprehensibly old. But she didn't understand why they also seemed so sad. "Was it true what Teach said about you? That you led Ace to him?"
"Yes," she said. "It's true."
The words hung around her neck like strands of hemp-fiber, tightening. Telling herself she had to be brave one last time, Sophie got to her feet, brushing grass off her shirt, trying to look respectable.
"Um…" Her voice cracked. "It wasn't… like, some elaborate p-ploy to hurt your family. It wasn't, it absolutely wasn't intentional. I didn't know who Blackbeard was—I mean, I did, but I didn't, not really. I'm not a part of his crew, and I'm not with the World Government, it had nothing to do with fame or anything or—or anything, I swear. I thought I could save Ace and that's why I tried to help him. I told him where Teach was because I thought he'd win, and then we were in Impel Down, and I still couldn't help him, and—and then it all happened and I'm—"
She couldn't breathe hard enough.
"—sorry, I'm sorry…"
Flower petals drifted like snowflakes, carried on the breeze from far up the hill.
Marco picked one out of the air and examined it. "I can heal from almost any injury," he said tiredly. "I'm Pops's First Division Commander. I've sailed under his flag longer than you've been alive. So why the hell is it supposed to be your fault that he and Ace died, and not mine?" He released the flower into the blue sky and looked at her again with open, awful vulnerability. "I'm Whitebeard's right-hand man, and I'm halfway immortal. I should be blamed for this. Not you."
She shook her head, thinking about Sabo thanking her on the red grasslands of Omiramba, how he had been so honest and earnest. And then she thought about his lost memories, and Foosha Village, and the Grey Terminal. And then she thought about Straw Hat Luffy.
"I told Ace about Banaro," she whispered.
"Could've been anyone. That hothead would've found a way to get to him. Teach tricked you like he tricked all of us."
It wasn't only that for Sophie. Blackbeard had devastated her, and allowed the whole world to watch.
"You freed me from the seastone cuffs," Marco added. "I wasted the opportunity you gave me. Couldn't do one damn thing right. Ace died to protect Straw Hat. His little brother." He palmed his eyes, inhaling deeply. "But I couldn't do the same."
She stepped forward, enormous-eyed. "If it would… make it better… if it would help at all, you can… a life for a life." She tilted her head, clasping her hands tight over her chest. Her voice was very quiet. "For your crewmates. For their suffering. It would be a relief for me."
"Don't say that," Marco laughed weakly, and the distressed noise of it stunned her into blinking. "You'll make someone cry."
Sophie found herself smiling too, but it was a small, forced smile. "We all get what's coming to us. That's the justice I've always believed in."
"That's pretty righteous, yoi. That's also pretty cruel."
"Well," she replied emptily, "that's life."
"Life," Marco answered, "has room for mercy."
Her lips twitched in a halfhearted grin. A sunflower petal brushed against her cheek and she swiped it away. Marco's kindness didn't make a difference. The great Pasta Grinder called Life had grinded her up so completely that she couldn't imagine being able to put herself back together again. Anything was better than feeling this miserable and alone. Anything.
"I don't want to live with this," Sophie confessed with utter apathy. "It's too heavy. I'm tired of lifting it." Her breath came out in a little sigh. "I'm tired."
She didn't feel ashamed for admitting it. She didn't feel anything at all.
But then… the breeze picked up.
The grass rustled, flattened in a sudden burst of wind. Yellow petals swirled around them.
Anything Marco might've said in return was swallowed up by a roaring sound that emerged from the clouds, growing louder and louder in the sky.
—
A Whitebeard flag was raised at the top of the tallest tower on the island. A protectorate like Idyll Island, or Big Mom with Machinastein.
There was a woman walking along the tide, her pant legs hiked up over her calves. She stopped as the shining phoenix landed on the beach with a passenger on his back, and she seemed to squint at the two pirates, trying to make out their faces.
Flame-wings transformed back into human arms, and Marco caught Sophie and deposited her on the sand. She balanced herself, windblown from the ride over, staring back at the woman.
Her. At the end of everything.
Life ebbs and flows, Shanks had said. The future is unpredictable. Tomorrow could be filled with wonders.
"We've been guarding it," Marco was explaining. "It's not every day you see a flying island…"
His voice faded. She dropped Arsenic and her ragged book with the torn pages stuffed inside, and with them she dropped the weight of her numb sorrow, she let it slide away like a pebble washed out to sea by the tide. Sophie ran. Sand sprayed behind her feet. Her vision blurred with tears.
Nellie met her on the sunlit shore of Cat's Eye Island, and the two women collided together, hugging and screaming in joy.
to be continued