At first, it was dark.
His skin felt warm, like he was in a hot tub, but the liquid was too thick for that. It felt… sticky, almost like slime. He didn't need to breathe. He didn't question why. In fact, no thoughts came at all. It was like waking up from a deep sleep, or unconsciousness.
His eyes opened. He stared blankly forward, through the warm blue slime, at a… scientist? The clipboard in his hands and the lab coat certainly seemed to match the description, but the bizarre, pointed hood on his head and the sunglasses were like nothing he'd ever seen. Behind the man, a massive metal and glass tower rose with three layers, each one smaller than the one below, like a cake.
Nothing he'd ever seen? Where had he seen a scientist before? How does he know what a clipboard is? Then the bigger questions started popping up:
Who was the scientist? Where was he? Who was he? If not for the shock these questions put him in, he would have thrashed around in the suffocating slime. He wanted to be anywhere other than here, to get a gulp of fresh air, but he couldn't. As it was, a finger twitched.
He was too busy drowning in questions to notice the figure watching him from beyond the glass. The man's mask and mirrored sunglasses gave away nothing. The man looked down at his clipboard and jotted something down. Through the congealed liquid and glass came a muted sound, snapping him back from his thoughts.
"Number 427 is done incubating. That should be the last of this batch."
He refocused on the scientist, who had turned to look at the person he was talking to.
427? Was that me? He barely noticed the other voice replying. His eyes were locked on the bright yellow number stamped on the scientist's headphones: 66.
66? Order 66? Wait… Germa 66? Where do I know that from?
As 427's heart started pounding and head started aching, the machine picked up on it. With an electronic bzzt, a dose of sedatives and relaxants entered the nutrient rich slurry surrounding him. Despite his panic attack receding and vision darkening at the edges, his head felt like it was on the verge of exploding. A revelation struck him like a blow to the head.
It hit him all at once. He knew that number. He knew where he was. He knew what he was.
Germa 66 had made him.
He was a clone.
He was in One Piece.
With that final thought, the darkness took him.
"ATTENTION!"
He jolted upright, out of the bed, heart pounding in his chest. Before his thoughts could catch up, he was already standing rigidly by the foot of his bed. He didn't dare to look around. The air smelled of clean linen and acrid disinfectant. Across from him stood another clone, at military attention. Abnormally thin and tall - to the point of defying common human proportions. A completely blank expression, wearing a grey shirt with brown military pants and boots, with nary a single twitching muscle. They were lined up inside a dome-shaped military tent, flanked by small beds. Each had a storage compartment at its foot. The beds had straps bolted to the frame, to hold down the occupants.
Taking his cue from his fellow clone, he stood still as a man wearing a Germa 66 combat uniform stalked past, observing each new soldier. His palms were sweating as he tried to control his breath.
What if I stand out? What if he notices I'm different? What if— The sergeant's bark cut through the overwhelming thoughts:
"Congratulations on being recruited into the Germa Kingdom's military! You are now soldiers of Germa 66! From now on, you will be assigned a number. Forget your name! Forget your family! Everything you do now, everything you exist for, is for the glory of the Vinsmoke! For Germa 66!"
"FOR THE VINSMOKE! FOR GERMA 66!" As if it were muscle memory, 427 yelled along with the rest of the clones at the top of their lungs.
How the hell did I know to do that? Now that I think about it, how did I stand at military attention like it was natural? The drill sergeant's voice snapped him out of it.
"As new recruits, you have one day before training begins. Use it to familiarize yourselves with each other, your seniors, and the snail your barracks are on. Don't get lost before the snails split up— no one's coming to look for you, even if we climb the Red Line." At this, a wave of smirks and muffled chuckles spread through the room.
"At ease!" With that, he strode out of the tent. Like a dam breaking, a wave of conversation and laughter spread.
427 took the opportunity to look around. The tent was rather ordinary— aside from the straps on the beds. The clones clapped each other on the shoulder, talking and laughing surprisingly easily. There were a variety of bizarre body types, from massive, wide giants to short, squat dwarfs. Despite being clones, each had slightly different faces, more like close siblings than duplicates.
I guess it makes sense they look slightly different, if they're unaware of being cloned. Is that why the drill sergeant talked about forgetting family? So they would assume they're under orders and not think about it?
He sat back on his bed, almost falling, head in his hands. Now that he had a moment to think in peace, the despair of his situation washed over him.
Why the hell am I here? What's going on? I'm not built for this, I'm just a… wait, what was I before all of this? He sat up in shock.
I can't remember any personal details of my life. I remember everything except family, my personal details, or friends or anything. 427's head spun. He lay down, pausing when he heard a crinkling noise.
He reached underneath his back, and pulled out a piece of paper. Emblazoned on the top was a 427, the snail code G24, and a map. Putting it down, he lay back, draping his arm over his eyes.
Get it together. Crying about this shit isn't going to achieve anything. Go through what I know and what I need to know. Through sheer force of will, which he was reasonably sure he hadn't possessed much of before all of this, he focused on the facts.
I'm a clone in Germa. That means I'm biologically about 20. I'm cannon fodder. They literally throw us at the enemy in waves to wear them down. Heightwise I look more like a balanced type than one of those freaks, which I guess is a plus.
He paused for a minute to turn his head. Most of the big clones were talking and laughing. The balanced clones and… speed? Is that what the short ones were? Were reading their papers or thinking, clearly more taciturn.
So the individual types each have similar personalities. I guess it makes sense.
He caught snippets of the conversations around him
"—heard Lord Judge led the recruitment drive personally—"
"—need to train hard—"
"—got chills at the 'glory to the Vinsmoke' part of the speech—"
They're completely mindless. At most, they have a surface level personality, with no deeper thoughts. It made sense, he supposed, but it still filled him with chills. What if he slipped up? Would they notice and have countermeasures in place? Or was Judge too egotistical to even consider the possibility? Regardless, he had no thoughts of ever exposing his relative sentience.
Still, the idea of having to blend in made it hard to breathe. When he took into account what he would need to do in order to survive, the stress doubled.
I'm going to have to fight for my life, with allies who don't care if I live or die. I don't know jack shit about fighting… wait…
Basics on military protocol, combat stances, firearms and weaponry use came to his mind naturally, as if it was something he had always known. Nothing crazy, mind you, just the basics, but enough that a civilian might not die too miserably on the battlefield.
Is this a cheat?No, it's probably the reason why all the clones knew how to stand at military attention and talk despite never having done it before. They've 'installed' information into our brains.
Lucky for him, it didn't seem as though he had the same loyalty "drivers" as the rest. Unlucky for him, that would make it exponentially harder to fit in. Thinking about having to parrot the rest of them and never slipping up, he wiped the sweat off his forehead.
My biggest advantage is definitely future knowledge. What else do I even have? I need to figure out what year it is. That's assuming that the show or games are even accurate to how the world actually is.
He knew where precisely to stab someone in the neck from behind, and that sure as shit never happened in the show.
Enough pondering my inevitable demise. Time to start talking and fit in.
As he started to get up, on another snail island, a cluster of scientists watched the barracks through monitors, taking notes. The gleam of their sunglasses from the bright screens in a dark room made it hard for anyone to judge what they were thinking.
One of the scientists, looking at the monitors, paused. Without looking down at their clipboard, they slowly and deliberately started writing. At the top? "Potential Defects."