Chapter 3:

Shock Value

The moments that Kuro spent waiting within that putrid water seemed to last for ages, but he was unmoved after he crawled into the perfect hiding place that he spotted amongst the rubble. The surface of the water had a nauseating scent when it mixed with blood. It was the type of liquid that could stick to a man's skin and cause him to faint. He was getting sick from the acrid stench of the bodies around him, even more so at how he had little foundation for a good plan. After agonizingly long searching, the Marine platoon had finally gone, but not without the mandatory and congratulatory whoops and hollers.

Kuro hoisted his sopping frame onto the pitched quarterdeck, and his soaked clothes contributed to the ungraceful flop that he made onto its wooden support. He pressed himself low onto its uneven deck and his thin frame was shivering from the cold. Curving his spine like a twisted feline, he balled his fists, and hacked moist coughs to free the remnants of salt water and phlegm from his lungs. He spent a few minutes crawling slowly about the shattered sides of his once intact ship while feeling his muscles lock and bunch. It was a rather delayed reaction to the electrifying shock out of the forced rest from the overnight effects of the sedatives. Squeezing his eyelids together, he ran his hands over his hair and sat upright. Silence quickly descended upon the wreck and in the thick of his otherwise terrible temper, he was calmed by it.

The first thing he did was search the bloodied body of one of his mates. He examined his numerous pockets for valuables after prying a cold, silver pocket-watch from his hand, probably yanked out of the shaking fingers of a young Marine. Its engraved insignia shone in the sunlight. Kuro stared at the frigid hand, its fleshy fingers held in a gripping position. He curled his lip and gently pulled out a brass compass from the man's breast pocket. Not as handsome as his favorite compass, but it would do, even if it was almost ruined by the salt from the water that stuck deep inside of it.

He thought deeply for a moment: his two favorite buffoons were gone and arrested, and the rest of his pawns drowned, sliced, eviscerated, or shot. In actuality, Siam and Buchi were not to be missed much, since the highlight of their careers was acting impudent and mutinous while having a constant and severe ineptitude in critical thinking, let alone in how to dress. He refrained from growing his rage into a boiling fit of inner fury.

Parts of his ship were not sinking, but merely becoming jammed within a reef that lay meters beneath his feet. Kuro raised a pallid hand to his forehead and his sigh drawled until it became a low hiss. After more fruitless rummaging, he gave up, and laid his legs out straight, palms pressed against the deck. He pondered. He could always resort to diving underwater with the slim chance of recovering his valuables, but there was the harrowing reality that sharks would soon lurk about and be delighted by a fresh meal. Kuro was completely unarmed, his deadly gloves confiscated under his nose. He stared at his wetly pruned hands. The dark-haired fellow had gotten slightly thinner since he fought Luffy, a boy he categorized as insane and foolish with too much enthusiasm and not enough sense. He cleaned his glasses to pass the time, and he began to think of strategies to reach shore safely as his fingers ran across the frames. His eyes reflected a composed, chilly indifference, but beneath this deceptive surface was a man overtaken by subdued frustration.

His signature spectacles returned to his face and his vision cleared. It was now about 5:30 AM, and the sun was crawling up on the horizon like an invasive and ascending orb. A large coast lay in front of Kuro's eyes, being tauntingly close yet at a very long distance from his messy wreck. It appeared mostly remote, with tufts of green atop pillars of dark trunks that lined the forests beyond the sand. This was uninteresting: his main focus was the inklings of a bustling port lying to the right of his vision. Small, but compacted, he saw Milltown's wharf, and three of its flags billowing in the wind, flying solid colors of blue and white. This was his planned destination, and teasingly, ironically, his entire scheme had fallen short from this catastrophe. Kuro had made trips to Milltown before, years in his past, although this knowledge was partly rendered useless in his current state, judging how the option to raid was now a simple dream. But he would reach Milltown's shore, somehow: he knew so.

Realization was bearing down upon him quickly as he sat there, staring into nothing. He continued to scour through his mental cabinets to formulate a plan. Despite his brilliance, there were times were he would feel weak, and refuse to become vulnerable despite his surroundings, and inside his mind he would thrash like a stubborn animal.

His insides coiled at the fact that he was nearly penniless and stuck in the middle of a broken and bloody soup that would become encircled by hungry sharks. Kuro lamented the crippling loss of all of his journals, maps, and books that he held closer to his heart than most people—and the sake. He did miss the sake, too. The man didn't even want to think about his gold that he watched get seized when he was half-asleep and incoherent, flying through the air without any say. The thought was painful—it hurt him more than any word ever uttered to him from anybody in his tumultuous past. Captain Kuro had been called evil, awful, sinister, and completely unforgivable, and almost every other synonym associated with the list, from those who loved him and those who didn't, but he batted his eyes to it all. But the absence of every ounce of his money turned the water in his blood into steam. He wanted nothing more than the slice up whatever Navy grunt who laid his hands on it, to never forgive them. Fate's ironically helping hand was both intuitive and merciless.

The coast in the distance taunted him the more that he looked at it. There was only one word that made its way to his mouth, one utterance that escaped his lips in a silent whisper.

Shit.

Gone.

The thought prodded him again: his journals were gone. Years of his life, save for the recent three year gap on the humble Gecko Islands, had been preserved inside of their coarse, yellowed pages, murmuring and growling through his long and sharp pen strokes. They contained invaluable information on locations and hot spots that he had sucked dry of precious details. However, he held some ambivalence. This destroyed his former self, its external shell.

He held his head again at the pinch of his hangover, thumbs pressed to his temples. His pawns had been thrown aside, and his galleon, his chessboard, smashed. He had the ambition to view the ground he stepped on as a chessboard, too. He would simply find new pieces and another board to keep him afloat. Despite the surrounding circumstances, his mind still wandered to that achingly true desire: peace of mind. Where could it be? And why, after all of his thorough manipulation, has he not gotten it? Why hasn't the path of those he stepped on led him to luxury yet? He found it ironic and infuriating. Kuro's teeth were lightly clenched, and he rested a finger to his bottom lip, furrowing his dark eyebrows. There was only so long that he could wait and bask in the ruin of his recent past.

The sound of flapping wings broke his mental silence. A buzzard alighted onto the nearby corpse, staring at him with its beady eyes apprehensively, and their aqueous surface reflected his slouched form.

"It appears we're the only ones alive here," Kuro narrowed his eyes. He sneezed and pressed his face into his hands. The bird rustled at his chilled voice and grew uncomfortable. It sidled to the other side of the corpse and lightly prodded the dead pirate with its beak. The creature was content as long as it kept its distance from this strangely still and pensive man.

He looked at the scavenger again, falling into a contemplative state. He read that buzzards could be hosts to plenty of unpleasant diseases. It was the parasites that kept some of them from flying. Slowly, they would overrun the body, and leave broken hosts in their wake. The thought of himself falling ill to any of that was sickening, but it was clear that he needed a host of his own. Just like before, during those days spent walking in the sun, cleaning wine glasses, rolling valet carts, in that blasted mansion, with those winding staircases—he heard something.

Did the Marines have second thoughts?

Kuro stirred from the sound of a motor in the distance. He saw a silhouette on a small, quick boat, drawn ahead by an engine that buzzed and snarled. It kept its distance from the wreck, but he had his suspicions. It would seem to go forward for a while, but would then turn around, and make bowed turns. Frowning, he closed his eyes from a moment, he felt the heat beat down on him, absorbing along his skin. It was a peculiar morning: one unbelievable event seemed to stack on top of the other.

That engine's growl never exceeded a shriek or a snarl, and the sound was more like an inconsistent sputtering. Kuro grew uncomfortable at the thought of being watched, and he turned his head to observe the boater. The rider moved curiously, but they appeared indecisive. Their presence ebbed and bobbed near the wreck, and they began to get closer to the site, until they reached the farthest piece of debris meters ahead. He rolled behind an amalgamate of planks and observed suspiciously. This was not a time for annoyances, or for any sort of lone Marine to come poking around where death would surely follow.

He saw the unfamiliar figure finger a case on the side of their belt. Their form looked somewhat innocuous and of average size and weak girth—there was a good chance that they were a simple civilian. A weather-worn windbreaker shielded her from the wayward gusts that would occasionally sweep by. There was a look of repressed shock to the boater's face, as if they were unaccustomed to seeing dead pirates riddled across the water and hanging off the sides of debris. Surely any competent Marine wouldn't be alone. He found it unusual for a citizen to be up so early roaming around across the ocean. But they were wearing Milltown's colors, and that was good enough for him.

The former captain watched them stop the engine for a moment to pull out a cigarette from its flimsy case and light it. The Milltown civilian smoked for a few minutes, and, after their nerves were calmed, the cigarette's glowing tip was doused in the seawater. Her lungs expanded, and the boater continued, and the growl came back, along with a leaping trail of bubbling water that lingered behind.

Kuro quickly shifted himself sideways. Suddenly, a plank gave in beneath his foot, and there came a noticeable crunch. Covert observation never lasts. The buzzard flew away and glided directly past the boater. In a swift second, the woman was on alert, and her body became tense.

"Who's there? Anyone?"

Kuro thought for a moment. He analyzed the inflections in her voice. The person appeared convinced that they weren't alone, only temporarily distracted by the buzzard.

"Go on! Give me a sign!"

It was now or never. His spindly hand rose up. He feigned shakiness, his fingers trembling, and he gave a few convincingly weak waves. Today, on one very outlandish morning, One Hundred Plans would hitch a ride.