The idea didn't appear all at once.
It accumulated.
It took shape in the gaps. In the moments when Osborn stood still for too long, watching the world move on without asking permission. In the way men took up space effortlessly. In how deeper voices silenced the others. In Bill's automatic flinch whenever someone spoke too loudly near the market.
Osborn's body still didn't match what his mind already understood.
He felt that with uncomfortable clarity.
Even eating better, even sleeping with fewer interruptions, his body was still that of a child. Thin, light, easy to push around. His arms couldn't hold weight for long. His hands still didn't have the strength to hold someone who wanted to break free.
Strength didn't come quickly.
And waiting was never an option in that place.
That truth became even clearer one morning when he tried to drag a piece of wood larger than it looked. The branch seemed dry, harmless, but when he pulled harder, the weight won. The branch slipped, hit the ground with a dull sound, and the impact traveled up his arms, vibrating into his shoulders.
Osborn stood still, breathing deeply.
It wasn't pain.
It was frustration.
He hated himself a little in those moments—not for being weak, but for knowing exactly why he was weak and being unable to change it at the pace he needed.
Bill was nearby, gathering coconut scraps, stacking them in the crooked way he always did. He looked at Osborn, curious.
"Did something happen?"
Osborn didn't answer right away. He sat on a fallen log, rested his elbows on his knees, and let his gaze wander through the forest. There, the silence was different from the city's. It wasn't the absence of sound. It was too much presence. Insects, leaves, branches shifting with the wind. Something larger moving far away.
It was in that kind of silence that he thought best.
He didn't need to face anyone right now, he knew that. He had food. He had shelter. He had time. But time without preparation became a trap. And he didn't want to wake up one day and realize the time was gone.
The thought returned to the same point as always.
Distance.
If he couldn't defeat someone up close, he couldn't let them get close.
That idea didn't arrive as a plan. It came as a physical sensation. Like a natural response to the constant fear of always being within reach of others.
Osborn stood up slowly.
"Bill," he called.
"Yeah?"
"Have you ever seen someone use a sling?"
Bill frowned, thinking.
"I've seen some kids throwing stones far with cloth," he replied. "They usually break stuff… or run afterward."
That was enough.
The idea clicked into place with uncomfortable ease, as if it had been there for a long time waiting to be named. It didn't require brute strength. It required coordination, time, reading the environment—everything Osborn had already been doing without realizing it.
But an idea without material was just a thought.
And material, on that island, came from chaos.
The harbor was always the best place for that.
Osborn already knew the rhythm of the place. He knew which days were more tense. When the Pirate Lord's men showed up in greater numbers, collecting, shouting, pushing. He knew that on those days, no one looked down. No one counted what they had properly. No one paid attention to children who walked as if they wanted nothing.
He waited for the right day.
On the morning when the noise started too early, Osborn knew. Voices too loud. Arguments growing too fast. Shoving near the warehouses that turned into open disorder before the sun was high.
He watched from a distance, too still to draw attention.
"Today," he said, barely moving his lips.
Bill swallowed hard.
"Today what?"
"Today we take what we need."
They didn't run. They didn't plunge headfirst into the chaos. They waited for focus to shift, waited for the guards to move in the wrong direction, waited for the noise to swallow the details.
When they moved, it was like people with no destination.
The roll of fabric hung behind a smaller stall—thick material, used for sacks, bindings, improvisations. The kind of thing no one missed immediately.
Osborn ran his hand over the fabric once, feeling its resistance.
"Now," he murmured.
Bill helped. A firm, short pull. The roll fell heavily. They wrapped it quickly in old cloth, hiding the shape, the volume. It wasn't elegant. It was efficient.
The knives came after. A distraction. A low counter. A human lapse too common to ignore. Osborn took what he could carry without advertising the absence.
When they moved away, they only truly stopped when the tent was in sight.
There, the air felt different.
"We did it," Bill said, his voice trembling.
"Not yet," Osborn replied. "We only brought material."
Inside the tent, the world narrowed.
The roll was opened on the ground. The knives placed beside it. Osborn knelt and began touching the fabric carefully, as if reading something written there.
He didn't need something beautiful. He needed something reliable.
He started with the straps.
Measured against his forearm, marked with his nail, cut carefully. Each cut was deliberate. Each mistake meant less material later. The sound of the knife was low, almost intimate.
Then, the central part.
Osborn hesitated before cutting. He knew that was the heart of it. The pouch that would hold the stone. Too small, it failed. Too large, it lost control.
He cut. Folded. Adjusted with his fingers.
He held the finished sling for a few seconds, feeling the nonexistent weight, the light swing.
Too simple to look dangerous.
And that was good.
"No one's going to look at this and think it's a threat," he said.
"But is it?" Bill asked.
Osborn thought.
"If it's used right."
The following days were for testing.
No showing off. No rush. The sling stayed hidden, folded, invisible. During the day, they kept living. They gathered. Carried. Did the quiet work that kept the tent safe.
But there was now a new thought taking up constant space.
Training.
The forest became the place for it.
They went early, before movement increased. They did what needed to be done and went deeper, where the sound of the city didn't reach. There, Osborn started with the stones.
Not just any.
He picked one up, felt the weight, discarded it. Another. Another. Bill copied him, learning through gesture.
"It's not just the weight," Osborn said once. "It's how it sits in your hand."
When they couldn't find the right size, they broke them. Stone against stone. Adjusted. Tested.
The first throws were bad.
Stones fell short. Others flew wide. One nearly hit Bill, who complained and moved away.
Osborn didn't stop.
His arm ached. His wrist mistimed the release. His body still didn't obey the way it should. But with every mistake, he understood a little more.
When a stone finally struck a trunk with enough force to make a sharp sound, Osborn felt something different.
It wasn't joy.
It was control.
He stood still, feeling the sling still swaying in his hand.
"Again," he said.
And they repeated it.
Day after day.
They returned to the tent tired, dirty, but with something new between them. It wasn't just survival.
It was preparation.
At night, lying on the hard ground, Osborn thought.
He was still small. Still weak. Still would lose if someone got too close.
But now he had distance.
And distance, he knew, changed everything.