A/N: This story is part of a projected five-part series starring female Buggy called The Ringmaster. I have a lot planned but this is all I have written down at the moment so I ask for patience if you like this story. Furthermore, The Ringmaster in its entirety is part of another series called Questions, which are nonconnected stories where I genderbend one One Piece character and proceed to have fun. Questions currently has four projected parts with something written down (of which this is the first post) and a fifth that is being considered. In keeping with the naming theme of Questions, The Ringmaster is also known as Where.
Vodal was a town without beginning or end. A sailor would make the half hour walk from the nearest port town, then make it again a decade later and swear nothing had changed. And the sailor would be right. Generations were born and died, businesses were handed down to the eldest child, but faces were the only thing that changed.
No stores went into or out of business; no one improved or worsened their stations in life; no one moved houses, changed professions, or left town. Nothing changed and no one realized anything was wrong with that.
Everything was the same and everything was fine.
Buggy thought this too, until Captain took her away.
Buggy grew up on the streets of Vodal, always had. She knew nothing of home or family and sought neither because why should anything change? Someone must have cared for her as a baby – taught her to walk, speak, and survive – but Buggy couldn't remember that person. Her memories began on the streets, scrounging for essentials and avoiding anyone bigger or stronger than she was, which was everyone.
As she grew older and a little taller, she saw more, heard more. And she learned to know more, taking what she saw and heard and using it to determine what she would see and would hear. She knew if she turned down that street, or any of the streets between that one and Moxie's General Store she would see men with snake tattoos who called themselves Copperheads. She knew if she went down that alley when the sun set, the dumpster behind The Low Bar would have fresh scraps but going after the sky darkened would make her run into other men with gold-rimmed holes in their ears that were known as Coyote Claws. Anyone with a second name containing an animal was someone to stay away from. She knew that the Deer Horns and Wolf Fangs got into street brawls every other day and no one noticed if a small hand slipped into the pockets of a few spectators. She knew which people would ignore a little girl, which people would try to help a little girl, and which people would mug or attack a little girl.
The more Buggy knew, the easier survival came. By avoiding the strong and pickpocketing those who would never catch or suspect her, she created her own little niche. She didn't realize that this was the first change in Vodal in who knows how long – but perhaps that is why it worked so well without fail; those of Vodal could not comprehend something different. Because thrive as she might on the streets, Buggy never quite fit into Vodal. Where others would band together in whatever groups their parents were part of, Buggy lived alone. No one reached out to her – no one could quite accept someone capable of change – and Buggy reached out to no one, because she knew she would never belong. Buggy had always been alone, and nothing in Vodal changed so Buggy didn't understand the ache in her chest.
Buggy grew too complacent in her routine. People never caught her in the act and every gang had too much pride to consider that a small child bested them. So, when a red-haired boy grabbed her wrist as she removed it from his pocket, a few incriminating coins between her fingers, she froze, brain screaming to a stop as it faltered over this impossible change.
But where her mind sputtered at ways to get out of this, it ran on all cylinders in providing increasingly terrifying things the boy might do to her as revenge for trying to steal his money. Would he beat her up? Pry his coins from her hand after he severed it from her body? Call his buddies – because Buggy was the only street kid her age who didn't fit into run with a gang – and let them all take a shot at her? Oh Goda, was he in one of the sadistic groups whose victims only returned in body bags?! He didn't have the spotted coat of the Heckling Hyenas or the stylized toad tattoo of Aquatic Venom but there were more than that and for the life of her Buggy couldn't remember their tells. What if his hair was red because he dyed it with blood and needed a fresh stock?! (Buggy knew that blood didn't stay red but her panicked mind was all too willing to temporarily forget that) WHAT IF HE WANTED HER TREASURE?!
The boy made a sound, then he made it again, then he kept making it until his breath ran out. Buggy's spiraling thoughts paused as she tried to figure out what 'Dahaha' meant.
"You're pretty good at that," the boy said, his mouth curved up in a… that wasn't a smirk or sneer. What do you call the expression the townspeople liked to greet each other with? "Nearly made away with my port funds and I almost didn't notice a thing!"
"Wha…" tumbled off Buggy's tongue, mirroring her thoughts. Why was the boy acting so nonchalant, cheerful even? Buggy had seen muggings gone wrong, when a thief chose his or her target carelessly, and muggings gone right. Victims always reacted negatively – with anger, despair, or fear – and why wouldn't they, they just got robbed! This boy was different, Buggy realized with mounting horror. He didn't react like she thought he would, meaning she didn't know how he would act.
"So whatcha want my money for?" the boy asked. He appeared simply curious but Buggy had long since passed the point of trusting what a person's face said.
"Nonna your business!" Buggy snapped because a straight answer was more suspicious than a deflection.
"But if I don't know, I can't help you out," the boy said with that familiarly unfamiliar curve to his piehole. Buggy's deadpan expression transmitted just how much belief she held in his claim.
"O come on!" the boy responded to Buggy's flatness, throwing his hands up and abruptly making Buggy remember that he had a grab on her arm by yanking her forward. It seemed the boy had forgotten his grip as well because he immediately let go and caught her before she collided with him. Arms newly freed, Buggy instinctively acted upon the first course of action that popped into her head.
She punched him in the face.
He jerked back, hands shooting up to cover his left eye and cursing up a storm. If the situation was different, Buggy would be impressed, though she still committed some of them to memory. She was certain a number of those were expletives even the Howling Dogs didn't know. But this was not the time nor the place, so Buggy turned on her heel and ran deeper into the streets she knew by heart. She slipped the coins in her hand into the small pouch around her waist, hidden underneath her shirt. They already caused her more trouble than they were worth, but it was money and Buggy never relinquished her treasure!
The boy's shout and pounding footsteps – he had good shoes, better than Buggy's – indicated the coins still had a lot more trouble to cause. Dead ends, quick turns, toppling trash cans and piles of boxes, Buggy used every tool in her arsenal to keep ahead of the boy and throw him off her trail, but he was fast and had an unholy amount of stamina. Every time she thought herself home free, he would call out again from less than twenty feet behind her. Again, Buggy would be impressed… if it was happening to somebody else!
The chase continued and Buggy grew more and more tired. Her legs felt heavier with each step, her feet screamed with each pound of unforgiving ground against thin soles, her lungs and side burned with each breath. The effort to keep moving and not lose speed seemed impossible but Buggy did it anyways. Her mind's resumed tirade of gruesome punishments didn't hurt.
But exhaustion impacts not just the body, but also the mind. As Buggy pumped each step, she gradually relied less on conscious thought and more on instinct. She knew which street (or lack of) a turn would take her to before she even considered taking it. But the human mind is not infallible, especially when coupled with the sensory depletion brought about by extensive physical activity. To the tired eye, a small alley might be missed, or an open door might be confused for an alley a few buildings down, throwing off a mental map. And with instinctive decisions, a person might make a turn they believe led to an open street and find themselves in a dead-end alley without an escape route.
Suffice to say, Buggy ended up in such a situation, and by the time she realized it, the boy mimicked her turn, cutting off her only exit.
"Shit," Buggy allowed herself before pulling out a sharpened piece of wood from where it hung on her rope belt. She would have preferred a knife, but the gangs kept a strict monopoly on all readily available weapons. A pointy stick is better than nothing.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," the boy said raising his hands palm out to show he intended no harm. Buggy would've scoffed if she had the air, because fat chance she'd believe that when he looked only halfway out of breath after chasing her for the better part of half an hour! "I don't want to hurt you or anything. That's all I've got for the week and Old Man Rayleigh would sooner laugh at my misfortune than give me more."
'That sounds like a 'you' problem,' Buggy wanted to snark back but, dammit, breathing should not be this hard! The boy lowered his hands when he saw the equivalent of her unsaid response on her face. What little Buggy had of her breath hitched when the boy sunk into a fighting stance. A practiced stance, which really narrowed down which gangs he could be affiliated with.
"I'd rather avoid force," the boy said. His calm tone – the surety that he would win any upcoming fight – scared and pissed Buggy off in equal measure. "But if you give me no other choice, I will use it."
It crossed Buggy's mind to return the boy's coins, but there existed two objections to that course of action. One: Buggy was pissed, both at the boy's high opinion of himself and at the futility of her half hour of sheer effort, and was, therefore, more likely to do the opposite of what the boy wanted. Two: it involved giving up money – and though Buggy had yet to look at the coins, if the boy thought they would last the whole week, they had to be silver, or maybe even gold – and on the streets money was life. Even with her strategic success, Buggy did not have the monetary leeway gangs surpassed through compiled strength and more hands. It was her ironclad rule to always have a cushion of 100 for emergencies, but right now, that was all Buggy had. She needed this money.
"Over my dead body," Buggy snarled, even as her overactive imagination took her words and ran with them.
Ten seconds later, Buggy lay flat on the ground, the boy's knee on her ribcage and his forearms against her throat. Her stick was batted to the side of the alleyway, but Buggy felt a thrill of pride at the moderate cut – not a proper wound but not a papercut either – on the boy's upper arm, even as the rest of her barely kept from trembling in fear. Buggy was a smart girl who relied on her wits, knowledge, and, above all, caution. She had never been in a situation like this before – though she had come close a few times – and couldn't help thinking This is it. I'm gonna die. Buggy wondered what death was like. Death was different from life, right? So life in death (or was it existence in death?) had to be different from life, from life in Vodal. What would that be like? Buggy couldn't imagine it, and it made her curious.
She wanted to live a different life.
Buggy waited for death – and what flashed before her eyes was not her life, but curious musings on what life (existence?) that was not life would be – but death did not come. Instead, the boy tapped her chin with the arm against her neck, bringing her attention back from her thoughts.
"Hey, I said 'Where's my money?'" the boy apparently repeated. Buggy has no recollection of his first inquiry, however. Still offset by her anticipation of death, she motioned to the small bag under her shirt. "You aren't making this easy for me, are you?" the boy grumbled before lifting her shirt only as far as necessary to reach into the small sack and draw out his three coins. The golden shine of their luster shot Buggy right back into reality.
"What are you doing?!" she shrieked, using both hands to clutch onto the wrist of that treasure-filled hand. Buggy pulled, but for all the boy was unable to pull the precious coins closer to himself, Buggy couldn't pull them any closer to herself. They were at a stalemate and, seeing as how her hands were occupied, Buggy resorted to the use of another weapon.
"Give them back," she growled. "They're mine."
"What?!" the boy responded, affronted. "They are mine! You stole them!"
"And I stole them fair and square," Buggy countered. "Finders, keepers."
"Are you crazy?!" the boy replied, looking at Buggy like she was crazy, a point on which the two had vastly different opinions. "You found them in my pocket!"
"Exactly," Buggy affirmed, completely serious. "I stole them so they're mine. Now give them back or I'll-" Buggy was fully prepared to unleash a verbal hell of threats on the boy – what does it matter that he pounded her into the ground not half a minute ago, he was trying to take her treasure! – when a loud, gastronomical sound come from Buggy's core. Both children froze, then the boy turned to look at Buggy's stomach before returning his gaze to her thoroughly reddened face.
The boy sighed, then Buggy found the weight on her neck and ribs removed and her entire body pulled up from the ground in one, smooth motion. The boy kept his grip on Buggy's wrist, which he'd used to hoist the girl off the floor, and started for the alley's exit.
"Wait, what are you doing? What about-" Buggy would have followed through with asking about her money, but the boy interrupted her.
"Just follow me. Don't worry."
Logically, Buggy had a thousand things to worry about, and her mind was running a marathon worrying about them. Logically, Buggy should not follow the boy, should not allow a stranger to lead her somewhere, especially not a stranger who just pounded her into the dirt. But for the first time in her life, logic was on the backburner. Reality, something deep inside her, and the boy's own emotions whispered, 'follow him,' and, pragmatic though she may be, Buggy was inclined to listen when such certainty was involved.
She let the boy lead them, idly taking note of the streets and turns they took and the mix between certainty and uncertainty in the boy's footsteps. If Buggy didn't know better, she'd say the boy was an outsider. But Buggy did know better, and this unsupervised boy her age did not fit the bill for Vodal's once-in-a-blue-moon visitor. Finally, they turned into Consum Plaza, where all the food venders set up their stalls, and the boy's footsteps fell completely certain. Why would they boy bring her to this plaza?
Buggy looked around at the venders. There was Mr. Alburn with his wheelable grill and meat skewers. Next to him, Madame Lorry staked her tent and sold spun candies and chilled milk, truly a luxury stall. Across the plaza, Monsieur Pallat rolled fresh dough for the sinful monster of cheese and grease he called pizza. And there was Ms. Cudmore with her garden-fresh sandwiches. Buggy could name all the venders – their staff, menu, rotation, and which days of the weeks and times of the year they paid best for an extra pair of feet and hands – but Consum Plaza was both a place of opportunity and a harsh reality check.
No matter how much she stole and saved, Buggy could never earn enough to splurge on a hot meal. The venders were all willing to pay for street urchin labor, but the same did not extend to customers. They ratcheted up the price whenever Buggy tried, spinning bullshit about how serving the homeless would decrease their clientele. Sure, they gave her leftover, already-cold scraps when she ran errands, patting themselves on the back for their 'generosity,' but that made Buggy want the genuine article even more.
The boy told Buggy to sit at one of the picnic tables at the center of the plaza, then headed for the venders. Buggy watched him look around indecisively for a moment, then stand in line for Ms. Cudmore, order some food, and do the same for Mr. Alburn. What could the boy be up to?
Buggy narrowed her eyes. Was he going to eat the food in front of her as some sort of petty revenge for her botched theft? It wouldn't be the first time someone from the gangs flaunted their relative wealth in front of her. Buggy clenched her fists. If the boy attempted to demean her like his "buddies," she would kick his ass into the ground, his fighting skills and strength be damned.
Buggy kept her glare pinned on the boy's eyes as he sat down across her. Even if he wasn't looking at her, it felt good to express some aggression. He did something with the food – probably arranging it like a middle-class with a stick up his ass – then finally met Buggy's glare.
"Well," he said after a few moments. "Aren't you gonna eat?"
"What?" Buggy brain faulted; her glare broken by a confused blink. The boy gestured to the table between them, prompting Buggy to look down and spot a sandwich and skewer in front of the boy and a second pair… before her?
"What?" she repeated, unable to comprehend the vision before her.
All her life, Buggy had to work for what she needed. In Vodal, if no one wanted you, then no one wanted you. Buggy worked to get hired for one-time jobs and errands, but her temporary employers didn't want Buggy, but rather her hands, feet, or muscle. Buggy squeezed her way out of sticky situations with gangs by offering information on their rivals. But those people didn't decide Buggy was worth keeping alive, but her information. As for her essentials, what she didn't scavenge she bought; the people who sold her stuff never gave her anything because they wanted her money. Buggy was alone, she wasn't wanted, so no one gave her anything. But here this boy was, giving her food because she was hungry.
"I'm an orphan. I live alone on the streets," Buggy said. She knew informing the boy would make him take away the food, but Buggy's wants were all twisted up right now. She wanted the food, to satisfy her empty stomach with something other than cold and stale scraps, but she also wanted the difference in front of her to go away, to return Vodal back to its rightful state. Already the boy had caused one difference, he had caught her hand, and now he was causing another, and in the very same hour! It was terrifying, and confusing, and exciting, and too much was going on inside Buggy's head, matched by the too much ever-present outside. But if the boy took away his food, then there would be only one difference and Buggy could deal with that… probably.
"And?" the boy questioned, his simple confusion multiplying Buggy's.
"I live alone. No one wants me. No one gives me stuff," Buggy enunciated clearly. They boy seemed like the big brawn, little brain type, so as long as she made him realize his difference, he would correct it.
"Okay. They're dicks. I'm giving you stuff," he replied just as clearly. A few seconds passed, when Buggy's mind whirled with everything and nothing, then something clicked. Her thoughts fell blissfully silent.
"You're not from Vodal, are you," her words could have been a question, but Buggy felt no doubt in her claim. He may not fit the stereotype but everything – his reactions, his actions, his differences – was explained if he was an outsider to Vodal. Outside was different from Vodal; outsiders were different from the people of Vodal. Outsiders acted differently, giving food to someone who was alone and unwanted. The impossibility resolved, Buggy tore into the food, her first sustenance since a few scraps last night.
Warm food was everything Buggy had imagined and more. The roots of her teeth tingled as the heat became its own kind of flavor, mingling with her breath. And when she swallowed, the warmth spread down her throat and into her gullet, giving her a sense of satisfaction beyond curbing her hunger. It let her sink into her bones and feel her own warmth as something comforting, instead of a constant battle for dominance against the ever-changing temperatures of the ground and air. And after a lifetime of dumpster scraps, don't even get her started on the taste. Buggy knew people made a living off preparing food, but now she was experiencing how far they'd taken their craft. Far too soon, the only things before Buggy were a clean skewer and paper wrap.
"Wow, I got hungrier just watching you eat," the boy said. He was staring at Buggy, skewer similarly picked clean but half a sandwich still in hand. Buggy's cheeks heated up at his shameless gaze.
"Then stop watching!" she snapped defensively. The boy made that weird 'dahaha' sound again.
"So why's giving you food and not being a local such a big deal?" the boy asked around a bite of sandwich. Buggy narrowed her eyes, debating whether to answer. On one hand, he gave her food when no one, not even Buggy, would have faulted him for leaving her to her hunger, or worse. She figured she owed him a little for that – not a lot, mind you, but some – and Buggy didn't like owing people. On the other, she had no clue what they boy intended to get through a conversation. His reasons could be benign, but Buggy had witnessed too much betrayal and deception to disregard that they might not. Eventually, she decided to answer, but kept her full guard up for wherever he might try to steer their dialogue.
"Those in Vodal band together in groups… groups based on their neighborhood, family, profession. People belong to their groups, are wanted by them. I don't belong to a group, so no one wants me or gives me stuff."
"Can't you just join a group?" he questioned. Did he want to know about the people? That made sense, if he wanted to walk around the streets or find the stores with the best prices. Buggy supposed that was harmless enough.
Buggy shook her head, "No, that's not how it works. You're either in a group or you're not. You can't change where you belong."
"What?!" the boy said, surprised. "But what if you wanna work a different job or explore the world?"
Buggy's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. This boy from outside was proving stranger by the second. That vibrant red was probably his actual hair color, which weird. The only person in Vodal with a weird hair color was Buggy, just another thing that showed she didn't belong. Buggy shook her head again, "No one changes jobs, ever. Kids take over from their parents and pass their trade down to their kids. And no one leaves."
Buggy wondered why that last part made her stomach sink. It always did, the idea that she would never leave Vodal. Then again, far too many parts of her were different from the rest of Vodal, which was why she was alone in the first place. This was just another part.
"But why?" That's what Buggy wanted to ask. Why was this boy asking all the questions Buggy had buried deep inside herself? Why did her answers, the ones she'd been telling herself for years, feel so weak when said out loud?
"That's how life is," Buggy said, though it felt like her tongue was repeating words that were not her own. "Vodal doesn't change."
The boy stared at Buggy, and she stared back, feeling like breaking gaze now would be one of the worst mistakes of her life. They stared for what felt like forever, and Buggy wondered if he was reading into her very soul.
"Do you want to leave? Do you want life to change?"
Yes! Buggy felt herself scream, but immediately objections and fears followed, filling her mind with conflict. No one left Vodal, so Buggy had never asked herself if she wanted to leave. And her reaction, that internal scream, did that mean she wanted to leave? But no one ever left Vodal, so why did she want to? Her heart was saying one thing, but her mind was screaming another, and both were trying to drown the other out. Her quiet thoughts, her respite from the chaotic world, were growing louder. Buggy couldn't hear herself think. Everything was too loud!
"Hey, hey, hey, it's alright," the boy said, his voice breaking through Buggy's mini mental meltdown. "You don't have to answer right now. How 'bout… how about I just tell you of the world I've seen."
The boy was offering her knowledge, holding out information that could make everything clearer. Buggy hated being clueless; it made decisions so much more difficult! She nodded, and the cacophony of questions jumping around in her brain quieted so she could listen.
"Well, I've only been on the seas for as long as I can remember," the boy started. "I've seen the North and the South and this crazy sea that goes all around the world! West Blue's pretty neat too; I know it's one of the four cardinal seas, but you really just tend to forget how big they are."
"West Blue? The cardinal seas?" Buggy interrupted. She knew the ocean laid about a half hour from Vodal, but that didn't sound like what this boy was talking about.
"What?!" the boy yelped, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. "You don't know about the seas?! Well then, guess I've gotta start way back then. Okay, so most of the world is ocean, dotted with islands, and most of that is split into what we call the four cardinal seas…"
. . .
Thirty minutes away from a certain unchanging town, a boat was docked at the harbor of a small port village. The village itself was not the largest those of the boat had seen, but it held its own, and boasted a few fine drinking establishments that had kept them very satisfied for the last few days. Perhaps a little too satisfied.
A blonde man, tall but certainly not the tallest his crew had seen, walked onto the deck from where he had been sleeping off a night of enough grog to leave him moderately drunk. Unlike most of the scallywags he deigned to call crewmates, he knew how to stop before he suffered through a hangover the next morning. But as he idled around deck, the man couldn't help but think something was missing about the sight. The deck was as clean as it was ever going to get during a port leave (read: drinking fest) and the waves crested beautifully, sparkling against the early morning light. The pristine view was ruined by the nagging itch he had, leading him to think something wasn't right. But for the life of him, the man couldn't figure out what.
The boxes and barrels weren't too close to the railings, the poor sober fool on watch duty wasn't falling asleep, and the captain was sleeping against the kitchen door, his red coat wrinkled from where he lay against it all night.
Wait, red coat… red…
Rayleigh ran over to Roger, shaking him awake without a care for his captain's post-drinking sickness. He kept shaking the man, adding in a few kicks for good measure, until he was blinking at him blearily, groggy but awake. For Roger, that was enough.
"Have you seen Shanks?" Rayleigh asked. The seriousness in his first mate's voice brought Roger right out of his alcohol haze and he looked around the deck, noticing the lack of the young red. Typically, the cabin boy would be grouching around anyone silly enough to sleep on deck, kicking them and making their headaches worse as revenge for once again being denied any alcohol.
"No…" the pirate captain trailed off, thinking back to last night, then the rest of yesterday, then the day before that, and the day before that, all the way to a week ago when the lad had set off into town with his port allowance (after the crew had forewarned all sellers of alcohol to deny him service, should he attempt to wheedle any liver killer for himself. That boy had an obsession, and none of the crew wanted to be the one to turn that into an addiction before he was old enough to handle the poison). He turned, horror quickly dawning on his face, and could only manage to whisper to his best friend, "I haven't seen him since the start of our week here."
No more words were said, no more were needed. The two men stood up and split up, Rayleigh heading into town to find anyone too drunk to return to the ship and to start the search, and Roger to wake all those on board and join him.
Three hours later, the sun was high in the sky and the crew had searched every nook and cranny the town had to offer, and not one trace of their wayward cabin boy. Everyone was panicking, neurotically doubling back to places they'd already searched and looking into places the boy would never be found (Crobson, that rock is only a foot big, put it down!). By this point, the sheer panic in the crew had inspired a good portion of the town to join the search. It was said local addition that led to the following conversation:
"Are there any places you could think of, any at all, where he could be?" Rayleigh had to hold himself back from grabbing the man's shoulders and shaking him senseless.
"I don't know what to tell you," the man replied, his sad, worried expression one of the greatest contributors to Rayleigh's show of restraint. "We've searched the town top to bottom and even got some of the better criminals to scour the nooks and crannies. Since we haven't found him yet, well, I'd say he's not in town."
"Then where in blazes could he be?!" Rayleigh moaned. He didn't truly expect the man to answer, but the thoughtful hum from his interlocur directed his attention back to the local. "What?!" he demanded with much less tact than he typically possessed, but the man did not hold it against him.
"If the boy's not here, there's a chance he's at the town north of here. But hardly anyone goes in or out of the place, so I wouldn't hold my breath."
"Where?" Rayleigh breathed. As if beckoned, Roger materialized beside him, making the local jump and stare at the captain like he'd seen a ghost.
But despite his shock, the man answered us quickly, "About half an hour inland, there's a town called Vodal. Your cabin boy could be there, but you wouldn't find me placing any bets on that. Not many come in or out of there; the town's always been like that."
Roger and Rayleigh met eyes for a single moment, then gave the man their hasty thanks and booked it north. Over the course of their travels on the sea, both had learned to hold explicit trust in their instincts. They had learned the name for those instincts years ago, sailing a sea of life and death, and they knew that town would be where they found their misplaced cabin boy.
Ten minutes later, they walked between walls of brick and stone. Though well-maintained, the buildings looked as if they had stood for centuries. Nothing seemed new, but those observations were for pondering later. Following their feet, the two of them took street after turn. The street life was flickers in the corners of their eyes, hiding themselves with caution and outright fear at the strangers. But that was also something for later. Their lively cabin boy was straight ahead.
Rayleigh heard whispers, lowered to avoid being heard but the first mate fought in battles where the difference between life and death was the rustle of clothing or a muffled footstep.
"… the f(92 12)k were you thinking, idiot! There's bravery and there's being stupid and we both know where you fall! I told you… I told you to run, why didn't you run?! What in the thrice-d(95)ned (2)ll made you think fighting the Copperheads was a smart idea?!"
Welp, sounded like Shanks was there, and with vocal company.
Rayleigh rounded the corner, entering a shadowed alley, dark despite the high sun. A strangled gasp came from a lump backed into the left corner. A few moments later, Rayleigh's eyes adjusted, and he spotted two human forms pressed into the corner, one settled against the far wall and the other in front of the first protectively. Rayleigh realized both forms were children just as he concluded the pointy shape held in the closer kid's hand was a dagger. A dagger pointed towards the two adults in a surprisingly secure grip.
"One more step and I gut you so bad you'll have hold your guts to keep 'em in," the protector threatened, her voice identifying her as female. Rayleigh was torn between wondering how a child would be that familiar with death threats and submitting to his baser instincts and thinking a tiny child with a knife and serious attitude was cute. And if the struggle was this bad to Rayleigh, then for Roger…
"Hello there, little one," Roger said gently, his smile audible. "What's your name?" The girl responded with a snarl that would have been halfway intimidating if she wasn't shorter than Rayleigh's waist. The lump behind the girl shifted at Roger's voice, and tension bled out of both adults at the throaty "Captain? Old Man Rayleigh?" that came from the boy.
The girl's head swiveled between Shanks and the two of us with a speed and sharpness that looked painful. She knew those appellations if her disbelieving eyebrow at us adults meant anything, which rested my concerns over if Shanks was in the process of being alleyway mugged.
"Are you the two who run the boat he sails?" the girl demanded asked, giving the slightest gesture of her unarmed hand towards the boy behind her.
"That's us!" Roger affirmed with a happy tone that always led to trouble. I just nodded.
"Okay, then answer me this," the girl snapped in the same tone. "What's his name and… what's the town where you two first set out from?"
Immediately, I found myself delighted and absolutely charmed at the intelligence and caution exhibited by this girl, two traits I rarely ever came across. I blame Roger. "That's Shanks, our cabin boy," I answered. "And Captain and I set off from Loguetown after he convinced me to join him. Stupidest, most impulsive decision I've ever made."
"Hey!" Roger protested, offended but not really offended and far too concerned with other matters to act upon any offense he did feel. The girl clenched her jaw in, what Rayleigh hoped, was an attempt to mask her own smile.
"Aw, come on, Bugs," the Shanks-lump spoke up. The girl's eyes flickered to him only a moment before returning to observe us, looking for any sign of threat or weakness. "Stop being so careful. It's Captain and Old Man Rayleigh; they'd never hurt us."
"Excuse me if I don't trust your judgement after today," she replied with dry sarcasm.
"But-" Shanks started to protest but was cut off by the girl's "or two days ago."
Shanks winced and said, "That a low blow, Bugs." The girl sniffed self-righteously as Shanks gazed off into his own thoughts, muttering, "So… many… anchovies."
Rayleigh decided that that landed firmly in the category of 'I don't want to know'.
"So you're Bugs?" Roger questioned with complete honesty, like he didn't realize that 'Bugs' did not even come close to a mother-given name and was likely a nickname. He probably didn't.
"It's Buggy!" she snapped, annoyance and pride well-concealed for those on land but clear to the seasoned pirate. The shorthand must not be a willing acquisition.
"Buggy!" Roger's eyes lit up with delight. "Yes, that does fit better. What a lovely name you have, little lady!"
"Watch it!" Buggy threatened with a glare. "I'll be a lady when pirates go dry, so don't you go around calling me one." Roger nodded in acceptance, the threat going clear over his head. Rayleigh rolled his eyes.
"But Shanks," Roger whined, turning to our cabin boy. Rayleigh observed the slight hunch the boy had around his abdomen, likely masked bruised or cracked ribs, and a number of well-worn but clean bandages wrapped around his limbs. He had seen better days, but Rayleigh wasn't worried beyond mentally scheduling a visit with the ship doctor when they got back. Shanks was a tough little bugger. "Why didn't you tell us you made a friend?"
"We're not friends," Buggy snapped, the despondent groan behind her showing this point had been debated many times.
"So this is where you've been the whole week," Rayleigh hummed, his expression telling Shanks just how much he approved of the boy not checking in even once. The cabin boy looked sufficiently cowed
"I was planning on only taking a quick peek around the town, honest," Shanks said, eyes widened in the way all children know adults will cave to. "But then I ran into Buggy and she's amazing!" Cue sputtering and chopped words. "She tried to pickpocket me and I didn't notice till her hand was nearly out of my pocket. And you know Vensuke likes to use me to practice…"
Shanks went on and on, gushing about his new friend (denials don't make it less true) and how she was a master thief, and how she could move like she was invisible, and how she knew absolutely everything about this place. Numerous interruptions from the subject in question didn't even make him pause for breath.'
Rayleigh saw the twinkle in Shanks' eye, a twinkle shared by their captain, and realized both he and the girl were doomed.
"Would you shut up already, Shanks?! Agh!" Buggy exploded, finally getting a word in. Impressive, considering most people either walked away or were stuck listening to the boy for hours whenever he really got going. "Your caretakers are here so you can go with 'em now. Then I can finally get some peace and quiet 'round here."
They were in a town alley, a busy street not even a block away, so the phrase 'you could hear a pin drop' wasn't really the case, but the silence that descended sure felt that way. Shanks was looking at Buggy with this confused, heartbroken expression like someone had just walked all over his dinner and not even realized it.
"What's that look for?" she demanded when she caught sight of his face. Her eyes flickered to the two adults, Roger's confusion and Rayleigh's carefully sculpted blankness, the unconscious motion screaming 'I have issues trusting people'.
"Aren't you coming with us, Bugs?" Shanks asked, his voice small, and it hit Rayleigh that Shanks was probably lonely, being the only one around his age on a pirate ship. "You have so many questions. Don'tcha want to see the sea?"
"Wha- but-" another unconscious flicker to the two men, both so much bigger than her and something about them just screaming 'danger' in a way very few in Vodal did. "But I don't… why would you… I don't know anything 'bout there… it's-"
She cut off as Roger crouched down in front of her. Though he couldn't see his face, Rayleigh knew Roger was studying the girl. Roger had a way of looking into a person's eyes and knowing more than any would think possible, a trait Rayleigh knew responsible for their nonexistent record of mutiny.
"We are pirates," Roger said. "Sailing under our flag is not a choice made lightly. The government aims to cut off our freedom and our lives. But if you want to see the world out there, if you want to know the world out there, I'd say it's your best bet. Do you want to come with us?"
The silence stretched. Rayleigh looked at Buggy and saw the small twitches of her mouth, the war waging within her eyes as she thought fast and she thought hard. Shanks was also looking at her, not bothering to hide which choice he hoped she made. After what felt like hours, a small hand slowly reached out and placed itself on top of the larger outstretched to her.
"Show me the sea," she said.
That day, a blue-haired girl left Vodal.