—

methyl nitrate pineapples
hypothesis #1

it begins with poison

—

Shells whistled through the heavy rain and slammed against a steel-fortified Marine shelter, setting the giant Red Cross ablaze.

Evacuating citizens of Vira scrambled away as the sign crashed to the ground. Clashing steel and gunshots rang out in the distance, and forks of lighting cracked through the sky. They illuminated shadows fighting among the sheer cliffs, pressing closer with every flash of blinding white.

"Hurry! Ships are waiting to take you to safety!" a Marine captain shouted, pointing his gun toward the harbor. A group of soldiers were feverishly stamping out the fire.

"Sir, we're losing ground on the front!" a ragged recruit yelled over the clamor.

"Damn the Revolutionaries," the captain cursed under his breath. "Get the injured on board! Before another round of… oh shi—"

—

The shelter walls shuddered and shook with the onslaught of mortars. Dust streamed from the corners. Dying moans and screams echoed down every corridor, and all hands available had to make up for the doctor shortage. For one particular chemist-turned-combat-medic, this meant getting pulled from her hiding spot under a desk and kicked into an operating room.

"Bandages! Sophie, I need more bandages!"

"Where are the IV packs? Sophie, check the supply closet!"

"Oi, Strangways, the bathroom ran out of toilet paper again!"

"What the pineapples is wrong with you people!? For the last time, I am in a Very Stressful Situation!" an irate blonde hollered, and accidentally tugged on the thread and needle gripped in her fists. The man on the operating table twitched violently.

"Ahhh, it hurts! Ahh… ha ha ha…"

The poor marine giggled wildly and then sunk into a dazed stupor. Sophie wiped her forehead in relief (never again shall she underestimate the powers of laughing gas!), before remembering—why hello there, blood. Concentrating on only inhaling through her mouth, she slowly and meticulously began to stitch the gash up.

It was a clean shot through the bone; the bullet hadn't lodged inside the body, which was good. The problem was how to handle all this blood loss. She squinted at the needle, and then shifted it so that it was perpendicular with her index finger. She carefully edged the needle into the skin, threaded it quickly, and then whipped out her ruler. Five centimeters apart, evenly spaced, two inches long. She exhaled. Three stitches down, eight more to go.

"Strangways! Where the hell is that toilet paper?" a voice behind her demanded.

"Mangos!" Sophie swore and sucked on her bleeding thumb. She turned around, hissing flames, "I'm in the middle of an operation so get someone else to wipe your—AAH MY CHASTITY PUT ON SOME PANTS."

"IV! Sophie, where's that IV?"

"My guy lost a nose, any of you seen it?"

She slammed her fists on the operating table, gnashing her teeth.

"The pain," the marine sobbed.

"Shut up!" Sophie exploded at her patient. Fortunately for her, he was too drugged up to notice. Sophie pointed at the crowd. "IV and bandages are in the supply closet, and you can use banana leaves to clean up for all I care! Get out before I have to cremate another dead patient! Get out, get out, get out!"

She breathed harshly through her nose as the door swung shut, willing herself to calm down lest she break out in nervous tics.

Sophie tore off her perfectly clean surgeon's gloves and strapped on a new pair. The laughing gas would be wearing off by now. She reached for a syringe that carried a one-hundred and twenty milligram dose of anesthesia, and injected it into her patient. One hundred and twenty… Sophie considered, and then injected another dose. Two-hundred forty. Well, one more couldn't hurt… three-hundred sixty. Pretty number. A full circle.

The door burst open. "Sophie!"

"Gahh!"

The marine, completely numb from the neck down, started snoring.

Charaka Hippo, the man in charge over the medic squad, stood panting at the door. His glasses were smudged with dust. "We're evacuating!" he yelled, peeling off his bloodied gloves and tossing them on the floor. "There's a ship waiting out in the harbor, leave everything and—stop that!"

Sophie guiltily sprang to her feet, clutching his gloves. "B-but th-the floor will get dirty!"

As if it wasn't already—streaks of blood marred the tiles, which had turned grey over the last few days of constant bombing. The stink of death and sulfur filled every crevice the operating room. Sophie herself looked completely deranged with her soot-stained curls sticking up everywhere and manic expression.

Hippo glanced up at the shaking ceiling. "Never mind that, let's go!"

"B-but I-I'm not done!"

He smacked himself in the face, strode over, and grabbed the needle. Sophie's eyes widened. "Um—wait, sensei, I was—"

In three quick strokes, the very pale-faced marine had a row of squiggly black thread running down his chest. Sophie gaped, her eyes suspiciously bright.

"Follow me!" Hippo shouted over the sound of the walls bending over and yells of other doctors. He slung the marine over one shoulder and pushed the thunderstruck blonde through the door.

"But now it's—now it's—uneven!" Sophie wailed.

He ignored her, and she remembered at the last moment to grab her lighter and stick it in her pocket before stumbling out. Her sniffles were drowned out by the torrential rain as they joined the surge outside into the ruins of what had once been a Marine base camp.

The harbor was nearly deserted; all the other refugee ships had long since fled except for one. Sophie looked over her shoulder, chills crawling up her spine. She couldn't clearly discern the battle through the storm, but three months spent in war had generated a sort of intuition in Sophie: the rebels were fighting loyalists and Marines back onto the shore. And the further they retreated, the more likely the battle was about to hit the shelter.

"The captain's not breathing!" someone screamed.

Sophie whirled around, searching for the voice, and abruptly stumbled over a bloody marine. She about to reach down to help her—but then Hippo yanked on her wrist.

"The woman's dead!" he snapped. "Don't stop moving!"

Another mortar hit the edge of the ruined base and sent shrapnel flying through the wind. Sophie could barely hear Hippo hollering orders to other civilians. The screams had resurged and lightning clapped deafeningly in the black sky.

She fell behind Hippo, who was relaying orders to a marine, and helped other injured marines who were being rushed from the shelter. Some were well past their prime and some looked even younger than her, wheeled on stretchers and bleeding from their heads, and their arms, and their mouths—

Thunder boomed and Sophie instantly stopped moving, scant inches short from the pier.

She took thirteen steps. Prime number. Bad number. Her insides churned just thinking about it. She shuffled forward two more steps, balanced thoughtfully on her right leg, and then stepped down with her left. Sixteen steps. Four squared. Good number. She breathed out in relief.

"Get down!" someone srieked, and Sophie felt a rush of heat behind her before the shelter combusted in a roar of fire.

Something whacked the side of her head and she was thrown against the wooden planks. "Pineapples, pineapples, pineapples," she muttered under her breath, scrambling upward and nursing a giant, painful bump on her head.

Two poorly-aimed bombs splashed harmlessly into the ocean and exploded. The furious waves rocked the last refugee ship.

"Sophie!" Hippo yelled over the storm, "Hurry!"

The ship was leaving.

Sophie sprinted toward the edge of the pier. She saw Hippo fighting to get to the starboard side, heard him shout, "Stop the damn ship! My daughter still hasn't boarded!"

She stretched out a hand, reaching for the ladder, and in a burst of impulsiveness her feet left the pier (twelve steps even, ha!). Then a shell hit the docks, sending her flying through the air as the background blew up and the music swelled, hair flying across her face and eyes tearing up with the strain as her fingers brushed the ladder and—

Sophie smacked her face on the side of the ship and belly-flopped into the ocean.

Her ears roared and the world turned dark and smothering. Sophie pinched her nose with one hand and swam upward, breaking the surface with a pained gasp. She couldn't open her left eye. Oh holy pineapples, if she got a black eye because of this…

She heard the mortars wheeee from the skies and dove back underwater, curling up into a ball. The muffled bombs exploded and she was helplessly tossed around by the icy current. Panic, real, cold panic, seized her and gripped her frantic heart. She struggled for air just as another bomb hit, sending her somersaulting past sinking debris and floating fish. Sophie gritted her teeth. If only she could make it to the ship—

She clawed her way to the surface, sputtering like mad. Sophie floundered blindly for anything that floated; her fingers poked something squishy and wet. Rubbing water from her eyes, she opened them and grimaced.

Squishy, wet, and very, very dead would be more appropriate.

She grabbed the second closest thing—the remains of the charred Red Cross sign—and took a moment to hack out seawater and catch her breath. The refugee ship was nothing more than a small grey speck on the horizon.

"Get b-b-back here you sons of b-barnacles," she bellowed, shaking her fist.

After a few more seconds of raging, Sophie slumped over, groaning. She would've started swimming already, if she didn't have any damned Sea Kings to worry about.

"I should go back to V-Vira and ask f-for help," she chattered, hugging her arms. "Maybe the o-other marines could g-give me a ship ride back to the base…"

She laughed shortly. That was a brilliant idea. And then she'd step onto the beach, hand someone a nice shiny gun, and invite them to play target practice with her head—a more entertaining alternative to walking straight into a gory civil war.

She smacked herself on the forehead, and then hit herself again, because she hated doing things in ones. "Of course! S-Sophie, you are so stupid, why didn't y-you think of it sooner…"

A few minutes later, she squatted on top of a barely-there pile of wooden planks—her makeshift raft, wrapped in wet rope and kelp. Her bare toes gripped the dismembered wood. With a determined huff, she rolled up her sleeves and started paddling with a broken piece of timber. It was do or die and Sophie really wasn't much for dying.

"It'll hold," she said forcefully. "It'll definitely hold until I get to the next island."

Peering out into the rain, she failed to notice the enormous galleon trailing behind her until a black shadow fell over the water and goosebumps popped up her arms.

Her good eye bugged as she stared up at the dark, dragon-shaped figurehead, illuminated by a flash of lightning.

She giggled hysterically. "Oh mango—"

The stack of wood broke apart in her hands, and a huge wave crashed over Sophie, dragging her down into the depths.

—

An IV drip blurred into view.

Slowly surfacing back into the conscious world, Sophie blinked blearily up at the bright lights that—wait, ceiling lights? A heart monitor? IV drips? The smell of sterilized metal? Rejoice, she'd been rescued! The Marines actually came back for her! She was just about to sink back into a sweet, painless unconsciousness when she glanced to the side and—

The IV faced the wrong direction.

Sophie stared at it, utterly horrified. It was completely misaligned to the other machinery and just no no no the balance was not right, not right at all. She squinted to tell it that it was not going to get away with this.

She started to push herself into sitting position, but her limbs refused to comply. Sophie could feel the leather rubbing against her skin. Someone buckled restraints on her. But the IV—but the IV!

"Good, you're awake," a distinctly masculine voice spoke from somewhere next to the heart monitor. "How old are you?"

Her mouth felt thick when she opened it. Sophie tried speaking, and it sounded like, "Ubleugghsafjdkn?"

"Your age, Miss."

She swallowed, coughed out a hairball, and then croaked out, "Ni… nineteen. Where am I?" She'd meant to ask what Marine division he belonged to, but four words drew enough pain.

There was a sound of a chair wheeling over and a dark, lean figure appeared against the lights. She picked apart his appearance: doctor's coat. Fluffy hat. Gold earrings. His legs were crossed and a clipboard rested in his lap, one arm thrown over the back of the chair. His posture screamed boredom. Sophie looked up at his face. Black goatee, black eyes, easygoing smile. No, not boredom.

There was a strange prickling of alarm in the back of her mind.

"On a vessel," he said simply, scrawling things on the clipboard. "You've suffered no severe wounds; just a minor swelling over your left eye and some bruises here and there. Prime condition," he muttered, and reached towards her. A paper cup pressed against her lips. "Water. Drink."

The water soothed her raw throat immensely. While she drained the cup, her gaze flickered to the clipboard and Sophie read his handwriting upside down. Blonde, blue-eyed, nineteen, avg. height, underfed for approx. one month, poss. due to lack of substantial rations at Vira—

She accidentally snorted water up her nose. The smoke from the battleground seeped into her lungs and dark shadows were bleeding, screaming, crying for help—

"How did you know?" she demanded. "That I was at—at—"

"I find a bloody and unconscious marine a few miles from an island where a coup d'état is taking place. It's not a very difficult leap." He crumbled the paper cup in his fist and tossed it over his shoulder.

Her gut clenched. "Well, you know how HQ is," she shrugged. "Always so anal about stationing you in the middle of violent civil wars." Never mind the fact that she was the one who asked to be stationed there…

He chuckled like he found Sophie's lame joke extremely amusing. There was something odd about the way he studied her, the way he kept on smiling. "You're a combat medic, correct?"

"Correct. You know this how?"

He held up her shirt. "Identification tag."

Oh.

"To be more exact, I'm actually a chemist." She shifted. "As for why I was with the medic squad at Vira… it's a boring story."

The doctor got up to rummage around the contents of a drawer, his back facing her. "You must love working for the Marines if you enjoy bleeding for them," he said over his shoulder.

Sophie wasn't sure if she imagined his sarcastic tone. "I don't work for the Marines," she returned sourly. "I work with the World Government." It struck her that she was being suspicious of the man who had saved her life. Hippo would be so disappointed. Sophie hastily tried to rectify her behavior by adding, "And, um, you know, if you ever find your job lacking, I can get you a place in a real medical facility. As thanks for saving me."

"'A real medical facility…'" Okay, Sophie definitely didn't imagine the scorn there. "I'm afraid I'll have to refuse your generous offer, Miss." The doctor turned around, strapping on a pair of latex gloves and wielding a syringe filled with a brown liquid. "I'm perfectly comfortable with my line of work. There are just so many…" his smile stretched, turning sharp and cruel, "possibilities."

The situation just turned decidedly creepier. Sophie laughed nervously, nose twitching. "Right. Yeah, anyway, I am grateful to you for saving my life and everything, but I feel a lot better now. So I need my clothes back… and if you could free me from these, um, restraints—that would be highly appreciated?"

He rubbed his goatee, considering. "To the second, I really can't be bothered, and to the first, you'll be dead anyway so there's no point." He tested the syringe and a bit of the liquid squirted into the air. "Ah, the putrid stench of parathion."

He allowed brief pause, wherein Sophie heard the sound of a ten-ton anvil drop in her stomach. Parathion. C10H14NO5PS. Acts on the acetylcholinesterase enzyme… to disrupt the nervous system… wait, no, that… couldn't be right…

"But," she said weakly, "but that stuff is toxic."

"Three stars for you, Chemist-ya. The smallest drop can kill a man in fifteen minutes. It'll be quite fun recording the effects of an overdose… you're in prime condition for testing, after all."

Sophie squeezed her eyes shut. "I was an idiot for thinking this was a Marine ship."

"You were," he agreed. "It's a pirate one, Miss, captained by Trafalgar Law." He mockingly inclined his head. "At your service."

The needle glinted in the light.

"…D-Do you like money?" Sophie blurted out desperately. "I h-have lots of money! And gold! I'm a leading scientist at G-13, the Marine base that specializes in chemical warfare. Why kill me when you can ransom me? My superiors will give so much beli that you'll be able to live off of it for the rest of your—"

He fisted a hand in her blonde curls and jerked her head back.

"Where should I begin? Should I go the standard route and use the inside of the elbow?" The pirate twisted her head to the side. "Or maybe the neck? The eyes? Maybe I should inject it straight into the brain. So many options, what to pick, what to pick…" A thumb jammed into Sophie's mouth and dragged it open. "The gums would be particularly painful," he squished her cheeks together so her lips puckered like extremely chapped fish, "and it'd shut your nauseatingly loud mouth up… or perhaps I should just force you to swallow it whole."

He laughed, a strangely pleasant sound, not at all suited for his dark smile. The tip of the needle hovered right over her throat.

"I've got a nice idea," he hummed. "A poisoned apple. Yes, I do like the sound of that. Forcing you to eat your own death."

Her teeth clamped down on her bottom lip to restrain her stutters. No good. "W-w-why d-did you fix me up if you were only waiting to k-k-kill me? You should've j-j-j-just let me d-die!"

A very, very cold hand touched the side of her face. "Though it may seem contrary to the current situation, I'm not completely heartless." The needle ghosted around her jaw. He had grey eyes, Sophie realized with an odd jolt, not black. "A killer, yes. A pirate, obviously. But first and foremost, I am a doctor. I do occasionally enjoy exercising those rights… Besides," he added, "there's no fun in just letting someone d—"

Something slammed against the operating room and pain burst through Sophie's head. Everything suddenly became very dark. She broke out in cold sweat. Oh no, was this it? She could see a faint light. Goodbye, Hippo, it's been fun—oh. Oh, wait.

Sophie opened her eyes.

The IV drip lay across her stomach—that must've been what had hit her—and medicine bottles and dangerous-looking utensils were rattling in the cabinets; the entire room was shaking. A tray of scalpels spun dangerously near Sophie. Something heavy clanged against the ship and echoed into the operating room.

A voice rang out from the brass tube protruding from the wall. "Captain! There's an emergency!"

"What did I tell you about disrupting me when I'm operating?" the pirate yelled back.

This was her chance! Sophie started to agonizingly wiggle her hands free.

A loud boom pounded through the steel walls. "Sorry! But—Shachi, duck!—but there are two Marine battleships heading this way! They mean to intercept us before we reach Crawfish Island!"

Hell yeah! She did a mental pelvic thrust of victory. One wrist free! One more to go…

"They only sent two? Well, I've been meaning to get a higher bounty…" He grabbed a long sword leaning against the desk and shouted, "Pull up and stand by for my orders. Tell the men they better be ready to go wild!"

There was a jarring roar of sound at the other end. "Aye aye, Captain!"

He glanced over at Sophie, who instantly became motionless. Act cool, act cool, cool as an ice cube…

"Think you've somehow managed a narrow escape?"

That was exactly what she was thinking. "Actually, I was just saying my last prayers," she said flatly.

And before she had any time to protest, he jammed the syringe into the heel of her foot. A garbled, choked cry wrangled itself out of Sophie's throat as electricity shot through her leg, so fierce it felt like death.

"Good. I can at least cut off your poisoned foot and run some tests on it, after you die." He calmly assessed her desperate gasps for air, like how someone might inspect a dying bug under a microscope. "It's been nice knowing you, Miss…?"

"Go get e-eaten by a Sea K-King," she panted, glaring unfocusedly at the three blurring heads of Trafalgar Law.

He just laughed and kicked the door shut behind him, lock snapping in place.

Finally alone, Sophie screamed. She threw her all her weight against the restraints, pushing, straining, overcome with desperation. Her head pounded like someone was punching her repeatedly in the face, but her mind was going haywire. Parathion metabolizes to paraoxon, oxidases replaces sulfur with oxygen, first exposure symptoms: nausea, poor vision, muscle spasms; final symptoms: respiratory arrest, death.

Gaah, she took classes on this! Didn't she have to dislocate her thumbs? Or maybe those were for handcuffs… oh, of all the classes to sleep through… She squeezed her eyes shut and finally managed to yank her other wrist from the bonds… so now she had two hands flopping uselessly next to her legs.

"P-p-pineapples!"

Her eyes flickered over to the tray with all the scalpels on it. It was near—really near.

She stretched her fingers out, urgently straining for the end of a scalpel that was scant millimeters out of her reach. "Come on… please, please, please…"

With a hiss of triumph, she grasped the blade—a line of red appearing on her palm—and flipped it around her shaking fingers so she gripped the handle. Sophie pressed sharp metal to leather and started sawing. If she could just cut through the restraint on her forearms, then she could unbuckle the rest with no difficulty. Her teeth dragged on her bottom lip.

One minute… pineapples, the leather wasn't cutting easily…

Two minutes… faint explosions boomed against the ship…the pirate might be coming back soon…

Three…

Finally, Sophie fell over the side of the table and attacked the floor with her face. She crawled over to the medical cabinets—which were locked, what brilliance—raised herself to her knees, and smashed her fists through the glass.

Her eyes bugged.

"Holy m-m-mangos, you could knock out a whale with all these drugs!"

Right. She was currently dying of parathion poisoning. This was not the time. Think, Sophie, think, parathion was a chemical weapon, she'd worked on it before and even recommended autoinjectors of the cure to be carried by the marines… and the cure was… was…

…Atropine! Of course! Even an idiot's gotta have some in his ship!

She plunged her hands in and grabbed a fistful of white bottles. Her vision swam—oh fudgeapples. Sophie leaned over and loudly emptied her stomach of the contents she had ingested earlier that morning, which basically consisted of seawater and greyish bits of expired potato. Sophie sunk on all fours, wheezing and fumbling through the bottles.

Atropine.

Her nose was less than an inch above the neat label. Atropine, one hundred milligrams a pill. Snatching the bottle up with shaking hands, she twisted the cap open and popped two pills in her mouth.

Sophie slumped against wall, gripping her trembling hands together, eyes shut.

She sat there for some time, mentally reciting all the elements on the periodic table, and when that was done, their atomic symbols, and when that was done, their atomic weight. Slowly, little by little, she found it in her to stand back up. But she wasn't out of danger yet; her foot was numb, chances of paralysis high if she didn't get the poison in it drained. And excess atropine was toxic; she couldn't rely on that…

Sophie heard distant shouts, the sounds of battle, eerily reminiscent of Vira. Good, she thought vindictively. She hoped that rotten plum got his leg blown off.

Gritting her teeth, Sophie hopped over to the desk, where (she started laughing, because she was getting hysterical at this point) all her dirty clothes had been neatly folded—unmentionables included. Didn't that mean…? Not the time, she chided herself as she changed into her Marine uniform and wrapped her foot tightly with bandages to make it easier to walk on. For precaution's sake, she also stuck the scalpel in her pocket.

Now what to do about that locked door…

A thrown desk, two flying chairs, and multiple attacks with a surgeon's saw later, Sophie belatedly realized that, no, unlike the books she's read, this was not enough to break out of a steel door.

You fail at life, said an extremely nasty voice in her head.

"I'm kind of new to this," Sophie hissed under her breath, eyes narrowed and twitchy. Great. Now what was she going to do?

She started pulling open cabinets and overturning drawers. There had to be something she could work with in one of those medicine bottles.

Think, think, think thinkthinkthink what sort of medicine would a doctor carry that could bust open a steel door… alkaline metals? No, definitely impossible—nitrocellulose? Acetone peroxide? Raw sodium? Would he have any of those? Think, Sophie, think—you spent your whole life blowing things up for fun! Nitroglycerin, ethanol… wait a minute… ethanol…

Five minutes later, she set a roll of tape, a jar (she had to dump out an eyeball), and two bottles of isopropyl rubbing alcohol on the operating table. The latter was used as an antiseptic, but it also had over seventy percent of pure, concentrated ethanol. When she finished pouring, the jar was cheerfully swishing with medicine/flammable fluid and taped to the steel door. Now she needed fire.

…Oh, as if things would ever be that convenient.

She had no way of making a spark, and besides, with all these drugs in the room, she would bet a tooth that the psycho doctor fireproofed everything.

Sophie sat down heavily on the operating table. She was so, so close… but this was it. She really was going to die on a pirate ship. Though, in all honestly, the revelation of her dying place wasn't as depressing as her next thought: she was going to die without a last smoke.

If things were going the way Sophie imagined in her mind, she would have busted out of that door ages ago, contacted Hippo, boarded one of those Marine battleships while making immature faces at Trafawhatever and the rest of his evil, pox-marked crew as they were send to the brig, reached into her pocket like so, and a beautiful box of cigarettes would appear in one hand, her favorite lighter in the other, and she'd give herself a celebratory smoke…

Sophie blinked down at her hand, which clenched said favorite lighter.

"And next, one hundred million beli will appear!" she said loudly. Nothing happened. "Okay, so I don't have magic powers…"

She hopped off the table. Right, back at Vira…

(He ignored her, and she remembered at the last moment to grab her lighter and stick it in her pocket before stumbling out.)

That brief moment of giving into her addiction had saved her!

"I love you," Sophie murmured reverently, and kissed the lighter.

Revitalized, she vehemently ripped off a long piece of cloth from her ex-hospital gown (it rather stress-reducing) and twisted it, then soaked it in rubbing alcohol and plugged up the jar. The heat and pressure combined would hopefully make the alcohol burst into flames and explode.

She flicked the lighter. A tiny flame cheerfully burst into life, greeting Sophie with the sweet smell of smoke. She waved her ring finger over it, relishing the sizzle as yet another burn mark was added to the generous repertoire of scars on her hands.

Any last words? the mean, nasally voice in her head asked.

"Shut up," Sophie said serenely, "and let's just enjoy the music."

She lit the makeshift wick and leaped to the ground.

Seconds later, a bang and an explosion of air swept through the room. Bottles and scalpels and glass crashed onto the floor, but it wasn't as loud as she expected… or was used to. Sophie uncovered her head. Through the haze, she examined what once was a perfectly sterilized operating room.

…Trafalgar Law was not going to be a happy doctor.

The steel door swayed a little, barely torn off one hinge. But that was enough for Sophie to wiggle through.

"Nicotine, oh nicotine, how I've missed you so," she sighed.

She peeked at the peculiar metal pipes that lined the walls—man, this was a weird ship. Shrugging, Sophie stuffed the lighter in her pocket with the scalpel and slipped away. A few seconds later, she sneaked back into the room, turned the IV drip so it was parallel to the other machines, and bolted off again.

—

She couldn't move.

Sophie wasn't blocked by the evil doctor, or any of his evil, pillaging minions, no. She wasn't stopped by a Sea King, or a row of spikes threatening to shred her skin to pieces.

There was… a mud stain.

A mud stain on the floor, with a turned-over bucket of water and a wet mop beside it, clearly having been abandoned when the alarm rang out. But that wasn't the point. The point was: it was a huge, ugly lump of mud. Whoever had been cleaning this filthy hunk of metal should be forced to walk the plank! Or, you know, at least fired! What a disgrace! What an absolute ignominy! Even Sophie felt pity and embarrassment for this poor—

No.

Sophie forced her face forward. In her rather short time spent trying to escape, she figured out she was in a submarine—which foiled all her decent, half-mapped out plans. How the pineapples was she supposed to escape from a—

The mud stain was mocking her. Mocking. Her.

So close, Sophie. You are so close to the exit. Don't stop for a stupid stain on a stupid pirate ship! If you stop I'll smack you all the way to the Red Line!

She shuffled her toes forward, millimeter by millimeter.

Square numbers! Detergent! Bleach! Soap! Freshly-cut fingernails! Four! Nine! Sixteen! Twenty-five! Thirty-six! Four… oh, for the love of Sengoku, that pirate only missed one stain, how difficult is it to just mop off that one stain before running off to go kill a few marines—

"—I mean honestly, it's not that very d-d-difficult!" she yelled in aggravation, grabbed the broom, and started to vigorously attack the stain.

And once that was done, Sophie suddenly noticed how dirty the floor was around the little clean spot. Well that just wouldn't do… She pulled up the sleeves of her shirt and gripped the mop like a sword. When she was finally done, the entire passageway was sparkling—glittering, even. Sophie wiped her brow with a satisfied sigh… cleanliness was indeed a true sign of happiness.

A large shadow fell over her shoulder. Filled with trepidation, she looked up.

"Aye?" The big, fluffy polar bear blinked. "A marine?"

She slapped a hand over her nose. Get a grip, Sophie! But she couldn't. It was just—too—too—gaah, damn you nosebleeds!

"Here." Sophie handed the mop over and bowed. "I cleaned up for you."

"Ah, thanks—"

But Sophie was already limping as fast as she could limp out of the hallway, blood spewing through her fingers. The sub was at the surface! As long as they didn't pull down, she could escape through one of those hatches at the top, right? She clambered up a steel ladder, praying for the universe's temporary suspension of the seemingly ubiquitous Murphy's Law—

"We're landing at Crawfish Island tonight, ya bastards!"

Why, Universe, why, Sophie sobbed.

Hurried footsteps were heading her way. "Oi, oi, careful on the ladder!" a voice yelled. "If you get even more blood on the sub, Captain might have a fit."

Sweet son of a clamshell, was there a thing between ladders and Super Mega Bad Things Happening? Cursing herself for not noticing that the battle had already stopped, Sophie quickly slid back down to the floor and jerked open door number one.

"Gaahh!" Sophie squeaked as a tower of falling brooms appeared over her.

She ended up sprawled beneath a pile of wooden sticks, dust and cobwebs clinging to her clothes. She glared at the brooms, feeling betrayed.

There was noise like someone jumped onto the floor. "C'mon, Penguin! We're supposed to check if the patient is a corpse yet."

Muttering swears, she grabbed the traitorous brooms and whooshed inside the closet, closing the door behind her with a quiet snap. In the dim light, she could see a large, hairy arachnid dangling on a fine thread right in front of her nose. She nervously smiled at it as she dabbed her nose with her shirt.

Another person landed on the floor. "Too bad it had to be a girl. And the Captain wouldn't even let us take a peek. I mean… you know, even if she was damn ugly…"

She scowled. Yeah, thanks.

"At least we're at port now, huh?" A happy sigh. "After three weeks I'll finally get to bask in the presence of women."

Her foot throbbed in an unexpected flare of pain. Unconsciously reaching down, Sophie bashed her elbow against the wall. Her eyes bugged. "Homunnghf!"

"What was that?"

She clapped her hands over her mouth.

"What was what?"

"I thought I heard…from down the hall…"

A bead of sweat trickled down her chin. The shadows underneath the door shifted.

There wasn't any room for her to crouch down and hide! Buckets and frying pans and broken anatomical models and other random stuff that definitely did not belong in a broom closet were surrounding her. One wrong move and it would all tumble down. She dug her hands into her pocket, remembering the scalpel she stole earlier. Sophie clutched it tightly. She could pull a feint—aim at his heart, dodge away at the last second, and run as if hellhounds were snapping at her ankles. She could—maybe—probably…

The footsteps paused right outside the door. Sophie stopped breathing.

"Eh, Bepo? What the hell're you doing?"

Sophie perked up. Bepo, the bear pirate filled with adorable squishiness! She pressed her hands against the door and tried to peer through the crack of light…and felt like the weirdest pervert ever…

"The patient escaped."

Sophie squinted. Pineapples.

"WHAT THE HELL, YOU TALKING BEAR?"

"I'm sorry…"

"SO WEAK!"

"S-stop! This isn't the time! We have to tell Captain about this!"

"Ah! Right! Bepo, where did you last see her?"

"Down over there. She was cleaning."

"Like… cleaning blood off a knife or something?" one pirate asked slowly.

"Nope. She was mopping the floor."

There was a long, befuddled silence. Sophie felt strangely mortified. So what if she enjoyed cleaning? It was perfectly normal to want to eradicate every single bacterium in existence, wasn't it?

The other pirate sighed pityingly. "Poor girl. What experiment did Captain do to her head?"

Sophie glared at the door, fuming.

"Okay, Bepo, Captain's in the kitchen, alert him about the patient. Shachi, let's go check the operating room."

The footsteps pattered away and all Sophie was left with was a hurt ego and the smell of dank mold. After waiting a few seconds, she tentatively peeked out into the deserted hallway.

It seemed escaping from the top of the submarine was out. But Sophie got a better idea…

Beyond the porthole was a cerulean sky speckled with thin streaks of white. If she craned her neck enough, she could see the tide rolling onto the beach and a clump of tall, swaying trees running along the curve of land. This was what she left G-13 to see. And now here she was, seeing it behind the porthole of a pirate submarine. Life was ironic.

Sophie inspected the glass pane. This would be a bit unorthodox, but…

"There's a first time for everything," she muttered to herself, running her hands along the latch.

It took three bleeding fingers and one hangnail, but Sophie somehow managed to pry the porthole open. She grabbed hold of the rim and shoved herself through it, legs first.

Inch by inch, arm cramp after arm cramp, Sophie shimmied her way out with a pop, inhaled quickly, and dropped into the ocean. The splash was instantly muffled. Bubbles followed her descent and the sea wrapped her feverish skin in a cool, calming blanket. Her hair rippled and swirled like a golden cloud, almost ethereal against the blue depths.

Sophie opened her eyes and kicked upwards.

The air was salty and fresh, and it tasted of freedom. She took in the squawking gulls, the sunlight sparkling on the waves, the island just ahead. She could see a town right at the edge of the beach; she could find help there, and safety, and life was wonderful.

A large smile breaking across her face, Sophie started swimming towards shore.

—

Law tossed an apple up and down as he surveyed the damage.

Glass, medicine bottles, and atropine pills were scattered across the floor. Cabinets had been broken into, chairs tossed clear across the room. A revolting smell wafted from the puddle next to the sink. Oddly enough, the IV was the only thing that looked untouched.

After a very long hush, Law took a step forward and kicked away a bloody eyeball. It knocked against the wall with a wet squish.

"That girl," he said quietly, "took my favorite scalpel."

"Maybe she drowned?" one pirate piped up, "After all, the poison—"

"The patient found the antidote and broke free using my rubbing alcohol. She cut through leather in her malnourished state on pure desperation alone." His assessment was coldly detached, as if he was simply stating the results of a diagnosis. "I'm certain she's already reached town."

"Well, why the hell're we standing around?" another pirate growled. "Let's find her, damn it!"

"You can't rush the perfect dissection," Law responded with a small smirk. "There's a method to this madness, after all, and it's been so long since I found such a curious specimen."

"Whoooa, Captain, you're so cool," the Heart pirates cheered from behind a corner.

With one last glance over the wreck of his operating room, he said, "Someone clean up this mess. Someone else get me a brain. I feel like burning something."

Law munched on the apple as he left. Shachi and Penguin eyed each other behind their captain's retreating back.

"I'll take the floor, you get the cabinets, and we'll leave Bepo the… brain?" Shachi proposed.

"Deal," Penguin agreed quickly.

to be continued

trivia

strangways sophie: named after the "gentleman" pirate henry strangways, who historically had many friends in high places. sophie comes from the greek sophia, the personification wisdom. she probably doesn't seem wise at all in chapter one, but she'll get better.
charaka hippo: charaka was an ancient indian figure who contributed science and medicines to ayuverda. hippo is short for hippocrates.
ship with the dragon-shaped figurehead: dragon the revolutionary's ship. we'll learn who's been fighting on vira in later chapters.