yeomanaxel - Tumblr blog

yeomanaxel · 5 years ago

Text

Inkbolt - Chapter 1

A desk gleamed in the moonlight.

A pile of parchment sat on the desk.

A bottle of ink shone near the pile.

A feathered pen leaned in the bottle.

The door creaked open, and a young man stepped in. He closed it behind him and swept into a high-backed chair. He slipped a blank parchment from the pile and flattened it on the desk in front of him.

He picked up the pen, dipped it twice, and began to write.

Chapter 1 – Biting the Powerline

The black nothingness of space shone with a million stars. One of them, once a bright yellow just a decade in the past, now glowed a sickly red, its putrid light bathing a small, glittering planet.

The surface of the Earth gleamed like a blinding gem, under a dark maroon sky. Mountains and oceans glittered, forests bursting with bright colors mankind would never see. Cities basked in the sunlight, their streets filled with sparkling figures, caught in acts of terror and debauchery. One statue held a club in his emerald-colored hands, the bright glass of a television store inches from the weapon’s tip. Another woman, frozen mid-scream, stared at the sky as if seeing the Devil himself, her eyes red as rubies and her teeth hard as diamonds. Another woman stood behind her, her crazed grin petrified and her golden knife affixed to the ends of frozen arms.

The land drunk the weak light, bathed in it, and in its embrace became beautiful, hard, and cold. Only a few pockets of warmth could be found, hidden in shrouds of ugly cloth. One such pocket, the former capital of a ruined nation, sat near the edge of an island off the coast of a great, crystalized continent. A wind blew over the land, fluttering the thick cloak that covered the city. It slipped in, caressed the ancient buildings, and chilled the skin of two old men.

The men scurried down streets like rats in a maze. Their clothes, worn but clean, clung to their thick bodies in all the wrong places. Their eyes darted faster than their feet, scanning every window and crevice. The man in the lead, larger than his companion, slowed in an alleyway, his breath heavy with fatigue. The other man, his lip hidden in a tangled mustache, stopped beside him. They took one last look, and sat down roughly, scraping their coats against the brick behind their backs. “Told you we’d make it,” the larger man snorted, his voice posh and dismissive. His hands clutched tightly to a pink purse, at odds with the drabness surrounding it.

The man, known to his companion as William Flisp, smashed the zipper between two of his sausage-shaped fingers and carefully pulled it along the length of its teeth. The companion, known to Flisp as Gerald Gunton, always marveled at how delicately Flisp touched everything with his fingers. Could he be afraid of breaking something if he gripped it too hard? Perhaps there lay a story behind his friend’s methodical hand usage, though now wasn’t the time to inquire about it.

The purse had been stuffed with bronze bullet casings, at least a hundred of them. Flisp licked his lips, eyes bulging at the sight of so much money. “We fuckin did it,” he breathed. “We got the keys to the kingdom right here in our bloody laps.”

“Your lap, not mine,” Gunton remarked.

“Your language is filthy.”

Both men jumped to their feet, their eyes shining with rage and surprise. Flisp’s knife slipped from his sleeve and into his fingers. They twirled it menacingly.

A man stood before them. No, Flisp thought, not a man, just a boy. An older boy, but a boy just the same. A fucking pretty boy scavenger.

The boy stood tall and lean, his back straight and his legs long. He had warm brown eyes that contrasted with an angular face, and pale skin offset by jet black hair that rested to his shoulders.

Gunton made the first move, hand clenched in a fist that sailed toward the boy’s unexpressive face. With a quick step to the side, the punch hit nothing. The boy caught the arm and snapped it with an unnerving level of ease.

The thief grunted in pain, but he didn’t cry out. He’d suffered worse. Then the boy shifted his stance and pushed, jerking Gunton forward into the knife of his partner in crime. The look of stupefied horror plastered on Flisp’s face quickly mirrored Gunton’s, as the latter man stumbled forward, left arm useless, stuck like a pig ripe for the slaughter. The boy moved from behind, ripped the blade out, and threw it at its owner.

Flisp brought his arms up, catching the knife in mid-air, its tip centimeters from his nose. He barely had time to sigh in relief before his crotch exploded in an agony that forced the purse-snatcher to his knees. His face crumpled under the force of a steel-tipped boot, and his head bounced off the pavement with a cracking sound so loud it rattled his brain.

Conscious thought had almost left him when he felt something plunge into his chest.

A few minutes later, the man, eighteen years in body but a little older in spirit, strode out onto the road, the purse under his arm and the knife twirling in his own fingers. He didn’t like scavenging for weapons, but the blade had been outside during the Varnishing, and a thin leather wrapping failed to hide the golden gleam of the handle. The blade itself shone blood-red, though the actual blood dripping from it dulled the effect.

He eyed the weapon with a satisfied expression, wiping off the blade with a napkin he found in the purse. He couldn’t afford to dirty his black coat and pants, or the gray shirt underneath. He hoped Ms. Deus wouldn’t mind its absence.

As he walked, he slipped a large map out of his coat pocket, unfolding it and carefully observing its contents. Currently, he stood on Denmark Road, deep in Camberwell, his destination to the north. He slid his finger across the paper, trying to retrace his path. Once he had it, he refolded the map and broke into a light jog; the sun would be setting in a few hours.

His path took him over alleyways and intersections full of rubble and wreckage. Through tunnels formed and unformed by explosions, still lined with ash. Past a trio of Oldies, their clawed, shaking hands hovering over a tiny barrel fire. The foolish would surely try to mug or mingle. He knew better.

On he strode, progress hamstrung by the state of the city. He kept track of the time using the faint glow of the red sun, its light just strong enough to illuminate the vast tarps but never great enough to Glass. Except where the fabric had torn; bright beams had slipped through to form columns of light in the gloom. Dozens of statues stood beneath them.

He passed a subway tunnel entrance carefully, wary of the dozens of Oldies slithering about its stairwell. He sneered at their bent backs as he went, wondering if they would eventually die out and free up the Underground. His thought was interrupted by a ghastly groan from behind. Spinning quickly, the man slashed at the Oldie’s gray throat. Blood the color of sewage flowed out, and the humanoid collapsed before he had a chance to alert his brood. The man sprinted away, not taking chances.

Onward he traveled, until finally, the bridge stood before him, the only one still sound over the Thames. The three-headed streetlamps that flanked it shone no light, but they didn’t need to. Long electric wires stretched across the sides of the bridge, providing walls of light bright enough to ward off Oldies. The lamps served as their pillars, allowing hundreds of bulbs to illuminate the walk to Westminster. Where the power source was, and how it still remained operational, was something the man badly wanted to know.

Beyond, he saw a different light, muted but warm. Thousands of candles flickering in lanterns, affixed to the battered walls of the Parliament Houses, and shining in their windows. Big Ben’s hands, eternally fixed at 5:15, stood out against the bright clock faces, the glow of which seemed to push against the red glare of the sun above.

And this was only what could be seen from the bridge; the candles burned across all of Westminster, so many that some Londoners had begun to call it Wax Town. Always affectionately, of course, and never when in the company of west-enders. The man smirked at the small speck of civilization still struggling to remain solid in the miasma of this world. He longed to enter into its comforting embrace.

But first, he had to confront his shadow.

He spun around and brandished his knife. “Show yourself,” he ordered calmly.

At first, no one appeared. But the scavenger trusted his senses. He began walking forward.

“Stop!”

An older man stepped out from behind a brick wall, smeared with graffiti long faded. His hair, thick and white, covered his head and lips, and his stout figure had an easy stride, as if he often took long walks despite his age. His dark skin and fierce eyes reminded the boy of an American movie star from before the Varnishing, though he couldn’t quite recall the name. Jackson something, or something Jackson, perhaps. The man’s arms wrapped protectively around a thick manila envelope, dirty but serviceable. His grey longcoat pockets bulged with bottles, and the monstrous backpack on his shoulders bent his frame.

Detecting no threat in the man, the boy lowered his knife, eyes still suspicious. “Who are you?’

“Just a traveler,” the man said amicably. He shook his shoulders, highlighting his burden. “What about you, young man? Out catching flies?”

The young man scowled as he snapped his jaw shut. “I don’t like being teased.”

The older man smiled again. “Apologies. My reasoning behind such rude talk is my weariness after a very long walk, and with such a heavy load to bear I’m on the verge of tearing my hair.”

The young man quirked an eyebrow at the particular speaking pattern, then gestured toward his own back. “I’ll take that for you. Got nothing better to do.”

The older man placed his pack on the ground, carefully, as to not disturb the bottles. The young man slid it on and continued moving forward, now with a companion.

They walked in silence for some time, the lights of Wax Town getting steadily brighter. As they neared the halfway point of the bridge, both were surprised to see that one of the lamps was active, its three heads glowing white. Strings wrapped around it held up dozens of small boxes, full of multi-colored lights even brighter than those on the walls.

Distracted by the sight, the rhymer tripped, his leg having caught one of the jagged ends of a piece of concreate. The young man quickly steadied him, making sure to keep his pack balanced as he did so.

“Thank you. It’s not often that I receive a helping hand in this weary land.”

The young man smirked. “You like to rhyme.”

“It passes the time. Would you like a lime?” The rhymer produced one from his coat. The young man took it with a grateful nod, before tearing into it with his teeth. He marveled at the taste of the juice, which wasn’t as bitter as he had expected.

“How did you come by such fresh fruit?”

“A little artificial light goes a long way, in making the sweetness of a lime stay.”

He snorted. “Must be a strong light. By the way, I never got your name.”

The old man performed a little bow. “William Tybalt, former literary professor at the University, at your service.”

“Which university?”

Tybalt shrugged. “How should I know? I was teaching Shakespeare too often to find out.”

He chuckled. “Name’s Damian Volta, and I’m at your service right now.”

“True, very true. But I needn’t trouble you for long. To burden others is a terrible wrong. And it seems like you have a burden of your own.” His eyes glanced at the pink purse, still resting in the crook of Volta’s arm.

Damian grinned accusingly. “How do you know it’s not mine? Maybe I like the color pink.”

“I recognize it,” Tybalt said. “I happen to know the owner of that bag; she’s a nice old hag.”

That surprised Volta, his countenance immediately darkening. “If that’s true, then you’re not as wise as you look, Mr. Tybalt. I could be a purse snatcher, having murdered Ms. Deus and currently making off with her possession. And you’ve given me your possessions. What would stop me from killing you too?”

At this, Tybalt belted out a hardy laugh. “I saw your altercation with those sods earlier today, Mr. Volta. Ms. Deus loves her guns; ff you had tried to rob her, she would have blown your ass right out of her parlor and into the bloody sewers!”

The sudden abandonment of his rhyming scheme coupled with his filthy language caused a scowl to form on Volta’s face, but he understood Mr. Tybalt’s logic. “Well then, how do you suppose those two villains were able to take her purse in the first place? If I beat them, but she could beat me, then she would have beaten them too.”

Tybalt nodded. “Indeed, indeed. But Ms. Deus has become quite forgetful in her golden years. She might have dropped it somewhere.”

Volta relaxed. “And that’s precisely what happened. Left at the ration pit, then picked up by those blokes and carried off into the night. She’s lucky I saw what happened and gave chase.”

The two men became lost in memories pertaining to the fearsome but motherly Ms. Deus, as the light began to steadily decrease above them.

Shaking off his ruminations, Tybalt stroked his facial hair, peering at Volta oddly. “You’re not from Britain, I think. Volta sounds Italian, but with your accent, faint as it is, I’m going to guess…Germany?”

“Austria,” Volta corrected with a smile. “I make it fery faint ven in zee brezence of others, zen I layer ein Pritish accent offer it, zough I’m schtill vorking on brounciazion.”

“Hahaha, seems like you’ve got it down pat to me!” Tybalt smiled, and Volta knew immediately that he had found another good friend. The Lord knew he needed them.

“I can do an American accent as well,” he continued. “Though it’s not as good. I either sound dead inside or too pissed to walk straight.” It was then that his eyes drifted to the manila envelope in Tybalt’s arms. It was the largest Volta had ever seen. “What’s that?”

The older man smiled fondly at his possession. “My life’s work. Or, the latter part of my life’s work. Tell me, have you ever heard of One Piece?”

Volta considered the name. One Piece. It sounded like a title, not a description. But nothing came to mind.

“Can’t say that I have.”

“It’s a wonderful tale, really, so full of life it puts me in a tilly.”

“You made that word up. Cheater.”

Tybalt laughed again. “Actually, Tilly is shorthand for nearly all utility vehicles produced in Britain during the Second World War, as well as the name of a now long-defunct American retail clothing company. I bought this coat from it.” He flapped his arms demonstratively. “But in any case, One Piece is a comic book series from Japan, written by a man named Eiichiro Oda. It’s about pirates.”

“Pirates?” Volta questioned. He found himself becoming slightly interested. “Like Treasure Island?”

Tybalt chucked, the chuckle of a man with too much to explain and enough patience to explain it again. “Yes and no. It’s a fantasy story; think Treasure Island penned by Tolkien. The main character is a young man by the name of Monkey D. Luffy, or just Luffy for short. First names are last in Japan, I believe. He wants to be the King of the Pirates, so he assembles a crew of young adventurers like himself to help him accomplish his dream, such as the Three-Sword Style master Roronoa Zoro, and the cunning, money-loving thief Nami.”

Volta frowned in thought. Zoro? Swords? The inspiration was obvious to him, but how did Three-Sword Style work? And how could you be the king of piracy?

“King of the Pirates? Sounds like a mad fantasy.”

“It very much is, but the title is a real position in the world of this story, one that many pirates seek. Luffy and his crew must overcome a great many enemies to obtain it. There’s a lot of action and violence. Do you like those kinds of stories?”

The knife sank into his chest, slipped out, and sank again, over and over, until the pool of blood surrounding his chest matched the one around his head.

“Not really.”

Tybalt nodded, before going on with his explanation. “You see, the story was nearing completion, but it still had a way to go before the end. It was released weekly to the UK in an online magazine, translated into English. I kept reading until 2020, but at that point…

He trailed off, looking haunted. Volta grimaced; it had all begun that year. “Japan got hit first in the war after news of Rainbow’s trajectory came out. The story died with the author.”

Tybalt sat down hard on a piece of broken stone, any discomfort he felt not reflected in his suddenly sunken face. His age seemed to seep into it. “My wife…she loved nature. She worked as a biologist, studying plants in Peru when Rainbow hit the sun. Not getting a chance to say goodbye…will always be my biggest regret. Failing to finish One Piece will always be my second.”

The sudden change in subject matter took Volta by surprise. He grimaced; dealing with people’s woes wasn’t his strong point. Awkwardly, he patted the crestfallen Tybalt.

He looked up, and Volta saw a determination in his gaze so strong it seemed to singe his eyes. “I can’t do anything about the former, but I sure as hell can about the latter. I’ve gathered every bloody scrap of information Oda gave his audience about the world, the characters, the powers, and the lore. I’ve spent this decade of destruction carefully collecting everything that genius man made. That pack you carry? Every volume, magazine, art book, and data card pertaining to One Piece lies within. Would you care to take a look?”

Volta found himself at a loss for words. The man had spent ten years reconstructing a long-dead comic book series? In a world where basic necessities grew scarcer by the month?

But Tybalt did not lie; placing the knife in his teeth, his inspection of the pack revealed well over a hundred volumes of bright, colorful covers and uncolored but energetic drawings, depicting such a strange collection of images and events that Volta could barely take them all in.

Notebooks lined internal pockets, and a quick sweep through a few only heightened Volta’s respect for the man. The number of characters was immense! And he had birthdays, heights, favorite foods, and decent sketches of them all?

Even more impressive was the large, folded-up timeline that seemed to stretch on and on, a mammoth accomplishment in its own right. One date stood out; in bold letters, BEGINNING OF SERIES, LUFFY SETS OUT TO SEA: MAY 5th, 1522. The stuff before that point dwarfed what lay ahead of it. How much lore did this series have?

“It’s…impressive,” he said.

“That’s not all. Should this collection fall into the wrong hands on this barren land…”

“We’re back to rhyming now?” Volta grinned. “Your rhythm’s off.”

William rolled his eyes. “…as I was saying, if something happened to that pack, I have a Plan B to preserve Oda’s legacy.” He uncrossed his arms, revealing more of the envelope. It wasn’t just huge; it was a monster. Volta had seen thinner dictionaries.

“I rewrote One Piece in literary form; I couldn’t replicate his art style if I practiced for a century. Should I ever fail in protecting Oda’s true work, I want to replace it with something nearly identical.”

Volta quirked his brow again. “That’s a bit aroggant of you.”

“Oh, indeed, but if I won’t do it, who will?”

No one, Volta thought. Because it’s not really important. What he actually said was, “You said ‘nearly’ identical. Sweetened it a bit?”

Tybalt grinned cheekily. “Oh, I may have added in a worldwide religious organization, among a few other original ideas. Plus characters from other shows I liked to watch, all long gone now. I gave them all their own story arcs, so as to not interfere with what Oda has written too much.”

Volta grinned. “So you essentially wrote a bazillion pages of high-quality One Piece fanfiction. You bloody madman.”

“Hahahaha, oh, yes, absolutely!” Tybalt wiped a tear from his eye. “Damian, do you know how important dreams are?”

Volta sighed. “My goal is to survive, and to help others do so.” And to eliminate anyone who threatened that goal, but he kept that to himself.

Tybalt shook his head sadly. “If only things were different…I hope you find a passion as strong as mine one day, Damian. A dream you can follow until your last breath. The world isn’t gone yet; no not yet.”

Volta nodded slowly, hiding his annoyance at the deeply misplaced optimism. What good were his dreams if all means of achieving them had withered away? He applauded Tybalt for managing to make his a reality, but it wouldn’t last. It never did.

He carefully put everything back in the pack, almost certain the bright colors and drawings wouldn’t survive the month. “For you to give me permission to go through your pack implies a level of trust I don’t deserve.”

Tybalt shrugged. “You seem like a nice enough fellow. Gracious, is the sky turning yellow?!”

Damian looked upward and gaped at the dull yellow glow that permeated the thick shroud above. A sickly feeling began to well up in his gut, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Something horrific loomed.

“What the hell?!” Tybalt pointed at one of the tears in the tarp, where a better view of the outside could be observed. Yellow clouds billowed. The wind began to pick up. A thunderous boom filled the air.

“We need to move,” Volta stated firmly. He hoisted the pack and started jogging toward Wax Town, Tybalt right behind him.

They didn’t get far when the storm hit. Bolts of lightning burst through the shroud, striking buildings like vipers. A bolt of pure, white fury descended upon the lamp of many colors, igniting it in a blaze of flame. The boxes burst, spewing colorful death, and the cords snapped, dancing as they whipped toward the ground. Volta turned just in time to see them flying toward him and his companion.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he pushed Tybalt forward with all the strength he could muster, flinging the great pack from his shoulders toward him in the same movement. The old man grunted as he got knocked further back by his own stuff, the envelope falling from his hands, bottles of ink flying out of his pockets and shattering on the ground. Volta growled, placing the knife back in his teeth as he reached down with both hands to grasp the life’s work of the pirate enthusiast, hugging it close to his chest and rolling.

It didn’t matter. The cord lashed furiously toward the young man, as if possessed. Its length slammed into the ground, the frayed, sparking end whipping up to hit Volta’s knife. The blade lit up crimson as electricity washed over it, burning the teeth that clenched it and melting the surrounding gums and flesh. Volta felt his eyes bulge as his head received a discharge strong enough to toast a small animal, and his body contorted wildly.

A second lightning bolt streaked out of the sky and slammed directly into Volta’s chest. Then another, and another, until a dozen blinding blades surrounded the writhing human, flash-frying him until his arms turned black and his grasping fingers crumbled to dust. A final bolt struck right into the center of the envelope, igniting it.

The ink pooling around him began to boil and evaporate under the intense heat, black clouds of vapor enveloping the burning body. An ominous red glow broke through the yellow clouds above.

Then the lightning started to scream. Tybalt covered his eyes with his hands, thumbs jammed into his ears. He sobbed a prayer to Mother Mary, his body trembling and cringing, half-expecting the horrible light to consume him next.

And just as suddenly as it began, it stopped.

All was still. The light that shone through Tybalt’s hands disappeared, leaving him in comforting darkness. The sound that had nearly burst his aged eardrums had gone silent. Shivering, William opened his eyes.

The surrounding area looked blackened, scorched so badly that little pockets of flame danced on the wind. The light walls had collapsed, cords and pieces of glass burning and melting all across the bridge. The dark clouds above remained, and Tybalt saw that lightning still danced within them. It seemed, to his imaginative and panicked mind, as if the cloudbank was in the process of digestion. Shaking his head, he inspected his pack and found it slightly singed, but its contents unharmed. He winced and reached a hand to his cheek, feeling a cut where a flying shard had sliced it.

Groaning, he rose to his feet, lurching toward the place of impact, and suddenly his wound lost all importance to him. In the center of all this destruction, so great that it had surely alerted all of Wax Town by now, was a single, unblemished envelope.

Well, almost unblemished. A single black raven lay embedded on it, formed out of what Tybalt knew to be the ink that had spilled from the ground.

With trembling hands, the old man picked up the thick, spotless envelope, cleaner than it had been before. He felt tears run down his cheeks. There was a God, and He was good.

But of Volta, no sign remained.

.~===)==============={%}

The cloud hovered above the vast tarp for an hour more, before moving on into the fading light of the evening. It left the city behind it and traveled over the frozen sea, its yellow body pulsating in tune to the beat of its own thunder.

Just as the deadly sun finally disappeared beneath the horizon, the great yellow cloud began to ascend into the heavens, rising higher than any cloud should have been able to. In the blackness of night, it darkened, twisted, and became a vast, glorious raven, flying into the void of space with a cry no human would ever hear.

.~===)==============={%}

The black nothingness of space shone with a million stars. One of them, still the bright yellow it had been millennia ago, illuminated a large blue world, bisected by a band of red.

Upon this world’s great sea sat a small green island. Within this island lay a thick patch of forest. And amidst the forest’s trees stood a young, tall, very drunk swordsman.

Colors swirled around Zoro. His left and his right seemed to switch every now and then, sending him forward into backwards. The disorientating effects of the South Blue vodka he had consumed eleventy-eleven minutes ago churned through his body like greasy oil in a hot summer’s day.

He squinted. Had that chipmunk always been there? It sure as hell hadn’t been welding (wielding?) a machine gun welded to its arm.

The squirrel took one look at him and screeched, firing its shotgun at the same time. Zoro dodged effortlessly; he could move at the speed of light after all. Like that monkey, some marine wouldn’t shut up about yesterday. The chipmunk jumped right at his face, and he impaled it with ease. The body slid down the length of the blade, it’s pink blood foaming out of it like cotton candy. The furry corpse soon followed, puffing and fluffing into the sweet, sticky treat. Zoro didn’t eat it. Because it became bark.

Zoro had impaled a tree.

He groaned and sank to his knees. His head throbbed. It sobbed drunken tears. Kuina had sobbed just like it once. Before her death (has it really been seven years since then?), before their final duel, she had sobbed quietly to herself, unaware of Zoro’s presence. He hadn’t understood what there was to cry about then. He knew now.

Zoro threw up onto the tree.

Hey, that’s a fun color! Black, the color of Mihawk’s sword, if rumor is to be believed. Rumor. Tumor. Humor. Words that rhyme seem so on the dime today…

Zoro passed out.

.~===)==============={%}

When he awoke, the world seems more real to him. A good sign. Then a giant penguin cut through his neck with a butcher’s knife, and things went to hell again. So many birds, so little time. The forest floor turned red with their blood.

Two hours of chaos, beaks and heads and flippers everywhere.

Three hours. Things began to die down. The blood disappeared. Why had it lasted so long?

Four hours. Zoro now considered himself sober, which was a shame because he wasn’t and wouldn’t be for another thirty minutes. Still, he came close enough to stop slashing the trees into thick cylinders of oak. And his sense of direction had returned! What a relief.

He stumbled through the woods and came upon a beach. Sandy and long, with the crystal clear ocean beyond and the wreckage of his excesses behind him. The cool air smacked the half-lucid swordsman and further relaxed his hyperactive senses.

That is until he saw the vampire by his side. At least, Zoro thought it to be one. A sparkly type, if it sleeping in the sun was any indication. Considering his options carefully, Zoro drew Wado, miraculously unblemished after the past thirty-four hours, and walked slowly toward the monster.

“Die, bloodsucker.” He stabbed the blade down. Instantly the creature’s black tattoos sprang to life and blocked the attack. Vibrations down the length of the sword nearly caused Zoro to drop it, but he instinctively tightened his grip and stepped back, wary. What type of vampire could do that?

The tattoos bled back into the skin, forming intricate flame patterns across the chest and stomach. It took only a second for Zoro to realize that these markings, which he had failed to see previously, also wrapped their way down the arms and the legs, and probably covered the crotch as well, though he couldn’t tell through the creature’s bleached, torn shorts.

Hesitantly, the swordsman reached out and tapped the vampire. Cold to the touch, but getting warmer, and the tattoos did not attack. Carefully, Zoro rolled him over. More tattoos, flame spirals all gravitating toward a black raven in mid-flight, on the upper center of his back. The blackness of the ink contrasted with the paleness of the skin, only stopping short of the hands, feet, and lower neck.

A thought occurred to Zoro’s almost fully sober mind. Could this monster be a man? Zoro opened the mouth and was nearly blinded by the glint. He grunted and covered his eyes, turning the head away from the sun.

Not a single sharp tooth, but they all shone red. As if a ruby had melted on them.

He was human after all, though a strange one. Zoro wondered if he came from a foreign land, cut off from the rest of the world. Like the Wano Country his sensei had always spoken so highly of, but more savage and tribal, a place where the sun didn’t shine. A place where tattoos lived.

Was he even still alive?

Zoro checked for a pulse and found one, weak but steady. For a brief moment, the swordsman contemplated CPR. Then he imagined himself kissing the man, and settled for punching his stomach instead.

“Gruh!” a spray of sea water splurted out of him, splashing Zoro’s startled face. He grunted and wiped it away.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAHH!!” The man screamed, his hands snapping up to his eyes. For a brief moment, Zoro feared he’d tear them out, but instead, he covered them with his fists, his body trembling, wracked with convulsions. The screams went on for over a minute, but just as Zoro prepared to knock him out, he fell limp, his frame sagging in the sand.

Slowly, carefully, his fists fell away, and his eyes, a warm brown that contrasted so heavily with the rest of him, squinted up at the sky. He eyes opened wider and wider. His chapped, pale lips parted and his arms fell limp at his sides.

He stared. For a very, very long time.

Zoro watched, deeply wary, hand on the hilt of Wado Ichimonji.

The lips closed. They fluxed in speech.

“Blau.”

Zoro blinked. Blau? Oh, blue.

“Blau. So blau. Aber nicht glänzen. Schaue ich in den Himmel?”

The swordsman had no idea what he was saying, if it was anything at all. But he recognized the tone of a question, and gave an answer. “Yes.”

The man continued to stare, his eyes never shifting, the pupils never dilating. They began to grow wet. Zoro watched, with a feeling of increasing, inexplicable heartache, as the man’s eyes overflowed with tears. They poured down the sides of his head and formed thick wet spots in the sand, almost puddles. Snot crept from his nose, and his lips trembled weakly.

He spoke again, and his voice changed. “Whoever you are…unless I’m talking to myself in English...say it again.”

“…yes. You are looking at the sky. And it’s blue.”

Joy. Infinite, deep, overwhelming joy. Zoro looked upon it as it filled the man’s face, and suddenly his own eyes were wet. He wiped them, then turned away, as the man began to cry.

.~===)==============={%}

“He should be dead,” the Dr. Huno huffed. “I’ve never heard of someone swimming from one island to another.”

Zoro shrugged. “Can’t say that’s what happened, but it’s my best guess.”

The poor fellow had conked out soon after his sobs had turned to whimpers and sniffs. After swallowing a few mouthfuls of saltwater (the ultimate soberer, in Zoro’s humble opinion), he had hoisted the near-naked man all the way to Lettuce Town, where Saint Carrick’s Hospital was stationed.

Dr. Huno’s obnoxious attitude aside, the place had fully stocked treatment rooms, complete with extra-large beds equipped with a dozen attachments for cast hanging and stabilizing. The young swordsman wondered if the majority of the town’s budget went into this place every month.

“Well, clinically speaking, your friend should be alright given rest and three meals a day, which we’re happy to supply for three thousand berries a day.”

Zoro blinked. Talk about cheap. How the hell did the place stay open?

“Of course, the stay itself will be ten thousand a day.” Dr. Huno adjusted his glasses, pinning Zoro with a condescending expression. “You don’t seem to have much cash on you.”

“I’ve got some saved up in a storage locker in town,” he said. “I’ll pay all the expenses.”

Huno nodded. “Very well. If you’ll excuse me…”

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Zoro alone with the sleeping stranger. He could get the money later; he slumped into a chair, gazing at the bed’s occupant in confusion.

Who was he? Where did he come from, to speak another language? Had he truly swam across the ocean?

Zoro did not know, but he intended to find out. He looked strong, and if he came from a place of strength, Zoro was interested.

He only lasted three minutes waiting for the man to wake up before dozing off himself.

.~===)==============={%}

Hours passed, and the only sounds one could hear in the room were the chirping of birds, and the snoring of sleeping men, peacefully slumbering their way through the early afternoon. Eventually, Volta opened his eyes, before wincing at the light he still wasn’t adjusted to.

After a minute or so of rapid blinking, Volta sat up, looking around with a suspicious gaze. Someone was sleeping in the corner, an Asian man who looked a bit younger than himself. His hair was an unusual light green, the sun reflecting off hidden golden strands within. Three swords lay tucked under a green cloth belt of some sort. He didn’t look particularly dangerous at the moment, resting as he was.

Volta put one hand on his chin, another on the top of his head, and cracked his neck nosily. The swordsman snorted, alert in an instant. Volta found himself impressed by his reaction time.

“Hey, you’re awake,” the man stated.

Volta nodded. “Your voice…you’re the bloke from the beach. You told me the sky was blue.”

The man pointed toward the open window. Sunlight streamed in, the sky just as blue as it had been before. Volta stared intently.

“…have you…never seen a blue sky before?”

“Not in ten years, since I was eight.” Volta blinked; he was usually tight-lipped about himself. He turned away from the light, its beauty distracting.

The man nodded as if he understood. Volta suppressed the urge to sneer at him. “Name?”

“Zoro. Roronoa Zoro.”

“Damian Volta.”

“Heh, not a bad name.”

“You as well.”

Volta’s wheels turned slowly at first. Roronoa Zoro…not a bad name, but an odd one. The man looked Japanese, on closer inspection, but he spoke like an American. Could he be in America? No, that wasn’t possible, America had…

so he assembles a crew of young adventurers like himself to help him accomplish his dream, such as the Three-Sword Style master Roronoa Zoro, and the cunning, money-loving thief Nami.”

Roronoa Zoro.

“Wait.”

The wheels, formerly picking up speed, halted, shook, and groaned. Damian’s pale skin turned gray. He stared at Zoro’s swords, his eyes wide. “Roronoa Zoro… do you happen to know a man named Luffy?”

Zoro shook his head, slightly unnerved. “Can’t say that I do.”

Volta turned his gaze to the ceiling, as if catching sight of something both wondrous and disturbing. “What year is it?”

“1520.” Zoro glanced at a nearby calendar. “Today is May 5th.”

A man without Volta’s rigorous mental training may not have remembered much of what happened before the horrible lighting strikes, but for the quite literally other-worldly man, everything was clear. Including the timeline he had glanced at. A silly, mad smile broke out on Volta’s face.

Zoro took note and slowly stood up. “You alright?”

“…fffffffpahahahahahaPAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!”

Zoro’s hand instinctively went to his sword, the positively insane laughter ringing through the room. Immediately Dr. Huno and his orderlies came rushing in, and he prepared a sedative.

Volta’s laughter still vibrated off the walls as the man himself went under.

.~===)==============={%}

Zoro was still there when Volta emerged from unconsciousness again. The sun, on the verge of dipping its bright bottom beneath the horizon, spilled golden light into the room.

It took him very little time to conclude the impossible. “I’m in One Piece,” he whispered.

Zoro blinked. “What did you say? Did…did you just say One Piece?”

But Volta had already reconsidered his statement. If his working theory was correct, that the lightning had…fazed him in, somehow, then it couldn’t have been into the actual story, the one he had pushed away from him. He had picked up the envelope…

“Bloody hell…I’m in the fanfiction of the story.” Volta’s eyes seemed to get wider and wider as he whispered these words, so low Zoro couldn’t make them out. “I was holding it when…and I’m here two years before the story even starts! Va…vat on earth…”

Zoro felt himself getting nervous. Was Volta insane after all? “Oi,” he called out from across the room, his angry tone hiding his trepidation. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Volta lay stunned, so much so that he didn’t comment on the bad language. He remained silent for a minute, trying to think of what to say. His mind was awhirl, all his conceptions of the universe collapsing like a house of cards.

But despite the shock, horror, and confusion he felt, he didn’t forget his training. Draining his head of all unnecessary thought, he allowed calm to overcome him, and he directed a level gaze at the swordsman. “I apologize for startling you; in all honesty, I don’t know what I’m talking about either.”

The swordsman blinked at the abrupt change in tone. “I see…”

Volta sat up, doing his best to not let his emotional turmoil show. “Again, I’m sorry, but I must ask again. Do you know a man by the name of Luffy?”

Zoro frowned. “No.”

“Hmm…I knew a man named Luffy once. I’m not sure why I thought you’d know him.”

Volta didn’t want to lie to this strange, oddly likable swordsman, but who the hell would believe the truth? He had much to think on, that was bloody certain, but first, he needed to extricate himself from the conversation. “Honestly,” he continued, “I don’t really know much about the world outside of my former home, so you’ll have to forgive my ramblings.”

Zoro frowned; it was clear to him that Volta wasn’t interested in explaining himself. But the swordsman dropped the questioning, intrigued to hear about this man’s home. “Where are you from? It must be pretty isolated; I’ve never heard that language before.”

Volta sank into his bed. “I’m from an island called...Austria.” He put a hand to his forehead, annoyed by his stumble. Did he really consider Britain his home? “Ah, heard of it?”

“Can’t say that I have. Is it to the south of here?”

Volta shook his head. “It’s very far away, in a stretch of ocean rarely traveled.” His gaze became unfocused, as if he was seeing something beyond the room. “It was a beautiful place. Nowhere else could you find hills so green, or mountains so blue. Water so pure. Cities so clean.”

Zoro raised an eyebrow. “Was?”

Volta nodded, his smile fading. “For a time, life was good. But…news of a serious calamity began to tear apart the people there. It came to war. And then the calamity struck.”

The bedridden man clenched his blankets, a look of pain warping his features. Zoro wondered if he was reliving a painful memory; if the look in his eyes was any indication, it must have been bad. The swordsman found himself reflecting back on his own most traumatic moment; seeing Kuina’s corpse, its face shrouded, the skin already pale and clammy. That day had been…had been…

“The sky,” Volta continued, snapping Zoro out of his painful remanence, “became covered with smoke and ash. The war destroyed everything…after a decade of fighting, only a few hundred were left.”

“A few hundred?” Zoro exclaimed. That was often the population of smaller islands. Just how destructive had this war been?

Volta’s eyes grew misty, and his lower lip twitched. “I lost my friends, my home…everything I’d ever known. Everything but my body, my mind, and my bloody dignity. And I knew I had to keep those intact.”

Zoro understood. “You left.”

“You have to understand, we have little contact with outsiders,” Volta explained. “Even before the conflict began. Leaving the island was practically unheard of. Our boats were mere fishing vessels, nothing suitable for long-term travel.”

Volta turned to look at Zoro, a fire in his eyes. “And I didn’t care. I stole a ship and fled as far out to sea as I could. I don’t think I would have minded if I had drowned in a tempest; anything would have been preferable to that bloody hellhole.”

Zoro cracked his knuckles, his gaze intense and empathetic. “I didn’t see a boat under your ass when I found you, so I assume you did hit a storm eventually.”

Volta sighed. “Language, and you assume correctly. Not sure how I got out of that one alive, honestly. But I must have been carried farther then I thought; I saw no islands on the horizon before the tempest fell upon me.” He chuckled to himself. “Must have pulled one hell of a blinder to end up here.”

The two were silent for a while, both thinking along the same lines but in different directions. Volta felt relieved that Zoro had bought his story, close to the truth and yet so far. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how the man would react if he told him what had really happened.

Zoro very much didn’t buy it, not entirely. The raw pain and weariness in Volta’s voice, and at such a young age, definitely confirmed his dark story as genuine in its horror, but the account was undetailed, vague in its scope.

It was probably even worse, the swordsman thought grimly. So traumatic he probably didn’t want to talk about it. He decided to stop questioning him on his past, lest he provoke a bad reaction.

“Well, you got out,” Zoro stated abruptly. “What do you want to do know?”

Volta rubbed the side of his head with his palm. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I never planned for the future beyond bunking out of there.”

“Bunking?”

“A colloquial expression; it means ‘escaping quickly’ where I’m from.”

“What about those tattoos?”

Volta pulled his sheets down, careful to hide his shocked reaction from the swordsman. Where the bloody hell had those come from? He could figure it out later; already, he needed another story. It didn’t take much time for him to concoct one.

“I gained them in battle,” he stated confidently. “I wasn’t always running from the war, only when I realized that it wouldn’t end until everyone was dead. The flames are a mark of bravery and strength.”

“And the raven on your back?”

Volta didn’t even blink. “Speed and cunning.”

Zoro nodded. “Have you killed anybody?”

Volta gave him a flat stare. “What do you think?”

“Not condemning you for it; I haven’t myself, but that could change soon. I work as a bounty hunter.”

“Bounty hunting? Sounds a lot like what I used to do.”

“What was that?” It suddenly occurred to Zoro that he was doing exactly what he had promised himself he wouldn’t, but Volta seemed unperturbed by the questioning.

“Assassination.”

Zoro couldn’t help himself, he barked a laugh. “That’s pretty fucking different from bounty hunting!”

“Ffffpahahaha, gracious, do you kiss your mum with that mouth?”

The two found themselves laughing uncontrollably for a few seconds, if only to relieve the tension and somberness that had consumed the room.

“Hey,” Volta said, his grin returning. “Would you be interested in a partner?”

Zoro blinked, before giving him a contemplative look. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I’d like to have one, but I don’t want my personal growth to suffer. I have a dream, and getting help from someone else might impede on that.”

Volta frowned. “What is it?”

The swordsman unsheathed one of his blades, the one with the bright white scabbard. “To become the world’s greatest swordsman,” he spoke reverently. “Bounty hunting is a good way to make money, but it’s ultimately a means of increasing my skill. Some of my bounties have been challenging opponents; and every time I defeat one, I get just a little bit stronger, a little bit closer to achieving my dream.”

Volta nodded. “I understand how important goals can be. Long was it my goal to leave my own personal hell behind me.” Another lie, and a bitterly ironic one at that; Volta felt adrift, his entire world swept away by what could only be described as a nightmare. How could he get back? Could he get back?

Another thought struck him, one that shocked him to his core; did he want to go back? To a place of violence, death, and despair? Where every attempted justice was countered with a dozen atrocities? Where the world had literally died under his shoes?

Volta stared out the window again. This world still thrived; and if the story was as long as the pack content had suggested, it would thrive for years. Perhaps forever, barring another meteor screwing up the sun. And what were the chances of that?

The pale man leaned forward, his eyes suddenly alight. He was free; free from his apocalypse. He thought of Wax Town, and the people he had assisted there. He felt guilty for being so quick to dismiss them, but there were people here he could be of service too. Thousands of people, millions, perhaps billions.

He could make a difference here. He could have a dream.

“Some of your bounties may be traveling in groups, for added protection. Or have subordinates, like a bandit leader. Better to have some backup if you get surrounded, no?” Volta spoke these words, but his mind was far, far away from them, and Zoro could sense it.

“You’ve got a point,” he stated, then fixed a hard stare on Volta, bringing him back to reality. “But I’ll need to test your strength first. I’m not gonna be responsible for dead weight.”

Volta smiled. “Understood.”

Zoro had little time to react as the seemingly weakened warrior sprang from his covers, grabbing hold to one of the attachments and swinging his body around to slam Zoro with a kick. The swordsman grunted as he blocked with the re-sheathed white blade, the force of the blow still sending him flying out the open window and toward the ground two stories below.

Growling, he twisted in mid-air, landing on his feet without much trouble at all. Volta sailed right after him and slammed his fists into the white scabbard, causing Zoro to slide across the rough, unpaved road leading up to the hospital.

Volta began flexing his arms and legs, cracking the joints cathartically. Zoro whipped out his still sheathed blades, placing the white one in his mouth and the black ones in his hands. Volta raised an eyebrow, before smiling in understanding. “Ah, so that’s how Three-Sword-Style works.”

“You think I just keep a spare on me?” Zoro smiled through clenched teeth, an oddly eerie display. “Come at me if you dare.”

Still wearing nothing but his bleached shorts, Volta rushed forward, his body low, his arms thrown back. Zoro swung for the head, level to his chest, but Volta jumped at the last second, pushing off the sword and flipping over the stunned swordsman to deliver a kick to the back. The blow sent Zoro flying again, this time into a tree. Volta stared at his own foot in shock. “The hell…”

“Hah, you’re not half bad!” the swordsman shouted, standing up without any noticeable limp or wince. He craned his neck from side to side, and his grin became predatory. “My turn.”

He was fast, faster than Volta expected, faster then what a human should be capable of. And to his own amazement, he was almost as fast. Zoro rained blow after blow upon him, imagining his blades as mere bamboo shinai, careful to keep them from slipping out of their scabbards. Volta blocked and dodged, his footwork light and jumpy, almost skip-like in its movement.

They danced across the road, back toward the front of the hospital but never too close to the gob-smacked nurses smoking on the front steps. Dr. Huno stared down from a second-story window, paper and pen ready to jot down a bill for damages.

Volta shifted to the offensive. He launched one straight lead after another, precise punches to either wind or force back. Zoro blocked or tanked them with little more than a wince, before retaliating with a stronger blow of his own. More than once Volta had to retreat from a surprise strike from the sword in Zoro’s mouth, which he had mistakenly assumed to be too limited in its range of motion to be effective.

Zoro outmatched him, he could see that now. His bladework, seemingly hamstrung by the weight of the scabbards, still flowed and weaved around Volta’s own defenses now that the swordsman understood them, striking more blows then Volta could hope to dish out.

“Why...huff huff…aren’t you using your tattoos?”

“What?”

SLAM!

“Ugh!”

The unusual question threw off Volta’s concentration, allowing the swordsman to slam both of his black scabbards into his bare chest. Damian flew across the ground and slammed into the same tree he had knocked Zoro into, splintering a good chunk of its trunk. Many of its golden leaves instantly withered and crumbled, provoking a cry of alarm from the gathering hospital staff.

“You’re not using your full power!” Zoro shouted. “You’re not letting your tattoos block my strikes like you did on the beach!”

“What are you talking about!?”

Zoro frowned. “Your tattoos can move! Don’t you know that!?”

Volta’s look of shock answered Zoro’s question. “What the hell,” the swordsman muttered. “Is it some sort of unconscious ability?” He couldn’t help but laugh. “Damn, this guy keeps getting weirder!”

“Hey, are you just gonna stand there!?” Volta exclaimed, slowly getting up out of the shattered tree. Splinters decorated his shoulders and back, some of the wounds already seeping blood. They didn’t seem to faze the fighter, who smiled at his opponent.

Zoro’s grin was just as vicious. “Why not? Come and get me!!”

Volta rushed him again, like a bird bursting from its cage.

.~===)==============={%}

Warriors, those that absorb fighting and make it the center of their lives, often find a true understanding of others through the duel.

Volta was not a ‘true warrior’ in the same sense that Zoro was, but he had fought enough times in his life to recognize true strength and respect it. Especially strength as great as Zoro’s; the man fought with inhuman power and skill.

Strangely, it seemed Volta now did too. Nothing had changed about his fighting style, but his own physical prowess had increased significantly. Enough to shrug off destroying a tree with his back, and to take sword blows without his ribs shattering into dust. Was this the level of power that all strong fighters in this world had?

But it wasn’t just strength that made Volta respect Zoro more and more as the hours crept by; it was his honor. He never resorted to cheap tricks or low blows, things Volta unleashed without hesitation or remorse. The man fought like a lion but never struck like a snake.

For Zoro, Volta’s cheap tactics annoyed but did not offend; he had expected as much from a self-proclaimed assassin. The reason Zoro found himself respecting his opponent, in turn, was because of his determination. Volta fought like a rat against two cats, unexpectedly vicious and very aggressive. There was little defense; only swift dodges and swifter blows, from hands, feet, and even the head a few times. Zoro’s arms bled from a dozen nail cuts, and his right shoulder threatened to fully dislocate after a punishing chop.

Once again, the sun fell under the horizon, and the two fighters, bloodied, bruised, and slightly broken, fell flat on their backs, gasping for air. The pain they felt couldn’t wipe the grins off their faces.

“It’s…huff…so odd,” Volta breathed, struggling to hold his arm out in front of his face. “I feel…huff huff…stronger and faster than I…huff…ever have before.”

“Really…huff…in that case, you may be stronger…huff…then me already.” Zoro tapped his opponent on the shoulder, right in the center of an especially large flame. “I don’t know…huff…what these are…huff…but if you learn to control them…huff huff…you’ll be a force to be reckoned with.”

“Does that mean…huff…I’m too strong to be…huff…your partner?”

Zoro groaned as he snapped his shoulder completely back into place. “Heh, don’t…huff…flatter yourself. Sure, why…huff…the hell not? I could always…huff…use a meat shield.”

“Fffpahaha, can’t…huff…wait.”

The wind blew across the land, chilling their sweat-slick bodies and leaving them shivering on the bloody road. Dr. Huno watched them angrily from the front steps of the hospital, his glasses reflecting the light of the sun.

“…you know…huff…I ever thought…that after what I’ve been through...huff…I’d make a friend so soon.”

“Heh, from partners to friends…huff…huh? We’ve only…just met.”

“I know…huff…and I don’t really care.”

“…yeah, me neither.”

Funnily enough, neither man remembered who exactly said what that day, right before they both passed out from their injuries. All they remembered was a shared feeling of joy, for something they had both lost, they had found again, after years of being without it.

From this unexpected but mutually desired friendship, two journeys would spring.

One journey would take a friend through a hell of metal and blood, wounds and pain, victory and defeat, friends and enemies, glory and humiliation. A journey that would end with a duel that would determine the fate of many, and of one.

The other journey would take a friend through something very different. Something darker then the blackest ink and more blinding then the brightest bolt. Something that soared above the ravens and flew with the eagles.

Something that would bring him into the center of the world.

And into battle with the man who would change it forever.

Author's Note I’m not sure why I didn’t just do this in the first place. Tumblr is a place to share work, not share links! Here’s chapter one! I’ve also created artwork for this fic, which I will post shortly. Yeomanaxel, the Verified Yeo.

0 notes