The hammer's weight felt right in my hand. Not "I was born to wield this" right, more "I stole this from a Norse god's garage sale" right. Solid. Reliable. I gave it a lazy swing, the kind that says, yeah, I know physics, I just choose to ignore them.
"Ten billion berries," I muttered. The number hung in the air like a bad punchline. "Still can't believe it. Feels like I should get a crown or a coupon booklet at least."
Perona was perched on a cannon like a goth Barbie, her little ghost squad swirling around like backup dancers with commitment issues. "Better believe it," she said, snapping her gum like she was auditioning for Mean Girls: The Haunted Edition. "They want your head on a spike, genius. Big glow-up from 'wanted dead or alive.'"
Cue Shyarly from below deck, tail swishing across the planks like she owned the place—which, let's be honest, she probably did. "The Marines are blockading every route out of the New World." Her voice had that eerie calm, the kind that comes right before the horror movie soundtrack kicks in. "They've mobilized Admirals. Your little fireworks display in Mariejois got their full attention."
I rested Fake Mjolnir against my shoulder, metal cool against the shirt I hadn't ironed in three days. "Attention's good. Means we're doing something right." The lie tasted like week-old sake. Because let's face it: ten billion isn't a bounty, it's a gold-plated death sentence. Even Perona's ghosts stopped doing their spooky-cute routine and drifted low like they were mourning me in advance. Shyarly's fins twitched—her tell. Like poker, but with scales.
Then the Den Den Mushi croaked. Not a normal croak either. A pigeon-patterned one. Translation: Lucci. Because the universe just loves comedy.
I snatched it up. "Report." No pleasantries. We weren't friends. We weren't even LinkedIn connections.
Lucci's voice came through, cold enough to frostbite the soul. "Straw Hat Luffy and his crew are contained. Punk Hazard proved… advantageous." He paused. You could practically hear the sociopathy. "Your intel was precise."
Great. Mission accomplished. R.O.B.'s little directive fulfilled. I should've popped champagne. Instead, my knuckles whitened around the receiver like it owed me money.
Perona floated closer, for once not smirking. "Contained? That rubber idiot actually got caught?" Her ghosts swirled faster, like anxious toddlers. "Thought he was supposed to be unstoppable."
Shyarly shimmered uneasily, scales catching the light. "This changes the currents," she murmured, because apparently I needed mystical doom narration on top of guilt. "Luffy's defeat creates a vacuum. The balance shifts. The Government will exploit it."
I stared at the snail. Of course the intel had been precise. I'd binged One Piece like the rest of humanity. I knew where he'd be, knew how it played out—until I played God. Punk Hazard wasn't supposed to be a prison bus stop. My interference had turned it into a mousetrap. With Lucci holding the cheese.
"Contained how?" I asked, tighter than I meant. "Alive? Unharmed?"
Lucci didn't flinch. "For now. They're being transported to Impel Down. Level Six."
Boom. That's the death knell. Level Six doesn't mean "time out." It means "you're an embarrassing memory we'd like to scrub from history." And Luffy? He's not just a pirate. He's the gravity keeping this crazy universe spinning. Pull him out and—yeah, good luck with the apocalypse.
Perona's ghosts shrieked in stereo, a sound that went straight to the bone. "Impel Down? That's not containment, Cassian, that's a damn tomb! Even I wouldn't wish that on that grinning idiot!"
Shyarly's tail lashed the deck with a crack. "The tides turn dark. The Sea mourns the fading light. If Luffy falls, the dawn dies with him."
Great. Doom prophecy and ghost wailing. Perfect Friday night.
I slammed Fake Mjolnir into the deck hard enough to make it groan. "He can escape. He's done it before." The words were ash in my mouth.
Perona scoffed, brittle as glass. "Before you gift-wrapped him for Lucci."
Shyarly just stared, eyes like knives. "Fate's threads are frayed. Your hammer didn't just strike Mariejois. It shattered the loom."
The Den Den blinked slow. Lucci's voice slid back in, smooth, surgical. "Interesting. Your concern for the Straw Hat is… unexpected. Almost like guilt."
I stiffened. "Guilt? Don't flatter yourself, Lucci. This is pragmatism. Remove Luffy now, and the World Government fills the void faster than you can say 'Absolute Justice.' That's chaos with no rhythm. I don't like off-beat chaos."
Perona drifted down to my eye level, jabbing a finger into my chest. "Stop lying to the pigeon-man and yourself. You've had your sulky face on since he picked up. That's not strategy face. That's 'I sold out my childhood hero' face."
Shyarly nodded, annoyingly serene. "She's right. Your regret radiates like heat from a dying star. Loud. Uncomfortable."
Lucci chuckled, a sound like someone sharpening knives underwater. "Your crew is perceptive, Doomsday. Denial is fascinating—especially when it's so transparent. You didn't just hand me the Straw Hat. You sabotaged him. You betrayed him. And you can't stand the reflection in the mirror."
He let the silence stretch. Then, colder: "The guilt isn't pragmatic, Cassian. It's pathetic."
I didn't have a comeback. Not a witty one, not a furious one. Nothing. Which, for me, is basically like a system crash. The pigeon-shaped bastard hadn't just poked the bear; he'd installed Wi-Fi in its skull and started rearranging the furniture. Perona's ghosts whimpered like background singers at a funeral, and Shyarly's tail froze mid-slap, coiling in tight like a spring. The deck under my boots suddenly felt less like wood and more like quicksand with commitment issues. Lucci's words echoed: Sabotaged. Betrayed. Reflection. Yeah, that reflection? Real Picasso nightmare right now. Fanboy-turned-traitor. Great arc, Cassian. Really award-winning stuff. My knuckles hurt from how hard I was clenching the receiver.
"Are we done?" I ground out, voice tasting like gravel and regret cocktails. "Got a world to destabilize. Busy schedule. Chaos doesn't self-manage."
Lucci paused, deliberate, like a cat deciding whether to keep torturing the mouse. "For now. Though I suspect we'll speak again soon." The Den Den Mushi's pigeon face warped into a smirk. Which is impressive, considering it's a mollusk with stage makeup. "You possess… unique insights. They remain valuable. Should another opportunity arise to streamline the chaos you claim to crave, you'll make time for a call?" Translation: keep selling out your conscience, champ.
I stared at the snail, jaw clenched hard enough to crack porcelain. Above me, Perona's ghosts spiraled like nervous drones, while Shyarly's stare pressed into me like she had Poseidon on speed dial. Lucci wasn't just offering a favor; he was dangling a poisoned apple. And me? I'd already taken a bite. "Yeah," I muttered, voice raw. "I'll make time." Then I slammed the receiver down before Pigeon Man could score more points. Silence followed. Heavy. Claustrophobic. The kind of silence that makes you question your life choices and your Netflix queue.
Shyarly slithered closer, scales hissing against the deck like whispered threats. Her eyes—ancient, fathomless, the kind that make you feel like a toddler scribbling with crayons—locked onto mine. "Cassian," she said, voice rolling low like a tide you don't come back from. "The Straw Hat saved Fishman Island. He broke chains that bound us for generations. He is… a cleansing current." She put a cool hand on my arm, grounding me like she was the last adult in the room. "We cannot let him rot in that abyss. The Sea demands balance. We must attempt a rescue."
I jerked my arm back, sharper than I meant. "Impossible," I snapped. "Look at us. I've got ten billion berries taped to my forehead. The Marines have admirals crawling every sea lane like ants on a picnic. And Luffy?" I jabbed toward the horizon like Impel Down was just waiting out there with a neon 'Open 24/7' sign. "He's not just a prisoner—he's their golden goose. Marching into that fortress isn't a rescue mission. It's a group-rate funeral."
Perona floated down beside Shyarly, uncharacteristically serious. "She's got a point, Captain. That rubber idiot saved your favorite fish lady's island. Kinda owe him." Her sarcasm flickered, leaving something almost tender. "Besides… he's Luffy. World feels wrong without him screwing things up."
I tightened my grip on Fake Mjolnir, the metal biting into my palm. "Owing him doesn't mean signing our death warrants. Impel Down's not a prison—it's a meat grinder with branding. We'd just be three more names on the 'In Memoriam' slideshow." The image burned itself in: Perona's wide eyes gone glassy, Shyarly broken and bleeding under fluorescent torches. My gut twisted. "No."
Shyarly's tail cracked against the deck like a whip. "Cassian," she hissed, her gaze a tsunami threatening to swallow me. "You wield a hammer born of chaos, yet you shy from the storm? The Straw Hat is the tide that lifts all ships—even yours. To abandon him is to let the World Government drown the dawn." Her voice dropped, rough and pleading. "We don't need certainty. Only the chance to try."
I held her stare, knuckles white on the hammer. "The chance is zero. Less than zero. It's a suicide note disguised as heroics, and I won't gamble your lives for it." My throat burned around the words. "We survive. That's the mission."
Perona's ghosts keened, soft and hollow, echoing the look in her eyes. Disappointment—sharp, unmistakable. Shyarly didn't speak. Didn't need to. The bright scales along her neck dulled, like the sea itself was dimming. "Survival without purpose is stagnation," she said finally, her voice receding like a tide. "But I hear your command, Captain." She turned and slipped below deck, silent as a secret.
Perona lingered, hovering just above the wood, her smirk long gone. "You know she's right," she said, voice quiet, weary. "But fine. Play it safe. See how that ten billion tastes when the world's nothing but Marines and empty seas." Then she drifted away, her ghosts clustered tight around her like mourners.
The silence left behind wasn't empty. It was loud. Accusing. And it sounded an awful lot like guilt.
***
The door clicked shut and somehow the room grew smaller, like the universe was giving me the side-eye. Fake Mjolnir leaned against the bulkhead like a polished accusation. Rescue Luffy. Shyarly's words scraped my skull like barnacles. Impossible? Probably. Let him rot in Impel Down and the world files a wrongful-death suit against hope. I dropped into a chair and let the wood complain for me. Okay, I told whatever part of me was still a terrible person. Assume possible. Now: logistics.
First step: Become less conspicuous. I shifted down from my usual twenty-five-foot mood to something less headline-friendly. The hammer came with—loyal little thing—shrinking with me and settling into my hand like it approved of the plan. But shrinking wasn't enough. If I wanted to slip past admirals and sentries, I needed a face they wouldn't put on a wanted poster.
So I pushed. Not a casual morph; this was full customer-service-level remodeling. Bones clicked like bad furniture, skin reformed as if I'd been Photoshopped in real time, hair rearranged on a very specific bad-guy aesthetic. When I caught my reflection in the hammer's mirror finish, I blinked at someone who'd stolen my smirk. Sharper jaw, no chin-beard, wider eyes, black hair—no straw hat, but the usual twin white horns curled from my temples like a fashion statement from the wrong apocalypse. Not perfect. Perfect never needed to hide. But unrecognizable? Check. Hope—thin, glacial, likely to complain—flickered on.
Perona drifted in uninvited, because of course she did. Her smirk behaved like it was on a commercial break. "Whoa. Creepy," she said, circling me like a critic at an avant-garde show. "You look like Luffy's edgy cousin. Coffee-shop brooding, heavy-metal playlist, existential crisis included." She poked my cheek like she was testing warranty. "Horns because of course the horns. Très doomed-antihero."
I laughed, because what else do you do when you're wearing someone else's face? Looked again in the hammer: same wild spark Luffy had, but dialed through a funhouse mirror. Black Luffy, I thought. Ironic: I'd helped turn the hero into a casualty and now I'm wearing his face to fix it. The universe likes symbolism; it's a needy director.
"Think it'll fool Impel Down's guards?" Perona asked, skeptical. "Or just creep them out into early retirement?"
"Doesn't need forever," I said, flexing fingers that now fit this face like a glove. "Just long enough to get in, find him, and get out. We slip through the transfer like a paper cut through bureaucracy." Plan was simple, elegant, and possibly suicidal—three components I liken to my personal brand. Disguise as a prisoner transfer, blend into the horrorshow, locate Luffy, then crack that place open like an overripe egg. Quick, messy, effective.
"Damage control, not heroics," I added, because the optics were important. "I broke it; I clean it. That's the ledger."
Perona's grin widened. Ghosts bobbed in applause. "Damage control with horns," she said, and for half a second she looked almost proud. "Admit it—you missed playing superhero."
Before I could get existential, she ghost-kissed my cheek—cold and theatrical—and floated out. "Shyarly's below. Brooding. Or praying. Hard to tell with fish-ladies."
Shyarly was bent over her crystal like a storm was on backorder. The orb swirled tide and thunder—her personal doom-feed. "We're going," I told her, the consonants clipped like machine parts. "Not for glory. For the unsightly alternative."
She looked up, and the ocean lived in her eyes—vast enough to drown a lesser man and patient enough to wait out a god. Then, without flourish, she moved like a current and wrapped me in an embrace that was cool as deep water and fiercer than I deserved. Her scales pressed against my borrowed frame; her fingers held like anchors. "Thank you," she breathed, voice like tide-song. "The Sea sings again."
I stiffened. Physical affection from an ancient sea-being should be on some labeled schedule I missed. "Don't get mushy," I said automatically, patting her like a man trying to avoid initiating a national holiday. "This isn't a redemption tour. It's cleanup."
Her gratitude scraped at my raw places anyway. Perona might be right; it did look heroic. And beneath the horns, beneath the bravado, Lucci's accusation—pathetic—sat heavy. I wasn't saving Luffy because I was noble. I was saving him because everything in me recoiled at the idea of being the guy who traded his childhood hero for a paycheck. That, somehow, felt worse than getting killed trying to fix it.
Not exactly a moral sunrise. But not trying felt like darkness with better lighting. So I put the horns on, adjusted my smirk, and walked out to the rest of my idiotic, necessary plan.