iamfearitself-ackerman - Tumblr blog

iamfearitself-ackerman · 15 days ago

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somewhere in the past pt.4

summary: The world moves forward, but ghosts never rest. A familiar ship on the horizon. A name she has not spoken in years. A storm long overdue. Some things were meant to stay buried. Some things refuse to be forgotten.

c.w. : MAJOR SPOILERS for One Piece Film: Red, angst, mentions of violence, plot-centric, metaphors to rot

Disclaimer: Reader is called "Saram" meaning "Human/Person"

“Look at that! Saram’s holding tight onto Lime!” The crew had joked, hands pointing at the sight of a tiny baby clinging desperately to the hand of Lime Juice, her tiny fingers curled around his rough, calloused skin. Lime Juice shot them a glare, his face reddening with embarrassment. He had never been fond of the attention. “I’m not your damn dad, kid!” he grumbled, trying to peel her tiny hands off him, but she only gripped tighter.

Shanks chuckled from the background, watching the scene with a smile. “Saram loves you, Lime. You’re her favorite, huh?” He teased, crossing his arms, clearly enjoying the sight.

The young Saram didn’t seem to mind the teasing; she was too small to understand their jokes. Her wide, innocent eyes gazed up at Lime, seeking his attention, her chubby little arms clinging to him like a lifeline.

"I’m not her dad! Why does she always follow me around?" Lime muttered, pulling his hand away but immediately being dragged back when Saram let out a frustrated squeal. The crew erupted into more laughter, but Lime, clearly uncomfortable, tugged his hand free once more.

“Go to Captain Shanks, kid. I’m not your parent.” He tried to push her towards her father, but Saram only scrambled back to him, wrapping her tiny arms around his leg this time. Beckman shook his head in amusement, smoke curling from his cigarette.

“I’m not your dad, go to Captain!” Lime Juice repeated, almost angrily. Every time she clung to him, his discomfort grew, and he hated the way she always sought him out instead of Shanks. It was almost like he wanted nothing to do with her, and every time she’d wrap her small hands around him, it felt like a reminder of his failure to connect, of something he wasn’t prepared to face.

Weeks passed, and Lime’s avoidance continued. Every time the child sought him out, he would stiffen, his gaze darting away from her. The crew’s jokes never seemed to stop, either. “Hey, Lime, you sure you don’t want to be Saram’s dad?” They laughed, and Lime would brush them off with a grunt.

"I’m not her dad! Go to Captain!" Lime huffed, but his words were as much of an attempt to deflect as they were a protest. He wanted nothing more than to shrug off the responsibility, even though the truth was – he didn’t mind it. Not really.

But the fact that Saram wouldn’t leave his side, not for anything, was starting to get on his nerves. At first, it had been cute, the way she’d looked up to him, the way her little hands clung to him like he was the most important thing in the world. But as she kept following him, her small form never straying more than a few steps away, it started to feel less like an innocent attachment and more like a demand. He didn’t know what to do with it.

"I'm not your dad!" Lime had repeated, with an exaggerated sigh, tugging his hand out of her grasp.

But Saram, being the stubborn little thing she was, had only wrapped her fingers around his hand again, her small face bright with innocent trust. Her round eyes shone with adoration, her face lit up with the pure joy that only children can manage.

Despite his protests, despite how he hated the constant attention she gave him, he couldn’t bring himself to push her away. It wasn’t that he had a soft spot for kids. In fact, he hadn’t even wanted to be involved but there was something about Saram that kept him around, something that pulled at his heartstrings in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

The crew continued to joke, their laughter ringing through the air, but Lime Juice found himself staring down at the small hands that gripped him. Saram’s face was full of warmth, her tiny, chubby fingers wrapped tight around his hand, her trust so absolute and unwavering. It was as if she thought he could do anything. As if she thought he was invincible.

Something shifted in his chest, something that felt a little too much like guilt. He shook his head, muttering under his breath, trying to push the soft emotions away. He wasn’t her father. He didn’t know what he was supposed to be in her life, and he certainly didn’t want the burden of taking care of her.

When she looked up at him, when she gave him that trusting little smile, all he could do was roll his eyes, even though deep down, he was already hooked.

"Damn it," he grumbled, but the words were less of a protest and more of a reflex. In truth, he didn’t mind her company. She was small, adorable, and full of energy—a stark contrast to his gruff, solitary demeanor. But the thought of becoming someone who had to care for her—responsibility weighing down on him like an anchor—was one he wasn’t ready to face.

As the sun began to set, casting long shadows over the ship, Shanks called to Saram from across the deck. "Come here, kid!"

But Saram, her little face scrunched up in determination, shook her head and clung to Lime even tighter. "No, Lime!" she had said, her baby voice cracking in the air, "I wanna stay with you!"

Lime, unable to hide his exasperation, rolled his eyes again but picked her up with an awkward sigh, holding her to his chest as the crew chuckled once more. "I’m not your dad..." he muttered under his breath, but his tone had softened, the words losing their sharpness as Saram snuggled closer to him, her tiny hands grasping at his shirt for comfort.

Somehow, in that small, strange moment, something inside Lime clicked. Despite his protests, despite his grumbling, he was already someone to Saram—someone who mattered to her, someone who could make her feel safe. She didn’t see him as just another crewmate. She saw him as something more.

And for better or worse, Lime Juice found that he couldn’t walk away from that.

"Shut up," he grumbled as Shanks came over with a teasing smile, eyes softening despite himself. He turned away, not wanting to face the teasing, but knowing deep down that the little girl who clung to him, who chose him over everyone else, would always have a place beside him, whether he liked it or not.

Uta awoke, a slight pain in her temple as she blinked her eyes open slowly. She sat up and looked around, taking in her surroundings, the infirmary and the ache in her throat was proof that she was not dreaming, that what happened was real. The slight shift near her arm made her look down and almost immediately a soft smile came on her lips, purple eyes softening. Saram, her older sister, was sleeping, sitting on the ground, her head against Uta’s hand which was held by Saram’s hand.

Uta could hear the steady rhythm of her sister’s breath, a quiet sound that somehow spoke volumes. It was a sound she had known her entire life, a sound she had relied on when everything else felt too loud, too chaotic.

The weight of memories pressed against Uta’s chest as she looked down at her sister. Saram had always been like this. Even when they were younger, when Uta would fall ill or wear herself down with exhaustion, Saram would be there. Saram always stayed. She would quietly slip into her room, sit by her side, and take her hand in her own. When Uta would wake up in the middle of the night, feverish and shivering, Saram’s face would be the first thing she saw, calm and steady, as though the world outside had no place in her thoughts, only Uta’s well-being.

How many nights had it been like this? How many times had she woken up to find Saram there, always by her side, her presence silent yet steadfast?

Even when Gordon was there, even when she was already being taken care of, Saram never left.

Uta could remember it so clearly—being younger, smaller, curled up in bed with fever weighing her limbs down, her body burning and trembling all at once. She remembered how Gordon’s voice had been soothing, how his hands had been gentle, but it was Saram who had stayed awake through the night, her presence a quiet vigil in the dimly lit room.

Saram, who would sit at the edge of the bed, never too close, never too far, just there—watching, waiting, making sure Uta was never alone, even when the sickness dragged her into fitful sleep.

Saram, who had been the one to press a damp cloth to her forehead when the fever became unbearable, who had kept a cup of warm water close by, who had whispered small reassurances even when she thought Uta wasn’t awake to hear them.

Saram, who had always seemed so distant, so closed off from the world, but had never once left her behind.

Uta swallowed, her throat raw, not just from exhaustion, not just from the events that had led her here—but from the weight of everything she could not yet put into words.

Back then, Uta never asked her to stay. She never had to. It was something Saram just did. It was in the way her sister would reach for her, pulling her close, cradling her like she was something precious, something that couldn’t be lost, not even to sleep or sickness. The way she would sit through long hours, her back stiff and tired, but she never once complained. She never once left her side.

There were times when Uta would pretend to sleep, just to hear Saram’s soft murmurs, the words of comfort she would speak as if they were a secret only meant for the two of them. Even when Uta was at her worst, Saram’s voice was like a balm, a quiet reassurance that things would be okay, even if the world seemed to be falling apart around them.

And now, here Saram was again, sleeping by her side, as if no time had passed at all. As if nothing had changed.

Uta’s heart ached with something deeper than gratitude—something more fragile, more bitter. I’m so sorry, Saram, she thought, her throat tightening. I don’t know how to make up for all those years. For everything you’ve given up for me.

She had always known that Saram was there, in the background, silently carrying the weight of everything Uta couldn’t understand. There had been times when Uta would catch glimpses of the strain in her sister’s eyes, the subtle way she would withdraw when no one was looking, the moments when her smile would falter, just for an instant. But Uta had always been too wrapped up in her own world, her own struggles, to ask if Saram was okay. To see that Saram was never really as okay as she made herself seem.

And now, staring down at her sister, her older sister who had spent her life silently bearing the burdens that Uta had never even known how to carry, Uta felt the weight of that truth settle over her like an anchor. Saram wasn’t just the one who protected her. Saram had been carrying the pieces of a broken heart long before Uta had ever known how to break hers.

Uta’s fingertips gently brushed over her knuckles, the touch soft, as though she were afraid the slightest movement would break the stillness, the fragile peace between them. She had never said it—had never known how to say it—but she was grateful. Deeply grateful. For everything. For the quiet moments, for the late nights, for the warmth of her sister’s hand in hers, always holding on, always there.

She closed her eyes, feeling the gentle rhythm of Saram’s breathing against her palm, and for a moment, the ache in her chest softened, the quiet weight of the world around them fading just enough for her to find a small breath of peace. We’re still here, she thought softly. We’re still together.

Her eyes opened again at the sound of the infirmary door opening, watching quietly as footsteps neared the bed, her hand slightly tightening around Saram’s. The curtain was pushed away and into view came Hongo, who looked slightly surprised at Uta already being awake, before his eyes drifted towards Saram sleeping.

Hongo’s footsteps were soft against the wooden floor, his presence almost a whisper as he approached the bed. Uta felt her grip tighten around Saram’s hand instinctively, her heart still wrapped in the warmth of her sister’s presence. She didn’t know why, but it felt like Saram was the only thing holding her together, and she wasn’t ready to let go of that connection just yet.

The curtain brushed softly against Hongo as he stepped further into the infirmary. He paused for a moment, gaze lingering on Uta. His expression shifted from surprise to something more gentle as he noticed the way Saram was nestled beside her, the two of them in their quiet, shared space. The subtle weight of it settled in the air between them, a silent understanding that didn’t need to be said aloud.

“Already awake, huh?” Hongo’s voice was low, almost cautious, as if not wanting to disturb the peace of the moment. “How’re you feeling?”

Uta blinked a few times, adjusting to the soft light in the room, the quiet hum of the ship surrounding them. She let out a soft exhale, her fingers lightly squeezing Saram’s hand before she slowly released it, letting her sister rest.

“I’m okay,” Uta replied quietly, her voice still a little raspy from her earlier ordeal. The words felt like a lie, but she couldn’t bring herself to say anything else. Not yet. “Just... tired. Everything feels... like a dream, you know?”

Hongo gave a small nod, his eyes flicking to Saram again before returning to Uta. “I can imagine. It’s been a hell of a time.”

Uta swallowed, her eyes tracing the lines of the infirmary, the quiet rhythm of her thoughts now mingling with the questions that weighed on her heart. “Yeah... twelve years. I don’t even know where to begin,” she murmured, almost to herself.

Hongo waited for a beat before answering, his voice soft but steady. “You don’t have to begin anywhere. You don’t have to do anything right now.”

The words hung between them, a fragile truth. Uta felt her chest tighten, her thoughts drifting. She had spent so many years thinking she was alone in the world, so many years convinced she had been abandoned by everyone she loved, by the crew she once called family. The years had built walls around her heart, walls that kept her anger alive, and yet, in this moment, it was all fading. The anger, the frustration, the ache of being forgotten—gone.

“I know I have a lot to apologise for,” she said finally, her voice small but clear. “I was angry... so angry, and I still am, but... I understand now. I understand why things happened the way they did.”

Hongo gave her a quiet smile, his expression softening. “You don’t have to apologize to me, Uta.”

She shook her head, her eyes flicking towards Saram’s sleeping form, her heart tightening at the sight of her sister so peaceful, so still. “I have to. I’ve been carrying this weight for so long... I don’t even know if I can fix it.”

Hongo’s gaze turned to understanding, though his tone remained light, a gentle comfort in his voice. “You don’t have to fix anything. You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

Uta sighed softly, letting her eyes drift to the ceiling. It was strange, the way everything felt both too much and not enough. There were so many things left unsaid between her and the Red-Haired Pirates, so many things to unravel. But in this moment, with Saram by her side, with the quiet warmth of the ship around her, the ache was finally starting to ease.

“I just... I want to be here. With the crew. With everyone. I don’t want to be... angry anymore,” Uta confessed, her words a little shakier than she expected.

Hongo’s smile grew, just a little. “Then you’ve already taken the first step.”

Uta looked up at him, her heart feeling a little lighter. “I’ll talk to everyone... when I’m ready. I just... I have to figure out where I fit in all this. Twelve years... I feel like I’ve missed so much.”

“You haven’t missed anything that can’t be fixed,” Hongo assured her, his tone steady, like the grounding presence he always was. “Everyone’s been waiting for you, Uta.”

Uta looked at him, her heart clenching at the words. Family. It was so simple, yet so complicated. There had been times when she thought she’d never feel that connection again. The Red-Haired Pirates, the crew, had always been more than just people to her. They had been home. They still were.

But the road to healing was going to be long. And maybe, just maybe, they could rebuild what had been broken.

She turned her gaze back to Saram, watching her sister as she slept, the peacefulness of it like a soft balm to Uta’s soul. Slowly, Uta reached for her hand again, her fingers curling gently around her sister’s. And as she did, the thoughts of everything lost, of everything left unsaid, began to fade into something softer, something quieter.

– What about Saram?

Hongo shifted his weight on his feet, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his eyes that softened as he glanced from Uta to Saram. The silence that followed was heavy, and it felt like the words were waiting to escape, too complicated to be said in an easy breath.

"Shanks and the crew... they thought Saram was dead," Hongo said quietly, his voice unsteady as if the confession itself caused him some pain. "The wreckage of Elegia, the ruins... it was all over. They thought they lost her."

Uta nodded slowly, her gaze flicking towards Saram, still sleeping peacefully in the corner. The thought of her sister being lost forever, of the two parties never having a chance to reconcile, left a tightness in Uta's chest, a heavy weight that had never truly left.

“Yeah,” Uta said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “That’s what they thought. We decided to hide it. Saram, Gordon, and I... we kept it secret. Twelve years, it’s been...” Her words trailed off, a bitter edge creeping into her tone. She pulled the blanket tighter around her, as if it could shield her from the memories, the ghosts of the past that still clung to her heart.

"We knew the truth," she continued, her eyes now staring at the floor, avoiding Hongo's gaze. "We couldn’t let anyone know. It would’ve been too much for all of us. For Shanks. For the crew. So... we stayed quiet. Kept our distance. It was for us... so that we could heal. So that Saram could heal."

The silence that followed was charged with an unspoken understanding. The weight of what they’d all been through, the loss, the separation, it all lay between them like an ocean too vast to cross. Uta’s hands tightened, curling into fists as she tried to push away the ache in her chest.

"I thought I could forget," Uta murmured, her voice barely audible. "I thought that if I could just... be someone else, be someone untouchable, away from all of it, I could leave everything behind. But it never worked, did it?" Her purple eyes flickered with a flash of emotion, her heart struggling against the years of bitterness that had built up. "I hated them for what they did. For leaving us behind. But now, after everything that happened, I realize... maybe I was wrong, too."

Hongo didn’t say anything at first. He just let her talk, watching her closely, his expression softening as the weight of her words hit him. He understood, perhaps better than anyone, the complex pain that comes with carrying a grudge for so long. The emptiness that accompanied not knowing where you belong in the world anymore.

“Uta…” Hongo began, but he trailed off, unsure of how to offer comfort without overstepping. The history between Uta and the Red-Haired Pirates, the history that they both shared, was tangled, and fragile. It was something no one could truly understand unless they had lived through it. "It’s hard, I know."

Uta let out a short, bitter laugh. "Hard? That’s an understatement. The truth is, I didn’t even know who I was anymore. I kept telling myself I could keep moving forward, that everything would be fine... but then I found out the truth. About Elegia. About what happened that night. And I..." Her voice cracked for a brief moment, but she quickly caught it, swallowing the lump in her throat. "I couldn’t escape it. The guilt. The shame. I thought it was all my fault, and I tried to bury it in my music, in my fame, but... it never really went away."

She turned her gaze to Saram again, her heart swelling with a complex mix of emotions. "Saram, she was always there for me, even when I pushed the world away. And now, I just..." Uta faltered, the words feeling too heavy to say aloud. "I don’t know if I can ever make up for it. For everything that happened. For leaving her alone all this time to deal with her own wounds and mine."

Hongo didn’t have any words that could make it right. He knew that. There was no fixing the past, no turning back time. But he could offer her something: an ear, a space to be vulnerable.

"Uta," Hongo said gently, his voice low and steady, "it’s not about fixing everything. It’s about moving forward. You don’t have to make everything right at once. Just take it one step at a time. You’ve got a family here. Saram’s here. And Shanks..." He trailed off, watching as Uta’s eyes shifted at the mention of her father.

"I don’t even know where to start with him," Uta admitted. "Everything feels so complicated. He made his choice, I made mine. I never thought I'd see him again... and then there he was. After everything... after all these years." She hesitated before continuing, her voice laced with a mixture of exhaustion and longing. "I don’t know if I can just forgive him like that."

"You don’t have to," Hongo replied. "But don’t close yourself off. Not completely. You’ve been through too much to hold all that pain inside."

Uta looked down, her gaze softening as she considered his words. She didn’t know what the future held, what path she would take now that she was finally back with her family, and with sister, but for the first time in a long while, she felt like there might be a chance at peace. Not complete peace—no, not yet—but a chance to heal, one step at a time.

"I’ll try," she said, the words coming out with an honesty she hadn’t expected. "I don’t know how, but I’ll try."

Hongo nodded, offering her a smile that was both kind and understanding. "That’s all any of us can do, Uta."

"Saram... she's probably gonna leave once I get better," Uta murmured, her gaze drifting back to her sister. Saram was still asleep, her fingers unconsciously gripping Uta’s hand as if she could anchor herself in place, as if she wasn’t always on the verge of slipping away. "She doesn’t belong here. She never has, not really."

Hongo frowned, shifting his weight slightly. "Why would she?"

Uta’s lips pressed into a thin line before she finally answered. "Her love for me does not outweigh her feelings of wanting to run away from you guys," she said, voice soft but sharp with certainty. "For the last twelve years that we were together on that island... she barely spoke of you all."

Hongo flinched, just barely, but Uta caught it. She didn't relent. "She barely spoke of you, of Shanks, of Benn, of anyone. She didn't reminisce, didn't dream, didn't long for the past the way I did. Because for her, there was nothing left to long for."

"Uta—" Hongo started, but she cut him off.

"You've all been terribly cruel to her," Uta said, and this time, her voice was firm, unwavering. "What happened to me, I can forgive you. What happened to Elegia, I can make peace with. But what you all did to her..." Her fingers tightened around the sheets, frustration simmering just beneath the surface. "I can't. Even if she shrugs it off."

Hongo was silent. He wanted to deny it, to tell Uta that she didn’t understand, that it wasn’t that simple—but he couldn't. Because she was right. Because deep down, he knew.

Saram had been left behind.

Not just physically. Not just in the wreckage of Elegia.

They had left her in the silence that followed, in the absence of her name, in the unspoken grief that none of them dared to touch.

They had mourned her in their own way, but they had never questioned it. Never searched. Never looked back. And Saram… she must have known that.

Hongo let out a slow, measured breath. "We thought she was dead," he said at last, but the words felt weak even as they left his lips.

Uta scoffed, shaking her head. "And that makes it better?"

"No," he admitted, rubbing a hand over his face. "No, it doesn’t."

Uta exhaled sharply, her frustration bleeding into exhaustion. She looked at Saram again, studying the faint furrow of her brows, the way she curled in on herself even in sleep, as if some part of her was still bracing for pain, bracing for dreams that burned away.

"She won't stay," Uta murmured, her voice quieter now, tinged with something sadder, more resigned. "Not for long. And when she leaves, I don't think she'll look back. Not this time."

Hongo didn't know what to say to that.

The room felt like the aftermath of a storm—silent, but heavy, as if the wreckage had yet to settle. The walls, the floor, even the air itself seemed to hum with something unspoken, something thick and unmoving. It was the kind of silence that didn’t beg to be filled, but rather loomed, pressing down on their chests, waiting.

Hongo could feel it in his bones. The weight of twelve years. The weight of Saram’s absence— an absence he hadn’t even questioned until now. It sat bitter on his tongue, like a rotten apple hidden among the fresh, the taste of something that should have been sweet but had long since turned sour, rotten, bitter.

Uta’s fingers curled tighter around Saram’s, like she could anchor her in place with touch alone. But even in sleep, Saram remained just slightly out of reach, like a shadow caught between sunlight and dusk, slipping away the moment one tried to grasp it. The warmth of her skin beneath Uta’s fingertips was real, solid—but for how long?

"She never told me what happened," Uta said, the words drifting like dust through the dim light. "Not really. I don’t think she ever wanted me to know."

Hongo shifted, his arms folding across his chest. His fingers pressed into the worn fabric of his sleeves, the texture grounding him, keeping him from unraveling under the weight of truths too long ignored. "Do you?"

Uta hesitated.

Did she?

She had spent so many years caught in the current of her own grief, her own anger, letting it carry her away, swallowing her whole. But Saram had never let herself be swept under. No—Saram had made herself the stone in the river, unmoved, unyielding, watching the world rush past her, never daring to reach for it.

"I don’t know," Uta whispered. "Maybe it’s not my place."

Hongo exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. The motion felt useless. "Even if she doesn't talk about it, it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. And it doesn’t mean it didn’t matter." His voice was low, steady, like the heartbeat of the ship beneath them. "She was just a kid, Uta. She should’ve never been left behind. No one should’ve.."

A sharp, bitter laugh. "Then why did you?"

Hongo flinched, just barely.

Why?

Because they had been drowning in the wreckage. Because Shanks had been bleeding grief, because the crew had been too lost in their own mourning of leaving behind Uta to question the bodies they didn’t find. Because it had been easier to accept a death they never saw than to face the guilt of what it meant if she had been alive.

Because forgetting had been easier than looking back and having to face the picture of their colored sins.

Hongo let out a breath, slow and tired. "I don’t know what to say, Uta. I won’t try to make excuses. It wasn’t right. None of it was."

Uta scoffed, shaking her head, but there was no real bite behind it. Only exhaustion. "You don’t have to say anything. I just… I needed you to hear it. I needed someone to hear it."

The ship creaked, the rhythm of the ocean tapping against the hull like a heartbeat, steady, constant, unaffected by the storm raging within them.

Saram stirred, just barely—a twitch of fingers, a shift of breath. She looked small like this, curled into herself, like a child who had learned long ago that stillness meant safety. Uta squeezed her hand, grounding her, but deep down, she knew it wouldn’t be enough. It had never been enough.

"She won’t say it," Uta murmured, more to herself than to Hongo. "She’ll act like it doesn’t bother her. She’ll tease, she’ll laugh, she’ll pretend." Her breath hitched, just slightly. "But it’s not okay. It’s never been okay."

Hongo nodded, slow, understanding. "No, it hasn’t."

And what could he say to that? That he was sorry? That sorry meant nothing when you left someone behind, when you let yourself forget them so completely that they might as well have been dead?

No, there were no apologies here. Only the bitter taste of rotten apples, the weight of ghosts they had buried without knowing.

Uta turned to him then, eyes sharp, steady. "When she leaves," she said, "don’t try to stop her. Don’t chase after her. She deserves that choice. But…" Her breath wavered, just slightly, before she forced herself to keep going. "Don’t let her think you never cared, either. Don’t let her think you forgot her again."

Hongo looked at her, his expression unreadable, before he finally nodded.

"We won’t."

Hongo exhaled slowly, the weight of the conversation still lingering, but the silence between them had begun to settle into something lighter, easier. He glanced at Saram, still curled up in sleep, her fingers twitching slightly even as her expression remained peaceful. His gaze flickered to the device on her wrist, the soft blue glow pulsing gently like a heartbeat.

He tilted his head. “So… what exactly is that thing?”

Uta followed his gaze and let out a quiet chuckle, shaking her head. “You’re only asking now?”

Hongo shrugged. “Didn’t seem like the right time before.”

Uta hummed in amusement, lifting Saram’s wrist slightly to show him the sleek, metallic band. Even in sleep, it looked fused to her, as much a part of her as her own skin, “She made it herself,” Uta said, a note of pride in her voice.

Hongo raised an eyebrow. “She built it?”

Uta grinned. “Of course she did. She’s always been good with machines. You know how I use my powers through music? Well, this thing can store my abilities and use them later.” She wiggled her fingers dramatically. “Like a little pocket of magic.”

Hongo let out a low whistle, eyes narrowing at the device. “That’s… kinda terrifying.”

“Just one of her inventions.” Uta shrugged,

Hongo raised an eyebrow, glancing back at Uta. "Inventions? What exactly does it do?"

Uta shrugged, her lips curling into a small smile. "You could say it’s a little bit of everything. It’s mostly a safety measure. It’s got a health scanner, a transponder jammer, and some other features that I’m still trying to figure out myself." She tapped her fingers against her chin thoughtfully. "It stores my Devil Fruit abilities too. Well, just mine for now, but I think she’s testing it out for others."

Hongo’s interest piqued. "Wait—what? It stores your Devil Fruit powers?"

Uta nodded, the smile growing more mischievous. "Yep, didn’t you hear me the first time? If she needs to, she can... well, borrow them. Like a power bank. Or use them herself. I guess she figured if I’m going to be an idiot with them sometimes, it’d be safer if she could just have control when I use them." She leaned back against the wall, grinning as she watched Hongo process the information.

“That’s pretty amazing.”

Uta’s grin softened. "I know, right? It’s actually kind of terrifying how much she packed into this little thing." She paused for a moment, then added in a quieter tone, "She made it for herself... in case she ever needed to run. Or hide."

Hongo’s gaze softened at the unspoken meaning in her words. But then, as if realizing the seriousness of the moment had returned, Uta shrugged again, brushing it off with a playful tilt of her head. "I guess it’s kind of like a backup plan. You know, for everything."

Hongo nodded slowly, still unsure whether to be impressed or concerned. "Well, I gotta admit, it’s pretty impressive... But it looks like it’s a part of her, huh?"

Uta’s smirk widened. “Yup. Good thing it’s part of her. It won’t work if you take it off.”

Hongo frowned. “Part of her?”

Uta nodded, tapping the device lightly. “It’s built into her wrist. Mechanically engineered into her body. She is the device, in a way.”

As she spoke, Hongo’s eyes fell to the rest of Saram’s sleeping form, and he instinctively reached down to drape his jacket over her shoulder, careful not to disturb her.

“She’s pretty tech-smart huh?”

"Oh, ridiculously. She’s got a whole collection of these things back in Elegia. Some of them are probably illegal in half the Grand Line." Uta laughed under her breath. "One time, she made something that jammed transponders for a full mile radius. Gordon almost had a heart attack trying to figure out what was wrong with our communications. She just sat there, acting all innocent, while Gordon thought we were under attack."

Hongo let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "And he or you ever stopped her?"

"You try stopping her." Uta snorted. "She’s like a cat. She does what she wants, when she wants. And she always lands on her feet."

Hongo exhaled through his nose, glancing down at Saram, who remained sound asleep, her breathing steady, face relaxed for once. It was strange, seeing her this still—this vulnerable. Like for once, she wasn’t on high alert, waiting for the world to take something else from her.

“Since she’s here now, what about all those devices?” Hongo asked curiously.

“Ah, those?” Uta sighed with a small smile, “They’re gone.”

Hongo frowned. "What do you mean, gone?"

Uta exhaled through her nose, shaking her head. "She destroyed them. Every single one. Three days before the concert."

Hongo’s eyebrows shot up. "She what?"

"You heard me." Uta let out a dry chuckle, but there was no amusement in it. "She wiped everything out. All her work, years of it—just gone."

Hongo leaned back, stunned. "That doesn’t make sense. Why would she do that? Those things could’ve been—" – could've been worth billions – He stopped himself, choosing his words carefully. "They could’ve been useful. Hell, she could’ve sold them for a fortune."

Uta tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "She didn’t want anyone to get their hands on them."

Hongo stared at her, waiting for more, but Uta only sighed, running a hand through her hair, “Hundreds of people were going to come to the concert, Saram, me and Gordon knew it. She did not want anyone to get their hands on her inventions, especially any pirates or Marines, so,” Uta paused, “Saram destroyed every device, every machine, every diagram she made in the past twelve years in a span of hours.”

The flames had flickered and danced in the darkness that day, casting eerie shadows against the walls of the abandoned workshop. The acrid scent of burning paper filled the air, mingling with the metallic tang of scorched circuitry and melted wires. Sparks crackled as delicate machines, once crafted with precision and care, were reduced to nothing more than twisted metal and ash. The sound of thunder outside as the skies trembled.

Uta stood in the doorway, watching in silence.

Saram worked without hesitation, her movements precise, methodical. She crouched beside a pile of shattered devices, her fingers tightening around a steel tool before driving it into the exposed wiring of what had once been a transponder jammer, Uta saw the glazed gaze in her eyes as the metal scrapes flew from the transponder jammer - and a loud crack echoed through the room as the delicate components snapped beneath the force.

"She didn't want anyone to get their hands on them."

Gordon’s voice was quiet, laced with something heavy—understanding, perhaps, or resignation. He stood beside Uta, arms crossed, eyes reflecting the glow of the fire, he didn’t stop Saram or perhaps because he knew that she would not listen. Because Saram listened to everyone but listened to only herself.

"She knew people were cruel."

Uta swallowed, her gaze never leaving Saram. The firelight illuminated the sharp lines of her sister’s face, but her expression was unreadable, distant. Like none of this meant anything at all.

"Saram."

She didn’t stop. Didn’t even look up.

The words were firm, unwavering. A statement, not an argument.

Uta clenched her fists, words pouring out desperately and rapidly, heart stammering, "We could’ve hidden them. Taken them somewhere safe. This is — this is years of your work, Saram. Everything you’ve built—"

"And in a few hours, it will be as if none of it ever existed." Saram finally looked up, eyes dark and steady, reflecting the fire’s glow. "That’s how it should be."

Something about the way she said it made Uta’s stomach twist, made her mouth taste funny, like those bitter fruits that Gordon got them. Her fists clenched as she watched Saram toss yet another device into the incinerator.

"It’s not about regret," Saram continued, pushing herself to her feet. She dusted her hands off, Uta stepped forward, the wooden floor creaking beneath her feet. "You don’t have to do this."

"Yes, I do."

Saram caught Uta’s gaze, hands wiping against the charred remains of a burnt project, smearing soot against her fingers. "It’s about responsibility. Some things were never meant to be known."

Uta exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "Saram—"

"You know I’m right, Uta."

The fire crackled between them, heat pressing against their skin.

"Knowledge is power," Saram murmured, almost to herself, her gaze drifting toward the pile of smoldering wreckage. "And power is rarely used wisely. I refuse to let this fall into the wrong hands." She paused, then added, "Or any hands at all."

Uta bit the inside of her cheek, frustration clawing at her chest.

"But you worked so hard for this." The words came out softer than she meant them to. "Doesn’t any of it matter to you?"

Saram tilted her head slightly, studying Uta in that quiet, knowing way she always did.

"Of course it matters."

Uta’s breath caught.

Saram’s gaze flickered back to the flames. "That’s why I’m doing this."

With those words, she turned away, picked up another device, and threw it into the fire, letting the flames consume yet another part of Saram and leave only ashes.

Uta sighed and looked back at Hongo, his expression was thoughtful, something seemed to have clicked in his head as he stared at the device on Saram’s wrist, a contemplative gaze in his eyes - a gaze that Uta knew all too well. She smiled, of course, that gaze was familiar, she had seen that same expression on Saram's face multiple times the past twelve years - the gaze that meant that a riddle was solved and the answer was found.

She always kinda envied, in a positive way, how Saram, despite everything, reflected the Red Haired Pirates so much, they were in her actions, in the way she thought, in the way she worked, in the way she fractured decisions. She carried them in her bones. What a fool. Saram says how Uta is more like Shanks when Saram, herself, was the embodiment of the Red Haired Pirates’ Captain and Executives.

She could hear Saram’s voice in her head now, laced with amusement, teasing like always: "You're the one like him, Uta, not me."

But she was wrong. Saram might not carry Shanks' name, or his legacy in the obvious ways, but she carried something just as powerful. She carried them.

The Red-Haired Pirates had left her behind, but they had never left her.

Uta let out a quiet chuckle, shaking her head as she watched Hongo still staring at the device, as if he could see all of Saram’s secrets reflected in its faint glow. “That expression suits you,” she mused, voice light.

Hongo blinked, glancing up at her. “What?”

“That look,” she grinned, gesturing toward his face. “The ‘I just cracked a code’ face. Saram does that all the time.”

Hongo snorted, shaking his head. “Yeah, well... she is a little genius, isn’t she?” He glanced at Saram again, his expression shifting—something fond, something a little sad. The Red-Haired Pirates had always been a crew of contradictions—laughter and bloodshed, freedom and responsibility, kindness and cruelty, all wrapped up in the illusion of carefreeness. They carried their pain behind easy grins and sharp wits, behind jokes and mischief and half-truths.

Saram had learned from the best.

She had spent twelve years in a world without them, but they had never left her.

Uta’s fingers curled slightly into the fabric of the jacket covering Saram, something tight settling in her chest.

How foolish Saram was.

How blind she was to the way she carried them, the way their shadows had never left her side. She had spent years convinced that she was separate, that she was not one of them. That she was something other.

But in truth?

She was their legacy, even if she refused to claim it.

Saram had that same glint in her eyes, that same unwavering confidence that defined the crew she had been born into.

Uta, on the other hand, had never quite shared the same recklessness. She wasn’t as bold, not in the same way. Shanks, with his infectious grin and unshakable belief in people, had shaped so much of Uta’s worldview—shaped her belief in the goodness of people and the value of harmony. But Saram? She embodied the essence of the Red Haired Pirates in the quiet, sometimes brutal, certainty that things had to be done a certain way, that the world didn’t care about anyone’s soft feelings. She did what needed to be done, no matter the cost. And that, Uta realized, was exactly what Shanks and his crew had taught Saram.

Uta chuckled softly under her breath, shaking her head slightly. What a fool, she thought fondly. She was them, in ways Saram, herself, hadn’t even fully understood until now.

“What do you wanna be when you grow up?”

His eyes glimmered with amusement as he rested his elbows on his knees, watching her with the lazy curiosity of a man who had nothing better to do, his questions registering in her head as she pondered.

“Strong!” she blurted out, her voice bright and clear, cutting through the murmur of the crew’s chatter.

He raised a brow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, the crew smiling at her enthusiasm, “Strong, huh? Not ‘pirate’? Not ‘rich’? Just strong?”

Saram nodded vigorously, her small hands gripping the edge of the barrel for balance, a glimmer of innocence in her eyes as she grinned brightly,

“Yeah! If I’m strong, I can do anything!”

“If I’m strong I won’t be left behind anymore.”

The warmth against her shoulders was the first thing Saram registered when she stirred from sleep. It wasn’t the usual, stifling kind that came from too many layers or a lingering fever—it was a comfortable weight, familiar in a way that made her pause.

The second thing she noticed was the quiet. The room was still, save for the faint, rhythmic scratch of pen against paper.

Blinking the sleep from her eyes, Saram shifted, the fabric draped over her slipping slightly. She caught it before it could fall completely, her fingers brushing against the material—soft, slightly worn, but well-kept. It smelled faintly of salt and antiseptic.

Not hers.

Hongo’s.

She sat up slowly, shoulders rolling, her joints aching just slightly from remaining still for too long. That alone was strange. She had spent years teaching herself to be a light sleeper, to never allow herself to rest too deeply. But here she was, waking up in the same place she had fallen asleep—untouched, undisturbed, jacket over her shoulders like someone had thought to make sure she was warm.

Saram exhaled, adjusting the coat around her before finally rising to her feet. The sound of scribbling continued, steady and unhurried, a quiet yet constant presence in the room. She followed it, steps light but not cautious, letting the weight of the jacket rest against her arms rather than shrugging it off.

Rounding the corner, she found him.

Hongo was at his desk, head tilted slightly downward as he worked, a thick notebook open in front of him. His pen moved steadily across the page, his other hand occasionally shifting a separate stack of papers, arranging and rearranging them with practiced efficiency. He hadn’t looked up, hadn’t even glanced her way, but the moment she stepped close enough, his voice filled the space between them—calm, matter-of-fact.

“Sleep well?”

Saram blinked, then huffed softly. “You tell me. You were the one hovering.”

That got a quiet chuckle out of him, though he still didn’t lift his head. “Not hovering. Just keeping an eye on things.”

“Right. And the jacket?”

“Call it a peace offering.”

Saram raised a brow. “Didn’t realize we were at war.”

At that, Hongo finally glanced up, one brow arching slightly. “Twelve years is a long time, kid.”

Saram held his gaze for a moment before looking away, fingers tightening slightly around the jacket in her grasp. She could still hear Uta’s words from earlier, still feel the weight of what had been left unspoken.

She exhaled. “Yeah,” she muttered. “Guess it is.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the quiet scratching of pen against paper again. Then, Hongo spoke—casual, like they had never lost time.

“So… this contraband wristband of yours—how illegal are we talking?”

Saram stared at him, a quiet knowing gaze,. Of course. Twelve years apart, and some things never changed.

She didn’t answer right away, turning her head, taking in the scents of the infirmary, the medical room carrying the smell of medicine, herbs and cedar. As long as she could remember, it had always smelled like cedar mixed in with herbs, even now, after twelve years of being away, the scent never changed. Ironically, she let out a slow breath and made her way over to the couch beside his desk, dropping down into the cushions without much thought. The jacket was still draped loosely over her arms, her fingers absently curling around the edges as she pulled her knees close, resting her chin atop them.

She didn’t say anything. Just watched. Much like she did when she was smaller, younger, brighter, when she found solace in watching Hongo work - a sort of peace offering from a child to her father’s crew, to one of her guardians.

Hongo, to his credit, didn’t press her for a response. He simply returned to his work, his pen gliding across the page in steady, fluid movements. The room was filled with nothing but the soft scratch of ink against paper, the occasional rustling as he flipped through his notes. Back then, Hongo didn’t have a couch like this nor was his desk so close to one, too annoying, he used to say to the crew. There used to be a tool, high enough to be able to see his work even if the person was a child and small, she knew because more often than not, Saram would find herself sitting on it and watching the doctor work whenever she used to slip away from the crew as a child.

Saram would sit on the little wooden stool, legs swinging slightly as she watched Hongo work. He hadn’t told her to leave, so she stayed. That was the rule. He never said no, never told her to go away—not like the others sometimes did when they got too busy or when they thought she should be playing instead of hovering.

The Red-Haired Pirates were loud. Too loud sometimes. But here, in the infirmary, things were different. It was quiet, steady, predictable. She liked that. Maybe that's why she also came here when Lime wasn’t on board or busy, the infirmary was different from the deck, it was more quiet and allowed her to breathe.

Saram blinks and there she is back again – young and small, quiet and calm.

Hongo was tending to one of the crewmates, an apprentice, stitching up a gash on the man’s arm. Saram didn’t flinch when the needle went through skin, didn’t even blink. She had seen worse. She had seen him do worse, afterall. Hongo wasn't just a doctor, he was an executive of the crew, someone experienced and strong, a pirate, thorough and thorough.

He was good with his hands, fast but careful. She liked watching that. The way he worked, the way his hands moved without hesitation, the way he always seemed so sure of what he was doing. She wished she could be like that. She curled her fingers in her lap, glancing down at them. Her hands were small. Clumsy. Not like him.

“Saram,” Hongo’s voice pulled her from her thoughts, and she looked up instantly. He wasn’t looking at her, still focused on his stitches, but he had noticed her staring. “You good over there?”

She nodded.

He hummed, finishing the last stitch with a small, satisfied sound before cutting the thread. “You’re quiet today.”

“I’m always quiet,” she pointed out.

Hongo let out a soft chuckle. “True.” He glanced at her then, wiping his hands clean before leaning against the counter. “You thinking about something?”

She hesitated, then asked, “How do you know where to stitch?”

His brows lifted slightly, but there was no surprise in his expression. She asked questions a lot—about medicine, about injuries, about things that the others sometimes laughed at and called morbid.

Hongo never laughed.

“Experience,” he answered easily. “And knowing how the body works.” He gestured for her to come closer, and she hopped off the stool, stepping up beside him. “Here, look.”

He showed her the stitches, pointing to where the wound had been deep and where it had only been shallow. He explained why he stitched the way he did, why certain areas needed tighter knots, why others needed looser threading.

She listened. Watched. Memorized.

Hongo glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “You really wanna learn this stuff, huh?”

She nodded again.

“Why?”

Saram hesitated.

Because I want to be useful. Because I want to understand. Because I don’t want to feel helpless.

She didn’t say any of that.

Instead, she shrugged, looking down at the fresh stitches. “Because it’s important as a crew member.”

Hongo was quiet for a moment. Then, to her surprise, he ruffled her hair.

“Good answer.”

She blinked up at him.

He smirked. “I’ll teach you, if you really wanna learn.”

Her fingers curled at her sides. She felt… warm.

Not the bad kind. The good kind.

“…Okay.”

Hongo just grinned. “Then you better start paying attention, kid. Can’t have you messing up my stitches later.”

Saram smiled—small, barely there, but real.

She was always watching. Always learning.

Blinking, she was back in her present, leaning into the couch cushions, letting her eyes drift over his workspace—the organized stacks, the careful arrangement of medical records, the worn edges of a journal that looked like it had been carried through storms and battles alike. Everything in its place, every motion practiced and efficient.

She could see it now, the way he hadn’t changed. The same focus, the same quiet steadiness.

Hongo had always been like this.

She stayed curled up, silent, just watching as he finished whatever it was he had been working on. Eventually, after what felt like an easy, unspoken stretch of time, he set his pen down with a quiet thunk, rolling his shoulders before finally turning toward her.

His gaze flicked to her, taking her in—still curled into herself, still holding onto his jacket like she wasn’t sure if she should return it or keep it. For a moment, he didn’t say anything.

Then, with a small huff, he leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. “You always this quiet, or is that just for me?”

Saram blinked, tilting her head slightly, a twitch of her lips, wondering if he knew the similarity of this conversation - before giving a slow, noncommittal shrug.

Hongo let out a soft chuckle. “Yeah, figures.”

Another pause. Not awkward, just something unspoken stretching between them.

Then, finally, he nodded toward the device on her wrist. “So? You gonna tell me how illegal that thing is, or do I have to guess?”

Saram exhaled quietly, lips curling slightly—not quite a smile, but something close.

“…How much do you already know?” she murmured as her fingers traced absent patterns along the edge of Hongo’s jacket as she considered his question. Her gaze flickered down to the device on her wrist, the faint blue glow pulsing steadily. It was almost second nature now—an extension of herself rather than a separate piece of technology.

“It works as a storage for devil fruits, also something about how it is a medical machine, I guess.”

She exhaled softly. “Well, firstly, It’s not illegal,” she murmured, finally answering. “Not technically.”

Hongo let out a dry chuckle, clearly unconvinced. “Yeah? Because that thing looks like it could mess up an entire fleet if you wanted it to.”

Saram tilted her head slightly, considering. “It could,” she admitted. “But that’s not what it’s for.”

She lifted her wrist slightly, letting the glow catch the dim light of the room. “It can store Uta’s Devil Fruit powers, as you know,” she began, her voice soft but steady. “That’s the main function. She sings, I record it, and then… I can use it later.”

Hongo raised an eyebrow. “You use her abilities?”

Saram nodded. “Only hers. For now.” A pause. “In theory, it could work with others. But I haven’t tested it.”

“Yet,” Hongo muttered, rubbing his chin.

Saram hummed lightly, neither confirming nor denying. “It also acts as a jammer. Transponder snails, den den mushi feeds… even Devil Fruit abilities.”

Hongo’s brows furrowed. “Wait. It jams Devil Fruits?”

She nodded again, tapping the side of the device. “Not permanently. But if someone’s power is active, it can disrupt it. It interrupts the energy flow. Think of it like cutting a signal mid-transmission.”

Hongo let out a low whistle. “Damn. That’s dangerous.”

Saram didn’t respond to that. Instead, she shifted slightly, stretching her legs out a bit. “It also scans health conditions. Injuries, internal bleeding, infections. It can map out affected areas and project them in real-time.”

She lifted her wrist again, twisting it slightly. A soft hum filled the space, and a faint holographic projection flickered to life above her wrist—a simple, rotating diagram of her own body, glowing lines indicating vitals and muscle tension points. Hongo leaned forward, intrigued. “That’s…” He hesitated, eyes narrowing as he observed the projection. “That’s more advanced than anything the Marines have.”

Saram didn’t react to the comment. “It can also track locations, navigate coordinates, and scan large areas. Works best within a five-mile radius, but I can adjust the frequency for longer distances.”

Hongo let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “And you’re telling me you built this?”

Saram blinked at him, tilting her head slightly, as if the question was unnecessary. “Who else would have?”

Hongo let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Figures.”

Another pause settled between them, but it wasn’t heavy. If anything, there was a strange sense of ease in the silence, after a moment, Hongo spoke again.

“And it’s part of you?” His voice was quieter this time.

Saram’s fingers lightly brushed over the device, her gaze lowering. “…Yes.”

Hongo exhaled through his nose. “And if it’s removed?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Then, softly—almost as if the words carried more weight than she intended—she murmured, “It won’t work anymore.”

Hongo studied her for a long moment.

Saram didn’t elaborate. She didn’t need to.

It wasn’t just a piece of technology. It wasn’t just a tool. It was something far deeper—something that had been ingrained into her, something woven into the very foundation of who she had become.

And Hongo understood.

“…That’s a hell of a thing,” he finally muttered.

Saram hummed in quiet agreement.

Quietly, she watched Hongo, eyes taking in how he worked, head against the couch, the jacket tight around her shoulders. The smell of cedar infiltrated her senses as she lazily rested, there was a strange weariness in her bones, a wish to constantly sleep and rest, it was strange. On Elegia, she couldn’t even rest her eyes before the visions of flames and destruction came to her. Here, in this infirmary, all she’s felt is drowsy and tired constantly.

There was only the steady scratching of pen on paper. The faint creak of the ship as it rocked with the waves. The warmth of a jacket that didn’t belong to her, but had been given without hesitation. Her fingers twitched slightly against the fabric, her breath evening out despite herself. It was almost bitter how she had spent years telling herself, convincing herself - that she felt nothing for this crew, only coldness for these cruel yet so kind men.

All that, only for it to come crashing down, making her feel warm and tired, her body, even after twelve years, eased the moment she stepped inside this wretched infirmary, how pathetic. All that talk about not needing them only to feel her body physically easen the moment cedar infiltrated her senses.

Hongo hadn’t spoken in a while, but she knew he was aware of her presence—aware of the way she watched him, quiet and observing, as she always had.

She wondered if he saw it, too.

The way her body had grown used to moving in silence, the way her fingers curled just slightly inward, always ready, always prepared. The way her eyes never stayed in one place too long, always cataloging, always searching.

She wondered if he noticed that even now, even when she sat still, her body was coiled with the memory of running.

Twelve years.

Twelve years, and now here she was, sitting in an infirmary that hadn’t changed, in a chair that felt too unfamiliar, wrapped in a scent she hadn’t realized she had missed. Saram swallowed, her throat dry.

She wanted to ask — wanted to know if anything about her felt familiar to him, the way everything about them still felt familiar to her. But how could she ask that? How could she put the weight of all those years of absence into one simple question, and risk hearing the truth she wasn’t ready for? Was she still theirs? Were they still hers? Or was she just a ghost of the child who used to run to them with arms wide, confident that no matter what, they would always be there to catch her?

“Hongo.”

“Hm?”

His eyes didn’t stray from his work, writing and writing, pen gliding over the parchment with an ease that spoke of years of practice, skill. He was so focused on the document but Saram knew that he was listening, attention spanning over her as she laid curled against the couch.

A pause.

“Do you happen to have a few extra body bandages?”

Exams are going on, so there may be delays, but nonetheless, let's go! I'm excited for the next part! Mwah! Let me know if you want to be on the tag list. And, thank you for the support!

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