One Piece fic-PoSM, Chapter 1
Title: The Psychology of a Shattered Mind
Chapter: Salt
Rating: PG-13 / T
Characters: Mostly Usopp and Luffy
Word Count: About 3.5k
Warnings: Disturbing imagery, implications of non-con/dub-con, and violence. Potential spoilers for entire series. Angsty Usopp and blatant excuse for nakama comfort. This will be intense. Possible spoilers for entire series. AU from Usopp being stuck on the Bowin Islands.
Although this stands alone as a one-shot, the in-progress continuation can be found at FF.net here, and is where the big-time nakama moments come in. Comments very appreciated. Con Crit loved also.
Chapter links (on LJ): Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15
The smell of clean salt has gone from his skin.
In his mind the ocean is an expanse of pure blue, unruffled. He lies in the middle of it on a wooden deck warmed by the sun-a great lightning-white ball whose heat penetrates everything, making his body relaxed, whole with the boards beneath him. The sky is a lighter blue but the day is so clear it is hard to tell the sky and sea apart, except for the fact that one is wet when touched.
But even in memory, there is no salt. Not in the air, not in the water.
When he thinks about the ocean, there is still warmth, even if the sharpness of salt is missing. The memory of warmth only makes his body feel colder. He draws his knees closer to his chin, as close as they can get with the thick collar that is around his neck in the way, and tightens his grip on the hilt of his weapon: a ragged, dirty cloth wrapped around something metal and sharp-edged. A broken sword, maybe. He has not seen it. His masters blindfolded him to make his fights "more interesting."
It is a matter of time until something joins him. Something that is not friendly. There is a fifty-fifty chance that the next mealtime will mean his death and not food.
The slave shifts his feet farther out, straining to feel the smallest vibrations which can indicate the approach of a foe. He needs to live, although he has forgotten the original why. After lasting this long in this place, the only thing left is survival, even if it seems meaningless. After so many have died so he could survive, to give in now would be to accept that the blood on his hands belongs there, and thinking about it is something that makes him wants to curl up on his side.
Once there was a boat, where no one died. One of the crew had died once, but he had come back to life-that was how amazing they were. Everyone on the boat was so strong, that even the dangers which would kill entire islands were defeated by the crew. And they were lead by the best captain in the world-the bravest, and most reckless man on the four seas. And the captain's name was-it was-
Was-
He can't remember the captain's name, but it is a good story, and he whispers it to himself when he feels the loneliest, when his mind wanders and he thinks he might float away. Even if he can't hear his own voice, there is something important in the fact that his lips are moving. There is something important about feeling his dry and cracked skin rubbing against itself. That is all telling the story is, he supposes, an exercise in existence. It doesn't have an ending, just like the captain has no name. He's tried to make one up, for both those things, but he couldn't find any that fit.
The wall at his back trembles and he tenses. This is new. He doesn't know what kind of enemy could make the whole wall tremble, but it is one that strikes fear in his heart. What he does know is that an enemy that can make the wall tremble is one he is unlikely to survive a fight with.
The wall and the floor shudder next. He rocks to a crouch now, weapon lifted, impact dial that had been lying beside him in the other hand. If there is going to be food, it should have come by now, so this must be the fight he is expecting. The strongest rumble yet is followed by displaced air is rushing over his skin, bringing with it the sensation of staccato pinpricks of broken stone. The sound of the explosion is loud enough to hear through the plugs in his ears. He grips the impact dial tighter.
Turning in the direction of the explosion, he runs a dry tongue over equally dry lips, then almost dry heaves when the smell of salt drifts into the cell. Alarmed, he staggers back, stepping over the litter on the floor with the perfection of memory. He knows exactly where the floor is clear and where it isn't, because every battle for survival he's fought since he came here has ended inside these four walls. If the slave will survive this one-he doesn't know, this beginning is too odd.
When he backs into the adjoining wall there is a pause in which nothing seems to happen. For a moment there are only his ragged breaths and his stomach clenching when the smell of salt reaches him again. Then, he senses something step through the hole that has been blasted in the wall.
For a long moment, nothing happens.
Shock? Shock at this room? Good, that's very good. The enemy is caught off guard.
A hand touches his shoulder, confusing his sense of depth and alarming him. The enemy's presence is still too far away for it to merely reach out and touch him, unless his instincts are failing him. The salt in the air is stronger now. He slashes at the offending appendage, hoping to cut deep, and is rewarded with warm drops splattering on his arm. The hand withdraws from his shoulder.
More things are entering through the hole, bringing with them an increasingly salty odor. The final number is somewhere between six and eight. His stomach is turning and his body is trembling all over. Six? Seven? Eight? All he can think of is how doomed he is against this many enemies. Everything that had come to kill him before, in one-on-one matches, had been hard enough to deal with, and he has the sliced and bruised skin, the twisted and torn muscles, and the broken bones to prove this.
The things are coming closer now. He can sense it and smell it. He backs into the corner and tightens his grip on the blade in one hand. There is another moment where nothing happens and he fights turning into a quivering pile on the floor. Putting this much weight on his right leg hurts. His chest aches with every breath, promising sharper pain if he draws in air any more deeply.
His breath catches, and he feels liquid bubbling up from his lungs. He brings an arm up, trying to hide what is happening-don't show weakness!-but he coughs up too much and the blood is nearly spilling off his arm. Despite the fit leaving him ready to drop to his knees, he keeps his feet and strains his senses for any hint that might give away their next move.
Hands grip his wrists, coming from an impossible angle, and force him to drop both weapons. He waves his arms wildly, but can't find the body that should go with those hands. A similarly impossible number of hands pull him against the corner all at once, until he can move little but his head and arms. It's unnatural. More hands are pulling at the blindfold and earplugs he's been made to wear while something else tugs at the collar.
White-hot panic rises at the fact that someone is tampering with the collar. His hands fly up to stop whatever is happening but the collar simply clatters to the floor, slipping past his fingers. The blindfold and the earplugs are the next to go, leaving him blinking in flickering torchlight, waiting for his blurry vision to clear. There are yells that sound like protests, but he can't tell whether they're coming from his own mouth or someone else's. There are harsh gasps, the start of a voice crying out before it cuts off. The arms release him and he slides down onto his backside. When he looks up, the figures which greet his eyes are standing, watching, silhouetted by a raised torch in the hand of the tallest of the entrants-who is unbelievably tall. There is something wrong with the figure's face-the eyes are dark and look hollow-but this doesn't surprise him. Little surprises him anymore.
He thinks perhaps he should know these people-like maybe he's seen them before.
It is now that his gaze trails down to the floor. He knew the bodies were there before-these particular masters don't see a need to send in a clean-up service for the aftermath of their day's entertainment-but without the blindfold-
He wipes the blood from his mouth as an afterthought as he continues staring down, his enemies momentarily forgotten.
Remember when you fought that one there?
The looser of the first battle he survived lurches up from its sprawled posture on the ground. Its eyeless sockets stare at him as what's left of the body's flesh pools around the remaining skeleton. The jaw is jerking up and down, but all that comes out of the fleshless mouth is a hissing sound.
A rotten smell overtakes the scent brought by those who have broken down the wall. He is choking on his own throat and he presses himself more firmly into the corner than the hands did before. Unable to get enough air, his fingers dig at the floor beneath, as if finding actually purchase on the smooth surface might afford him some ability to change that.
The bodies littering the floor around him begin to rise, joints clicking as they sway. A jumble of voices assaults him, all of its members too loud and too incoherent. These voices scrape past him, making to slice into his cheek, his shoulder, his side. He winces away from the invisible blows. He is still clawing at the ground, fingers starting to become warm and slick. His hand finds the sword again, and he grips it without heed for the sharpness of the unprotected blade.
He stares at the blood dribbling down from his hand from the new cut before lifting his head and tightening his grip. A few of the bodies drag themselves closer. One glops wetly when it shifts an arm. Another growls a gurgling imitation of the bear-like snarl it had in life.
A sandaled foot steps through the bodies, as if they are not even there, and they drop to the ground, going silent. A boy, mouth set in a firm downward curve, walks up without a glance at the monsters he has just felled and stops in front of him. There is dirt smudged all over the boy-on his skin, on his face-and ground into scrapes and bruises. Dark eyes watch the slave widely, without a hint of boy's intention in them. There is only an expectance of something. The boy is waiting, unknowable.
The moment he attacks… the moment he…attacks… His grip tightens even further on the blade, then can't anymore. It has reached bone. Still, he waits for the boy to make the first move.
One of the boy's fisted hands comes up, pressing the round-brimmed hat he's wearing further down his forehead, casting the eyes into shadow. In the uncertain light coming from the group behind, something wet on the boy's face glistens. The unhappy curve of the boy's mouth becomes a harsh frown, with the corners straining ever harder downward.
"Usopp…" A drop falls from the boy's chin. "I'm sorry." The boy's voice is wavering strangely, and the hat is crumpling under his hand. "We didn't-we didn't come fast enough." There are streaks growing in the dirt smudged on the boy's face. His voice drops to a struggling whisper. "I'm sorry."
He has no reply. Especially for words he doesn't understand.
The boy turns around, exposing his back, and then he crouches, arms loose at his sides. The curve of the boy's back is almost touching the point of the blade. If the slave wanted he could simply push forward, plunge the blade in, and this boy would be paralyzed, maybe even killed.
It would be easy. But these people have not entered the usual way, and there has been no bell announcing the start of a match. He is not certain what to do. Nothing about this situation fits established patterns.
Staring at the boy's back, he finally realizes that they are not wearing collars, and that they must have been the ones to take off his. He doesn't know how they did it, but it is not ticking. It will not explode.
"Usopp," the boy says, his voice still low, "If you want, we can still take you back to the Sunny. Back to safety. We can get you out of here. C'mon. Get on my back."
The boy doesn't glance over his shoulder for even a moment, though he must know how close the tip of blade is. The slave is torn. If he puts down his weapon now, he'll be defenseless-
He wonders what 'Usopp' means.
Another round of coughing bubbles up, and he leans against the wall again, spent. His arm is shaking with the effort of holding up the blade. There is no fight imminent, and the adrenaline that propelled him before is waning.
"Luffy-san-" says the one holding the torch in a low voice.
"Shh!" Hisses the boy. "He's deciding." Softer now, the boy continues. Somehow the slave knows that the boy is speaking to him again, although the boy still doesn't glance back. "You don't have to be afraid anymore. Okay? I'll protect you now."
The slave runs a dry tongue over dry lips again. He wants to trust everything to these familiar strangers, but he doesn't know if he should-if it's worth the risk. They could save him, but the could kill him too.
The figures beyond the boy shift. Something tinkles, something else clicks. The smell of salt grows once more before fading to the constant level it's been at since the wall was broken down.
This time, his stomach doesn't clench. Instead, hot tears are starting to run down his face. He doesn't think he feels sadness, or despair, or anything that should make him cry, so he doesn't know why he is.
"W-" he wheezes, the word fading on his tongue. His voice is gravely, and broken, and it grates on his own ears. "-Leave?"
The boy seems to understand the one word question perfectly. "Uhn," he says, nodding. The hands make an inviting motion. "C'mon."
He can't turn his head away from the wall to make the sound any clearer. He doesn't have the strength. "For-fo-'rever?"
Another nod, sharper than the last.
Breaths quickening, he drops the sword and shifts. His hand inches, trembling, to the boy's shoulder. He touches the boy briefly with his fingertips, to test whether he is really there and, if touched, what will happen. Nothing. Not even movement.
The slave's head is starting to spin, the room wobbling, when he rests both hands on the boys shoulders. Pushing off from the wall, he collapses onto the boy's back, wrapping his arms around the thin neck. The boy is strong, despite the scrawny appearance. He can tell merely by touch, by the way the boy's muscles ripple as he shifts around.
The boy half rises from his crouch, then, after feeling along the slave's upper legs, hooks his arms under the slave's knees. The slave is smearing blood on the back of the boy's shirt-it's still dripping from his hand as well-but the boy doesn't seem to care, so neither does he. Instead, he drops the side of his head down onto the back of the boy's neck. His head rests low enough that the boy's hat is undisturbed.
The salt is heavy on the boy's skin and clothing. When he starts forward, the former slave closes his eyes and heaves a small sigh, small enough that he doesn't choke on it
"Oi, Luffy, we gotta get out of here. Second round of explosives is set to go off any minute," a deep voice says. It is terse, but level, almost as if the speaker has been offended in some minor way and is doing a bad job of covering it.
"Uhn," the boy-Luffy? Luffy, isn't it?-says. It's strange to feel the boy's voice vibrating his chest. "Let's go."
Luffy.
Might be a good name for a captain.
Luffy's gait is smoother than he is expecting. He feels safer than he probably should on Luffy's back and he struggles to stay conscious. There are screams, the sharp grating of swords clashing, but if the party is ever in real trouble during the loudest of these noises, he cannot tell. His vision wavers, spots dancing in it, whenever he tries to open his eyes. He gets glimpses of color-orange, pink, blue, green-but the images are always too blurred and jumbled to make much sense of, except for the fact that the colors are not always the product of his fading awareness.
The only thing he is really sure of is that a large portion of the white blur, a blur that glares harsh in the light, is that of the buildings of Mariejoa. He has spent most of his time as a prisoner of the Holy City's Celestial Dragons in dark underground dungeons, but he remembers the glorious outer shell. However, he does not remember the awe he felt when he saw it for the first time. He only remembers the dread.
Luffy is still running.
He opens his eyes with a gasp. For a moment, he does not remember what happened, is not certain why he is hanging onto someone, so he tenses until the memories come back. The scare leaves him shuddering.
He is still on Luffy's back. There is gunfire, echoing and distant like in a dream, but it doesn't seem to bother Luffy. It takes the once-prisoner a moment to realize that they are moving through the air. How, he is not sure.
They set down onto a deck. The once-slave lifts his head a little to catch a glimpse of the ship as Luffy turns in place. His eyes widen at the sight of green covering the part of the deck below the level they have landed on. The light is dim and it doesn't seem possible, but could it be that the deck is covered in…grass?
Lifting a hand to scratch under his hat, Luffy mumbles a puzzled sound to himself. "Chopper's not here." After glancing back and forth, he shrugs. "Maybe he's waiting in the sick bay."
The once-slave stares down as they begin to move. Even dazed as he is, he is sure now that the green is grass after all. He hasn't seen such a plant since...since…since some time he can't place. Luffy approaches a door and opens it. The room beyond is dark, filled with indiscernible shapes. The once-slave is suddenly reminded of darkness, stench, and stone walls, and struggles to get off Luffy's back. He doesn't want to go into that place. Even if it doesn't smell and is made of wood, he doesn't want to go into the dark.
Making a questioning sound in his throat, Luffy twists his neck to look at what the once-slave is doing. "It's the sick bay, where we'll make you feel better. Chopper's not here yet, but-oi!" The once-slave has kicked Luffy rather hard in his attempt to escape. Luffy frowns and grapples for his hold on his struggling burden, making no further move to enter the room. "Don't you want to go inside? It's safe, and you can rest."
Stopping his struggles since he is already exhausted by them, he scrunches his eyes shut and tightens his grip on Luffy. "Down."
"Down?"
"…Green." He wants to say something more, to explain, but he can't muster the energy.
Luffy seems to understand, however, and turns around. "You wanna go to the lower deck?"
He nods his head as well as he can while one cheek is pressed against Luffy's back. There is a long pause, then Luffy leaps down to the lowest deck of the ship. The once-slave wiggles a little, itching to touch the grass, the green, the life, now that he can smell it under his feet.
Luffy lowers the once-slave to the ground, then eases him to lie back on the grass. The straw hat wearing boy hovers after that, biting his lower lip and creasing his brows. Luffy still has one hand on his arm. The once-slave stares past him.
He can't see the sky, there is dark stone above them blocking the way. He doesn't know where they are, or how the boat can be under stone, or even how the grass can grow on a deck-but because of the grass he can almost imagine it. The sky, if he could see it, would surely be blue. Blue, with clouds of pure white, a pure white unimaginably whiter than the buildings of Mariejoa, creeping by far above.
His next breath sends him into another fit of coughs that bring up more blood. He curls onto his side but hardly notices the ache in his chest or the chill in his body or the exhaustion that is deepening. Luffy's hovering more closely, more worried-looking than ever before. It'll be all right, he wants to whisper to his mysterious rescuer, but the words can't make it to his lips. Don't worry. This moment, lying here on this earthy smelling grass with that blue, blue sky close enough overhead to imagine, and the sound of gentle waves breaking against the ship, is perfect.
It's perfect.
The salty tinge of the sea in the air overwhelms him, and he sinks down into the dark.
Continued in Chapter 2: Undersea