Plink.
A single drop of brackish water fell from the ceiling beam and struck the damp floor of the brig. Then another. And another. The rhythm was maddening in its consistency, like the world's most depressing metronome keeping time for a song nobody wanted to hear.
Plink.
The belly of the Marine vessel Righteous Wrath smelled exactly how you'd expect a floating prison to smell. Salt. Mildew. The faint undertone of human misery that no amount of scrubbing could ever remove.
Plink.
The sea sloshed against the hull in a lazy, rhythmic embrace, and somewhere above deck, boots thudded against wood as sailors went about their duties. Down here, though? Down here was a different world entirely. A world of shadows and dripping water and the creaking protests of timber that had seen better days.
Two figures occupied the cell at the end of the corridor.
One sat in the far corner, motionless as a statue carved from shadow. You could barely make out his silhouette in the darkness, just the vague impression of a man and the faint gleam of grey eyes that seemed to absorb what little light dared venture this deep.
The other?
The other was lounging against the iron bars like they were the railing of some beachside resort. One leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee. Arms folded behind his head.
Elijah Sparrow looked about as concerned with his imprisonment as a cat looked concerned with the concept of personal space. Which is to say, not at all.
His dreadlocks, a chaotic tangle of brown and black, pooled beneath his head like a makeshift pillow. The red bandana tied around his forehead had slipped slightly, revealing a jagged scar that traced across his forehead. His eyes, those unnatural purple irises with their concentric rings of glowing red, caught the dim light and held it captive.
He was humming something. A tune with no discernible melody, just sound for the sake of sound.
"My old man used to say..."
The words came out soft.
"...every soul worth a damn is walking one of three roads."
His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Wealth. Fame. Power. Three paths to the top of the world. Three different ways to make sure people remember your name after you're gone."
Plink.
The drop of water hit the floor, and Elijah's gaze slid lazily toward the source of the sound. Then past it. Then to something far more interesting.
A young Marine stood guard at the end of the corridor. The kid couldn't have been older than eighteen, maybe nineteen at the most. Fresh faced in a way that screamed "first deployment" louder than any words could. His posture was so rigid you could've used his spine as a ruler. His fingers gripped his rifle like it was the only thing keeping him anchored to reality.
Poor bastard.
"Hey."
The rookie didn't move. Didn't even twitch. Good little soldier, following orders. Don't engage with the prisoners. Don't give them attention. Don't, don't, don't.
"Hey, kid."
Nothing.
Elijah's grin widened by a fraction. This was going to be fun.
"Wealth. Fame. Power." He raised his voice just enough to carry. "The choice defines a man. So tell me, little Marine..."
He let the question hang in the air for a moment.
"Which road are you walking?"
The rookie's jaw clenched. Elijah could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin, even from this distance. The grip on that rifle tightened another notch.
But no response. The kid was stubborn, at least. Had to give him that.
"Oh, a silent one! I love that. Really, I do. The strong, stoic type." Elijah shifted against the bars. "Let me guess, then. Is it Wealth? A steady paycheck from the World Government. Three meals a day, assuming the cook isn't trying to poison you. Maybe a nice pension after twenty years of service, if you survive that long. Buy yourself a little cottage somewhere quiet. Marry a nice girl. Have some kids. Die in your sleep at the ripe old age of 'Who Cares.'"
He paused, tilting his head.
"Sounds boring."
Still nothing from the guard. But that tick in his jaw was getting worse.
"No? Not the Wealth type? Then it must be..."
Elijah snapped his fingers.
"Power! Of course! The righteous fury of Justice itself! You get to wear the fancy coat, point the gun, feel all big and strong when you're telling civilians what they can and can't do."
He pushed himself up slightly, leaning forward with theatrical interest.
"But here's the funny thing about power in the Marines. You know what it actually means? It means taking orders. Every single day. From men who wouldn't bother learning your name if you dropped dead in front of them. Men who see you as a number on a roster, a body to fill a post, a convenient meat shield when things get ugly."
The rookie's eyes flickered. Just for a moment. Just long enough to tell Elijah everything he needed to know.
"Hit a nerve, did I?"
"Shut up."
"There it is! He speaks!" Elijah threw his hands up. "I was starting to think they'd sewn your mouth shut during basic training."
The rifle trembled slightly in the young Marine's grip.
"I said shut up!"
"Or what?" Elijah's eyes gleamed with something dangerous. Something hungry. "You'll shoot me? Go ahead. Explain to your commanding officer why you discharged your weapon into an unarmed prisoner."
"That's enough."
The voice came from the shadows.
Elijah's attention snapped to the figure in the corner. The silhouette shifted, resolving into something more defined. A man, lean and weathered, with ash-blond hair that stuck up at angles that defied both gravity and common sense.
"Leave the boy to his job."
Elijah's grin stretched wider. "Well, well, well."
He turned his full attention to the other prisoner, forgetting the rookie entirely. The boy might as well have been another drop of water from the ceiling for all the attention he now commanded.
"The beast in the corner finally speaks. I was wondering when you'd get tired of playing statue."
The man in the shadows said nothing.
Elijah squinted, his analytical gaze sweeping over the lanky frame. The worn tan duster coat. The black vest beneath it. The way he sat, perfectly centered, perfectly balanced. Like a coiled spring pretending to be at rest.
"Hold on a second..."
Recognition flickered across Elijah's features.
"The coat. The hair. The eyes… There's only one person in the North Blue who fits that description."
He pointed a lazy finger at the other prisoner.
"Duckworth. 'Quickdraw' Duckworth. The best damn bounty hunter this side of the Grand Line." A pause. "Or at least, the best who hasn't graduated to the big leagues yet."
Duckworth's gaze didn't flicker from the far wall. "Used to be."
"Used to be," Elijah repeated. "So the big question becomes: what's someone like you doing in a cage with someone like me?"
"None of your business."
"Ouch. Cold. I like it." Elijah adjusted his position against the bars, settling in for what promised to be an actually interesting conversation. "But you still haven't answered my question, Quickdraw. The one you were so keen on protecting our young friend from hearing."
He gestured vaguely toward the guard, who had gone very still and very quiet. Smart kid. Knew when he was outclassed.
"Wealth? Fame? Power? A man with your reputation has to be walking one of the roads. You're too good to be aimless, too dangerous to be directionless. So which is it?"
"Fame."
Elijah laughed. "Fame! Of course it is! The legendary Quickdraw wants his name to echo through the ages! Wants people to whisper about him in bars and print his exploits in the papers! Wants to be remembered long after the worms have finished with his corpse!"
He leaned forward, his grin turning razor sharp.
"And look at you now. You've got half of that dream already locked down, friend. Every Marine from here is going to know the name of the legendary bounty hunter who rotted away in a cell somewhere."
He spread his hands wide.
"A famous corpse. Quite the legacy you're building."
"You talk a lot," the bounty hunter observed, "for a man in the same cage."
"Talking is free. Might as well use it while I still can."
"Funny." Duckworth shifted slightly, and despite the casual motion, something about it felt dangerous. Like watching a snake reposition itself in the grass. "You've got plenty to say about everyone else's path. Plenty of opinions about where other folks are headed."
His grey eyes sharpened.
"Which road do you follow?"
The question hung in the stale air.
For a moment, just a moment, Elijah went still. The playfulness drained from his features like water through a sieve.
Then Elijah Sparrow rose to his full height, and the dim light caught those unnatural eyes of his. The purple irises seemed to deepen. The red rings within them began to glow, faint but unmistakable. Like embers waiting to become an inferno.
"You're thinking too small," he said.
His voice had changed. Still casual. Still carrying that laid-back tone. But beneath it was something new. Something vast.
"All of you. The Marines with their justice. The bounty hunters with their contracts. The pirates scraping for scraps." He shook his head slowly. "You are given three roads and think you have to pick one. Like the world only gives you three options and you'd better be grateful for the choice."
He took a step toward the bars. Then another. Until he was standing directly in the center of the cell, directly in the light such as it was.
"You want Wealth?"
The word came out heavy. Laden with meaning.
"Wealth buys ships. Fleets of them. Enough timber and cannon to darken the horizon. Enough gold to make kings beg for scraps at your table. Wealth is the foundation."
He turned, addressing the shadows where Duckworth sat.
"You want Fame?"
His grin returned.
"Fame is the most dangerous weapon in the world. It draws the strongest monsters from every corner of the sea, all of them desperate to test themselves against you. It draws the most beautiful women to your flag, because power is attractive and there's nothing more powerful than a name that makes the world tremble."
He raised a hand, examining his fingers like they were the most interesting things in creation.
"And Power?"
The word dropped from his lips like a stone into still water.
"Power is what makes sure nobody takes what's yours. Power is the final piece. The crown on top of everything else."
He let his hand fall.
Then he turned, his gaze sweeping over the frozen guard and the watchful bounty hunter in the darkness. Spreading his arms wide, in that miserable cell at the bottom of a Marine ship, Elijah Sparrow looked like exactly what he intended to become.
"You see three separate roads," he said. "I see a kingdom. One kingdom, with three territories, and I'm going to rule them all."
He laughed, low and dangerous.
"To be the King of Pirates," he said, "you have to be greedy. Greedy enough to want everything. Strong enough to take it. And crazy enough to think you actually deserve it."
He turned away from them, walking back to his spot against the bars. Settling into his lounging position once more. The king returning to his throne, such as it was.
"So that's my answer, Quickdraw." He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling. At the water still gathering for its next fall. "That's the road I walk. All of them. At once."
Plink.
The drop fell.
And somewhere in the darkness, Duckworth smiled.