I was well-spoken. Well-read, too. My kanji was neat and diverse. My vocabulary was rich. For want of knowledge, I was in a comfortable place.

Physicality was a different matter.

The arrival of December was a harbinger for a plateau in my learning. Sure, I was getting stronger—I spent every day getting beat down by rugged urchins and sea veterans alike, honing fighting techniques and extrasensory skills. Where Minoruba ate Kairiken's punches with ease, my recovery time had stalled. Where Marigold could crush a stone between her fingers, I my palm. It was as if I wasn't making progress.

The three of us were out in the back area of the Rip-Off Bar. Shakky was better known on the archipelago as a strong-arming bar wench than a notorious pirate but, either way, it was if there was an invisible fence surrounding the perimeter that locals avoided. She, Silvers, and Gloriosa were in the bar postulating big-name movement and the upheaval of sociopolitical infrastructure. Whitebeard was their hot take that week.

"No, you do it like this!" Marigold glared at her left palm like it ate her last red-bean pancake and closed it over the chunk of shrapnel that lay upon it. When she opened her fist, it had turned into a compact, irregularly shaped ball, dents shaped by her fingers.

"You didn't do it any differently than I did except looking like you had to take a shit," I snapped.

Her face turned red. "I did not!"

Taking a breath, I tried to imagine my spars with the boys or the rock punching exercises Silvers actually made us do. I focused on the metal shard I held. There was no darkened film on my skin—none of us had reached that level—though I felt the metal give as I closed my hand.

Then I dropped it. "Fuck!" The damn thing cut my palm up in the places where my Armament gave, shallow red grooves matching the darkened liquid on its sharp, uncrushed edges.

"Ray-san said no swearing," Hancock chided.

"Silvers can kiss my ass."

"That's something I don't think I'd enjoy much," he called. Shakky was leaning against the doorframe as he descended the steps. "What is it, exactly, that you're having trouble with, Kumo?"

"He can't do Armament," Sandersonia replied.

"Incorrect, Big Head." She covered her face, turning away from me. Sandersonia hated when I called out her head size. Her melon was fucking gigantic. Dora the Explorer, twice. "I can use Armament, it's just too weak. I keep getting cut up."

"You must visualize your fighting spirit! Feel it and channel it through you to the parts of your body you wish to protect."

"That's what I've been trying to do."

From her spot in the door, Shakky began to chortle. "Ray, dear," Silvers stopped making arm gestures, "I don't think you're going to get through to him like that. Perhaps we've neglected properly training you in Haki, Kumo-kun."

I stared directly at Silvers. "Probably."

"D–Don't single me out when you say that…"

"Fufufu! Calm down, boys. Now, Kumo-kun, how do you channel your Observation-colored Haki?"

"I mean, for the most part, I don't. It's always there." I paused to think. "I guess, if I want to eavesdrop, I have to be focused on the specific voice I want to hear. I can find people I know, since I hear their voices often, but most other people's voices kind of blend together. Most of it's active listening."

"Can you see presence?"

"Once."

"Once?"

"… Tiger." I was careful not to say the name of the Holy Land around the girls, yet at the mention of Fisher Tiger, there was a sobriety that overtook them. "I'd never seen colors before then. It was like… negative space. All white except the people I could hear were colorful bodies. Never saw it again, but I hear everything much more apparently now."

There was a glimmer in Shakky's eyes. "A sixth sense, is it?"

"Isn't that what it is?"

"Haki absolutely interacts with your senses. You must utilize it in order to strengthen it."

"That's what I've been doing," I groused.

"It is not. You are truly gifted, Kumo-kun. I've never once met someone with an affinity for Observation as strong as yours. From what I'm hearing, this gift has blinded you—and I, don't you make that face—to the proper way to use your Haki."

"So, if I'm not using my Haki, how come I can hear Gloriosa in the bar right now scarfing down three jelly donuts at once with the intent to tell you she accidentally dropped them on the floor?" Hancock massaged her temples in frustration of the elder's antics as Silvers burst out laughing.

"Are you really using it? Or are you simply Observing?"

"I'm always Observing."

"Precisely!"

What's that mean?

Shakky and I oft played a game of wits. We liked to synthesize inductive and deductive reasoning, teasing solutions out of each other. Half of the theories we came up with weren't confirmed, couldn't technically be called factual, but came to us with such clarity that we absolutely believed in them.

If I'm using it and not using it, what am I doing? I'm Observing. I've always been Observing. If I've always been Observing then I guess I wouldn't really know how to Observe? Just that I do and that it was ever so. So, in actuality—

"I don't know how to fucking use Haki‽ Shakky, that's bullshit. That's it!" I threw my hands in the air and death dropped. "I give up." The winter Sabaody sky was beryl blue, not a hint of cloud. Sunshine always seemed twice as bright when the air was crisper than the usual dauby humidity, though all winter meant was a couple chilly days and a ten-degree temperature difference.

The girls moved to crowd over me and watch me lose my mind as Shakky closed the door and slunk to our grassy training area. "Now, now, no need to be dramatic. That is what I was thinking, however; you've been strengthening your Observational abilities and it's making your sense stronger, not your Haki itself. Your issue with Armament made that apparent." She walked into my line of sight, blocking out the glaring sun and taking on the appearance of a silhouette with the light source behind her head. A halo, almost. "Since you rarely consciously channel your Observation, it would be unsurprising you're having troubles channeling your Armament. I wasn't properly instructing you and, for that, I apologize.

"I'll ask you another question—how do you channel your Armament?"

"I picture battle and whatever I'm trying to do. When I tried to crush the metal, I was imagining the times I've fought and myself, crunching the piece in my hand, at the same time. Fighting spirit or whatever." Shakky's lips quirked sharply downward, her gaze moving to Silvers.

"That is not how you channel Armament-colored Haki."

"Of course it is! The girls are doing great!"

"It is not." Rare was it to see Shakky so ruffled. "We'll have to review the fundamentals in order to find out where, exactly, the disconnect is." She sat next to me, crossing her legs. Wearily, I sat up and faced her. "So, what is Haki, Kumo-kun?"

"Pretty sure you already know that, Shakky-san." Lightning quick, she pinched my cheek. Hard.

"Fuc—"

"I'm pretty sure you do, too. Humor me."

I heaved out an exaggerated sigh. "Haki. The ambition of will. The influence of desire on insight for Observation. The influence of desire on strength for Armament. The influence of desire on others for Conqueror. Everyone has it. Not everyone can use it."

"Good! Each color is a different manifestation of desire therefore each color must be channeled differently. You can use Armament so I would like for you to think of the very first time you were able. How did you do it?" I closed my eyes.

The first time I had used Armament, I almost broke my fucking wrist. Silvers had us blindfolded in front of the Yarukiman roots and forced us to exert our 'fighting spirit' onto the mangroves. The goal was to make a dent. We were in the humid autumn sun for hours, slapping tree roots. Marigold finished first, then Sandersonia, then Hancock. They were all allowed to go back to the bar and eat. I was alone with an asshole pirate, getting blisters on my hands because I wasn't genki enough. Not to mention I was hungry.

"I wanted to punch Silvers in the face. Badly. Pictured his face each time I hit the mangrove, actually. And then…" When I remembered, I chuckled. "I imagined my hand as a giant flyswatter, slapping him across the archipelago and into Paradise. He had to swim all the way back. Didn't realize I had used Armament until he told me." I opened my eyes to watch the mortification etch onto Silvers' face, the girls covering their mouths as they laughed.

"Momomomomo!"

"F–Flyswatter…" Truly, he deserved it.

The corners of Shakky's lips turned up as she continued. "Ray is quite the catalyst. You channeled it with imagery, then. Your hand was the apparatus in which you were able to imbue Haki to exert Armament. You haven't tried to recreate that result?"

"I mean, I don't want to have to be angry when I use it and picturing a fucking flyswatter every time is out of the question."

"Have you tried picturing Ray?" The man in question shriveled further.

"I'd rather not." Shakky and I stewed for a bit, her in breezy curiosity and I in frustrated rumination. "What's the difference between Observation-colored Haki and Armament-colored Haki, anyway?" She peered at me in confusion.

"You already know the answer to that question."

I waved my hand, "No, no, not the theory. I don't know how to channel Haki properly, apparently, but when I'm passively using my Observation, it's not like there's one spot of my body I have to focus on. Silvers says to focus on the body parts I want to strengthen. Are there subjectivities that I don't know of? Triggers which activate Armament-colored Haki? Should I be focusing on a certain part of my body to move it around?" Shakky blinked.

"Move it… around?" She pursed her lips. There was a deep look of concern on her face as she pondered my question. "You can certainly push your Haki from your body. What do you mean by 'move it around'?"

"You're always talking about channeling it. A channel is a streamline, which means it has to come from somewhere. So, what's the difference between where I channel Observation and Armament?"

"The difference you're talking about is the ambition of your will: desire's influence. I'm afraid I'm unsure what you're asking, Kumo-kun."

"I don't know what the fuck I'm asking," I huffed, feeling a headache coming. Flopping back on the grass, I thought about what she said. "Shakky-san, you can use Haki up like a well, right?"

"That's correct."

"Can you move Haki around in your body?" Concern passed her features again.

"Not that I'm aware."

"Then how is it possible to use different types when there isn't a tributary?"

Her voice was completely flat. "Your ambition."

Now wait a motherfucking minute.

Haki was a finite source: fact. Haki was a fluid source: speculation. Truth be told, I had always thought of Haki to be like the chakra in Naruto—a pool of energy that could flow throughout the body.

If that wasn't true, then…

Fighting spirit was what Silvers called it. Shakky said it was the influence of desire. The whole time, I had imagined awakening a different type of Haki to use. Something I'd never felt before, something new. That was the issue. Armament was meant to exert fighting spirit into a person's innate Haki. The colors were less separate types of different Haki within someone and more separate expressions of one Haki. A transmutation of the individual Haki everyone had from birth to death.

It was a color. Armament-colored Haki, when someone's Haki was the color of Arms. Colors were then an indicator of when Haki changed, not what Haki someone is using. "Shakuyaku." My countenance delighted her. Her mouth was slightly ajar, turned up into a smile while soft breath ghosted past her lips. "Colors." I scrambled off the ground, going back for the scrap of metal I cut my palm on.

Really hope this doesn't turn to tetanus.

I didn't need to picture mangled metal or a flyswatter. I needed to feel my Haki, needed to transform it, change its color. Haki always felt like gooseflesh to me—akin to the eerie knowledge of someone staring from across the room, a coldness only the spirit can feel. Mine was soft and aware, always whispering to me, telling me things I didn't want to hear. I breathed in and closed my eyes. I really never did see true color again after Tiger's attack. I hadn't tried, hadn't wanted to. I slowed my respiration. I focused.

The faintest hues were visible, fizzled specks of white dancing around the presences I could sense. I didn't want to see them. I grabbed onto the feeling of strength, solidifying everything I sensed, and my hazy observance gave way to another perception. The colors disappeared completely but the black turned grey. My muscles seemed to lock, completely taut yet still, somehow, I could move. When I twitched my fingers, it felt like I had moved them all the way to my palm though they only rested atop the metal. Once I squeezed, the shrapnel gave, and, luckily, my wounds hadn't reopened. The metal had barely changed but I saw the evenness of my grip on its shape when I opened my eyes. It was nothing, a pittance from what I heard of the girls' unimpressed presences. That didn't matter because I'd found it—the obstacle, the reason I wasn't progressing.

I turned to Shakky, ready to hear her hypothesis, and stopped. The way she gazed upon me was nothing short of unsettling. As if she wasn't really looking at me but someone else, although she was openly scrutinizing me.

Her eyes were an endless black. No pupil to be seen, not a visible stroma in her iris.

(Her eyes reminded me of The Void.)

:

:

As it turned out, Armament-colored Haki wasn't my fucking bag. While the main source of my struggle had been solved, I barely scooted forward with manipulating my Haki in the following months. When Marigold had snapped the root off a Yarukiman, I realized that I had absolutely no hope. It was fucking terrifying.

"It's too hot for this shit. What's with this team training garbage, anyway? I can practice on my own time."

"Oh? You're jealous Mari is better than you?" I bared my teeth at Hancock from my area beneath a mangrove. She sniffed. "It's not that hot, you baby."

Beside me, Sandersonia made a small noise of disagreement. "It's too hot, Big Sis."

"Kumo's almost as sensitive as you, Sonia," Hancock moaned.

"Mm! Kumo and Sonia are very similar."

She faced Hancock with an attitude, flushed from the heat. Sandersonia was touchy-feely, emotional, and much too polite. "Sandersonia and I aren't remotely similar, Forehead."

"You are. Both of you are moody little hatchlings; always 'too hot' this or 'too cold' that. Not to mention your eyes and her tongue."

I moved closer to my mangrove-mate. "You do have a forked tongue, don't you? Show me." Flustered yet too compliant to deny, she stuck her tongue out. As soon as it left her mouth, it flicked up then down then up then down again, withdrawing at the same speed.

"S-Sorry! It does that on its own." She pushed it out again, letting her tongue droop once it stopped moving. I shifted closer to her mouth, wishing for a pair of forceps so I could properly examine it. Her tongue wasn't nearly as muscular as a standard human's and the papillae were so small it was if there weren't any. Carnation pink, thin and glossy. I was curious if it was genetic, or if it had something to do with the Devil Fruit she had eaten while captive. "Aren't—"

| "—you a Zoan type?" |

| Hancock will look on with terror and confusion. "H–How… how did you know that?" |

"—you sisters? Hancock and Marigold don't have these features." Their voices lulled for a moment then Sandersonia spoke up. She was wringing her hands.

"Th–They gave us… Devil Fruits to eat. I turned… I turned into a big snake and then when I turned back I didn't—I couldn't turn back all the way. When I'm not transformed, it still feels different." Her shaky smile was about a foot long on her giant face. "A-At least… I could gain a twin like Kumo."

"You can't be twins, stupid, he's a boy," Marigold scolded.

"They're called fraternal twins, Carrot Top. Read your books before that little brain of yours turns to hummus."

"You said I had a big brain!"

My smile was wicked. "I said you had a big head."

:

:

Valentine's Day, 1514.

(Oda, Oda, Oda. Where is Saint Valentine? Where is Ireland and the Roman Catholic Church? What the fuck, man.)

Commerce had been steadily reestablished on the archipelago but heavier was the presence of vagrants and World Government officials; that didn't stop traveling couples coming through to see the frills and pink-dyed bubbles Sabaody was decorated with. Aside from the back area, the girls didn't leave the Rip-Off Bar. Sandersonia liked to sit by the window and watch the people live their wretched lives, asking questions about Sabaodian culture and if I knew anyone. It was what she was doing that day, watching even the Lawless Zone alight with lovey-dovey idiots robbing people or whatever.

"Why… why are they holding hands? With the men. I've been seeing it all day…"

Gloriosa animated, scuttling over to shove her face in Sandersonia's. "Nyothing! They're dyoing nyothing except catching a disease."

She leaned back uneasily. "Disease?"

"The love disease."

I snorted. "Smartest thing you've said, hag." Gloriosa growled at me like a disgusting chihuahua. "It's Valentine's Day. Romance day, basically," I said to Sandersonia.

"What's romance?" Hancock asked, having the nerve to stare at me like I owed her an answer.

"Like, love?"

"Love? The disease Elder Nyon was talking about?" The bewilderment all three wore was offensive.

"Yeah, love. When people want to spend the rest of their lives together."

"That doesn't sound like a disease to me…" I grinned at Marigold.

"It's not."

"It certainly is!" Gloriosa cut in. "It is called 'Love Sickness' and the last two empresses of Amazyon Lily perished from the virus. I, too, was once afflicted."

"What is it?" Hancock stressed. "If it's wanting to spend your life with someone, how do you get sick! I want to spend my life with Sonia and Mari. Am I sick?" She paled. "Do I have the love sickness?"

"Th-That means we have it, too!" Marigold's hands flew to her face, her neck, examining herself in search of fucking consumption.

I'm surrounded by imbeciles.

"Nyo, girls, have nyo fears. It only happens when men are aryound."

Hancock clenched her fist, a shadow of rage cast on her face. "I would never… never want to spend the rest of my life with a man."

(She talked a lot of shit for the woman who was going to fall in love with the main character.)

The Amazonians all focused on me as I began to speak. "First and foremost, that's wrong. Love doesn't only happen between men and women," the girls appeared worried again, "and it is not a fucking disease." Gloriosa dared open her mouth to interrupt me so I gave her the look.

While the Japanese language as a whole was frustrating to learn, the complexity makes for nuanced clarity in speech. There are three different terms for "love." Suki, koi, and ai. What Gloriosa spoke of was koi, romantic "love." Koi is used in the context of dating, butterflies from a crush, or to "fall in love." It's not necessarily casual but it's not as serious as ai. Suki, on the other hand, is closer in relation to adoration. Suki may come out in a "love" confession, a mother may use suki to relate to her child how much she "loves" them, or someone might use suki to describe how much they "love" ramen. Koi is invoked by romance while suki is invoked by happiness and both mean "love."

Ai is applicable where there's faith, familiarity, devotion, and trust; when two people in a relationship know each other in and out and love each other without any pretenses, doubts, or pitfalls. Ai isn't for newlyweds or "lovers." Japanese culture is so formal that people who've been married for years are nervous of ai. Ai is immensely intimate.

"You three love each other, right?"

"Right!" Sandersonia exclaimed. The others nodded, confirming that they understood suki.

"Your love is platonic. The romantic love is what Shakky-san and Silvers have." Each of them slowly donned a face of understanding, seeming to reassess the pirates as Shakky cuddled up next to her husband on the leather couch.

Gloriosa's face scrunched. "Pura…tonikku…?"

"What's platonic?" Hancock asked. Always sharp, that one.

"Well, would you kiss your younger sisters?"

Brusquely, she responded, "Of course I would!"

"On the lips?"

That was the wrong question.

Her shoulders shook, a shiver ripping through her entire body. "I—I don't… I…" The presences around me spoke in dizzied whispers as Sandersonia's hands began to shake, tears forming in her eyes. Hancock was frozen as she stared at me and Marigold immediately folded in on herself. All three became sickened and an immediate, fervid wrath settled in the pit of my stomach.

Realistically speaking, it was obvious they had been raped. Young girls held in captivity for years by men whose egos were only matched by their greed. Characters who were introduced with an overwhelming distrust of males. It was wrong but it was back story. Until… it wasn't. Three innocent girls stood in front of me entrenched in shame and fear which they did not deserve to dwell. An abyssal hatred was making its way into my heart – a familiar, ubiquitous pressure on my insides, an explosion contained beneath my epithelial tissues – and when Shakky barked out my name, I saw the very same emotion upon the Boas' faces.

When given the chance to take back from their tormentors, use the name of the organization which ruined their young lives to shield themselves from it in their adult ones, I couldn't fault them for monetizing it. Those girls needed to know, however, what the fuck was going on.

"Men…" Hancock's expression darkened. "Men did not do this to you." In an instant, her lips were pulled back and her presence was screaming at me. "Men did not do this to you! Men did awful fucking things and you can hate them as much as you want, but what were they a part of? Whose flag do they fly in the Holy Land? Who protects those vile fucking actions?" She was on the verge of tears as Sandersonia and Marigold sobbed. Shakky was stepping forward, a call to halt me on her lips, and I continued, "Never forget that the world allows them to do those things not because of what they are. It is because of who they are. Never forget," I gnashed my teeth as she stared on, fuming and acquiescent, "that you deserved none of it. All of you are yourselves with or without their mark and they took so fucking much away from you—I know they did, and you deserve every single moment back. You can't get them back. All you can do is move forward and create a future that they cannot touch. Men did not do this. They are not men."

With all wit and might fleeing from her body, the teenager in front of me crumpled to the ground on her knees. "They are not men," she repeated, eyes locked to the floorboards. She breathed in. She breathed out. "If they are not men then what are they?"

The room fell silent. The drip drip drip of Sandersonia's tears hitting the aged floorboards echoed in my ears. Each presence thrummed, anticipation bearing down with such force that I knew in a mere moment what delineated those who wished for dreams to come true and those who made them come true.

(The turning point was three words.)

"They are nothing."

The actions of the World Government were unforgivable. True, honest justice would never be meted out while they remained in power.

:

:

I'd never been to the shipyards before. Marines liked to skulk around and screen ships, so I stayed away from the 50s. Gloriosa and the girls were leaving, however, so I had to see them off.

Off Grove 52 was a caravel. A collection of women stood near its mast, weapons at their sides as they sized up the land. The ship was smaller than most of the others in the harbor, hull painted with vibrant primaries and etched in designs reminiscent of those from the Viking ships of Normal Land; serpentine bodies outlined by ornate swirls, curled back horns at their crowns as they undulated among each other. Their mouths revealed fangs, each outstaring with one large, slit eye. Hancock assessed it with reverence, a contemplative weight coloring her voice as she appraised the carvings. Marigold and Sandersonia were gazing up at the women on the ship, bright with excitement and recognition—

Home home we're going home I want—

It's Tsubaki-sama she's here oh oH it's—

I winced at the volume of their voices, so loud that I could make out what they were saying. As much as I practiced using my Observation the right way, I was far from controlling it.

A lone warrior jumped down from four fucking meters and landed heavily on the sticky grass of the grove, already bowed before Gloriosa. "Elder Nyon, it is a pleasure to see you well." The old woman smiled. More than any other day, she was tired. No histrionics or idiotic faces. Not a chihuahua or a Pop-Tart cat, just an old lady. She sighed, relief and exhaustion blowing from her nose.

"As am I. Please rise, Tsubaki-chan." When she stood, I realized how fucking tall she was. Amazon, indeed. It was odd being near such a large woman. Everyone in One Piece was larger than people in Normal Land. I knew Marigold was going to grow up to be a monster but even as a fourteen-year-old, she was almost a foot taller than I. Tsubaki brightened when she turned her violet gaze to Shakky.

With a quick bow, she blurted, "And it is a pleasure to see you in good health, as well, Shakuyaku-sama!"

Fluttering her lashes, Shakky played coy. "Oh? You know of me?" Tsubaki shone.

"You're an icon! You're the reason I joined the Kuja, to maybe one day sail and bring knowledge of the seas into your library. You've sailed around the whole world and I've heard you crossed blades with the Pirate King," she spoke the last part lowly, as if his very title would bring havoc. I let go of their chatter and moseyed over to the sisters.

"Finally made it, huh?"

"Y-Yeah." Marigold's reply was tight. All three of them, however, were less tense than I'd ever seen them. Sandersonia was wringing her hands and Hancock turned her attention from the ship to me, sadness accenting her features. I considered her for a moment then scoffed.

"Don't go soft on me now, Forehead." Waspishly, she strutted forward and pinched my cheek.

Oh, she's good.

We glared at one another until Sandersonia broke the silence. "I'm… I'm gonna miss you a lot, Kumo." Her brows were drawn up, the usual shyness gone from her demeanor as she reached for my hands. My palms fit in her larger ones easily, the cream color of her skin swallowing up my russet fingers. "You won't forget about us, right? I won't forget about you."

"Sandersonia. Marigold. Hancock." I met each set of seafoam, chestnut, and cerulean irises as I said their names. Not one flinched, looking back with resolution and sorrow. "I could die and remember you."

(Ha. Ha ha!)

In a rare display, all three blushed deeply. Hancock brushed a finger against her own cheek and put her hands atop her younger sister's. Marigold, too, clasped on. It was clammy and honestly uncomfortable.

"Please take care, Kumo."

"You, too. You're all going to do so much, you know?"

"How do you know that?" Marigold's question was fragile.

I smiled at each of the future phenoms who stood before me, honest emotion touching my heart. The guileless girls who listened to what I had to say, who loved to learn and be. "Because I saw it." Hancock laughed, manic, free, and squeezed our hands tightly before letting go.

"Kumo is a strange man."

:

:

In Sabaody's underbelly were black market 'shops;' fronts that catered to the shady dealings and other illicit activities that the archipelago engendered. The arms shop I was outside of was not one of them. In fact, children were encouraged to get weapons and hopefully pick up trade, so there wasn't anything out of the ordinary when a tween walked in and bought some knuckledusters. The main contention shop owners had was with thievery. I had enough cash to graduate from stealing from merchant stalls and make real purchases from a (questionably) legitimate establishment. Shop owners didn't give a fuck who you were or where you were from. If you had dough, you had product.

The place smelled like petrol, steel, and mineral oil when I walked in. There was a woman behind the counter, large mauve orbs trained on the door with nonchalant vigilance, as impossible as it seemed. Her skin, toffee brown, was littered with little scars. She was a thin thing, her white hair cropped into a buzzcut. Those eyes seemed to be the biggest part of her. Unbelievably, her breasts were small beyond the One Piece standard—certified A cups. Her jaw was strong and her lips thin.

"Welcome." Probably a smoker. I tilted my head in acknowledgement and headed farther in the shop. "If you're thinkin' of liftin', be my guest, but trash that tries to steal from me gets taken out."

"Is every kid trash to you?" I watched her. Visibly, the woman didn't react. Her presence, however, reared as if I'd struck at her.

"Just the ones who steal," she replied coolly. Instead of speaking, I continued my perusal of the store.

(In Normal Land, forging metal was an archaic homage to smithing. A niche interest for people into historical reenactment, welding, antiquing, cosplay, and the like. In One Piece, it's a thriving career. This world is dominated by strength. Yeah, there's politicking—there's always fucking politicking. The people of this world with real influence are fighters. Swordsmen, martial artists, mutants. Pirates hold so much sway because this is a dog eat dog world, and their dog? Their dog is fucking Cerberus.)

Every weapon in the shop started around 300,000 beri, prices climbing the farther back I walked. I knew from my many dealings with the scum of Sabaody that the woman manning the shop wasn't a cheat; the weapons were more than likely well-crafted and worth the high prices. Braxton would've had a field day in the little shop.

Although my hands were clean, I didn't touch anything out of respect for the craft. Oils from the fingertips made swords more prone to rusting. Nothing seemed to stand out to me until I came upon an intricate bow. Wooden, hand-carved from what I could tell. It didn't have the angular carved quality. I figured it was sanded to be smooth. I knocked on the piece and there was next to no reverb; a thick shellac and dark hardwood. It was gorgeous.

"I see you have an eye." She came up behind me, voice wary. "This here's a Hikishi. Carver only ever made five of 'em. Superb drawback and compatible with damn near any arrow, though I got good ones to pair." She surveyed me up and down. "'Course, you're gonna have to give up the tatas if you want this beau."

"…Excuse me?" All things considered, my breasts weren't a major issue to me at the time. I anticipated them growing but comparing my barely-there lumps to, say, Marigold's C-cups… I wasn't entirely unhappy.

"Yep," the woman said, popping her 'p.' "See these?" She gestured at her chest. "I gave my life to the bow. You gotta wrap up if you wanna get low draws with it and when you wrap, they stop growing. You'll be flat chested for life if you commit, 'specially this early."

That didn't make sense. Well, it did, but not by One Piece standards. The Amazonians I'd seen had tits the size of my head. Then again, who was to say they were skilled at shooting arrows? Their danger lied in their ability to fortify their weapons with Armament; an arrow that could crush stone likely didn't need precision on the front end. At least some things stuck.

Unrepentantly, I stared at her chest. "What do you wrap with?"

She perked up, apparently invigorated by my interest. "I started off with compression wraps to keep everything as tight as possible; thing about that is it restricts airflow when you're tryna breathe. Bad move. I suggest regular cloth bandages. You only need to wrap the breast area, nothin' lower or higher so your innards stay untouched as possible. 'Course, you're gonna have your own comfort zone. Try not to go so tight that there's skin poppin' out 'round the bandages. The ease of the drawback is what's essential—it'll build accuracy and then you can put more strength into it. You'll wanna wrap your hands, too, for soreness. Either that or get some leather gloves."

"And do you sell cloth bandages here?" She led me to the counter and pulled four rolls of varying width from beneath it.

"Widest for the chest; seven hundr'd. Other two prob'ly wouldn't be much use to you, but six for the next size down, then five. Thinnest for your hands since they're small; four hundr'd." I dropped seven hundred beri on the counter and grabbed the large roll. "That it?"

"For now," I murmured. The woman grunted in reply. I decided then that I liked her. She wasn't friendly, per se, yet polite in an unrefined way. Her presence was guarded, and I could tell from the way she held herself that I put her on edge. That was okay. I'd always had that effect.

I stuffed the bandages in the pocket of my shorts and started to leave. "By the way," I called out, peeking over my shoulder without an expression, "I'm a boy."

:

:

Having my own room was nice. Once Lemon left, the three-bedroom Florence residence was finally breathable. Still rundown and small, though I was grateful for my own space. The pile of books in the corner of my nine by nine area had grown with room to organize them. Stuffed in the middle was the Canon Italiano, updated with each event I learned of.

| Knock! Knock!

"Hey, Kumo… Can we talk?" Parker will stand uncomfortably behind the door. |

My heart jumped. I approached the door, unlocking and opening it before my brother had the chance to rap upon it. His fist descended slowly as we made eye contact.

"Can I, uh…?" I backed up, letting him in. He regarded the room with surprise. Parker hadn't been in there since he moved out of it. Our relationship had faced its tumult before then, though. Eyeing my pile of books, my makeshift desk littered with pen and paper, my neat bed, my open closet, he smiled. It was nervous and relieved at once. "Didn't know if you'd let me in," he croaked, grey eyes flickering.

"Well. You're here," I said, taking a seat at the end of the bed then stretching my legs out. "What do you want to talk about?"

"I…" Parker's voice cracked. "I miss you. A lot. It's like we never talk anymore. I know you've made a lot of friends around the archipelago," he laughed, awe surging in his presence, "but your big bro still wants his time with you." His words were stilted, awkward, and I was reminded that we hadn't held a proper conversation in almost two years. I'd wanted to talk to him after coming out; cool down then have a powwow. Between lessons with Shakky, the whole debacle with Reika, and Mariejois, I couldn't find the time or energy to confront the situation.

In truth, I was afraid. I was afraid of being rejected by Parker again. I was afraid of getting angry again. I never wanted him to see me as he did that day, explosive wrath painted upon his features. It would only serve to make me angrier and I couldn't handle our relationship falling to ruin; distance was better than nothing. The voice of his presence called out my name in earnest and I glanced down. I missed him.

"I know you're mad, too." I met his eyes, drawing in a breath. They were burning as he spoke, lips pulled into a grimace and apology in his voice. "I should've listened to you better. You kept telling me. I—I had this idea of how things were supposed to be, and it messed up my perspective. Sorry I got so mad at you. I was angrier at the situation more than anything, honest. I just didn't know what to do when both of you were so worked up and I know you felt like I took mom's side, but you have to understand how fragile she is.

"Sometimes I feel like your body remembers when you were a baby," he mumbled. "When you were born, you were really… panicked. It was bad. No one knew what was wrong. Mom couldn't handle it and we didn't know if you were gonna make it. You probably would've died if I hadn't…" He paused, taking a seat next to me and closing his arm around my shoulder as I leaned into him. "I think maybe you instinctually reject her because you feel like that's what she did to you. I know you don't," his words strained, "…love her, like the rest of us do." Parker cleared his throat. "She loves you. I promise she does. She tries, she really, really does, as best she knows how. She's got her own demons. You gotta come to peace with it."

"It's not fa—"

"I know it's not fair to you, Ku—"

"It's not fair to you!" He tensed in shock. "It's not fair to Cho, it's not fair to Amy, it's not even fair to Lemon. I'm angry because the rest of you aren't."

Parker crushed me to his chest, burying his face in my mane. I felt wild rage unfurl in his being. He wrapped it up quickly, presence singing so fiercely with love that mine was resonating with it. "We were. All of us were. I still get pissed at her and that's my struggle to overcome. You can't be mad for so many people at once. It's not healthy."

"This whole family dynamic isn't healthy," I grumbled.

"I know." His words were muffled by my hair. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault. I shouldn't have blown up like that with you there. It probably made you feel like you had to choose a side; if I'd kept it between Reika and I then we wouldn't have had our bout in the first place. I'm sorry for putting you in that position. I let my pride get the better of me and it was selfish." I wrapped my arms around him as tightly as I could manage, burying my face in his nape. With those words I felt a release. "It's not your fault, Parker."

My brother was a silent crier. Nary a sound escaped him as I felt the droplets on my scalp where he held me close.

I wouldn't let go of my anger. Not when Cho was scorned for doing whatever was necessary to provide for us. Not when Parker's sacrifices went unrecognized. Not when Amy had to approach grown men, strangers, for a simple chance at a foothold in the world. Not when Lemon's mental health and worldliness were neglected. Not when those kids were convinced by years of conditioning that they were at fault for simply existing, that Reika was somehow the victim.

Never.

If Parker didn't want his mom to see that anger, however, then she wouldn't. For his sake.

"So," he laughed, sniffling and pulling back to gaze down at me with a smile. His eyes were rimmed red and joy was apparent on his face. "What's new, baby bro?"

:

:

A/N - This is an OC-centric story about a trans man. If you don't want to read about gender and the legitimate struggle of a trans main character, this story probably isn't for you. Fanfic is a fun little pastime for many people and I get that gender politics are the last thing many of you want to read about when you're skimming One Piece fics but I believe that fan creations can intersect with real life issues. Fanfic isn't just for 12 year old girls and their yaoi fetishes - it can be just as thought provoking and experimental as "real" novels! I'm a "real" author {in the making, haha} and these are the topics I wanted for this story I chose to write. Plus, representation is super important in the fanfic community for all the queer people who only see the cishet MCs and wish they could actually relate to content made by other consumers of the series they love.

Anyway, I know I'm late for the anniversary update and I'm sorry :( But WOW it's already 2019 {almost 2020!}. Three cheers for five years, kids.