The laboratory hummed with the sterile chill of death. Fluorescent lights flickered over rows of glass tanks, each filled with murky green fluid and shadows that twitched like half-drowned insects. Dr. Voss, his lab coat stained with sweat and guilt, stared at the five remaining tanks. Inside floated what once might have been called _humans_. Now, they were monstrosities—limbs twisted into claws, flesh fused with scales and steel, eyes bulging and unblinking.
"We're out of time," hissed Dr. Yaren, her hands trembling as she adjusted the serum injector. "CP0 will be here any minute. The _patrons_ ordered us to conclude the experiment."
Voss glanced at the security monitor. Red alarms flashed—_Breach Detected, Sector 5_. He wiped his glasses, smearing ash. "The serum isn't ready. Injecting them now will—"
"Look at them, Voss!" Yaren gestured wildly to the tanks. A child-sized subject with serpentine ribs cracking through its skin writhed soundlessly. "They're already dead. But if even _one_ survives… It will be a success…"
Voss's jaw tightened. The word tasted like rot. He nodded.
---
**Subject 13**
The fluid burned. It always burned. _Thirteen_—no, his name was… he had none, he had been here since birth.
A needle pierced his tank. The Final Serum flooded his veins.
Fire.
His spine arched, cracking the glass. His left arm dissolved into black tendrils, his right leg crystallized. He screamed, but his throat had melted weeks ago.
Somewhere, a scientist sobbed. "Gods forgive us—"
A gunshot silenced her.
The door exploded. Three masks—smooth, white, emotionless—glided into the lab. The lead agent lowered his pistol, smoke curling from the barrel.
"Disgusting," muttered the agent with a falcon mask, kicking a shard of glass. It skittered into a tank where a woman's face had split into a spider's mandibles. "This is why we don't play with toys."
The leader, his mask etched with gold, raised a gloved hand. "Burn it. Leave no trace."
Flamethrowers roared. Tanks shattered. Fluid ignited, painting the walls in hellish orange. The agents turned to leave.
A sound stopped them—a wet, guttural _click_.
Subject 13's tank had cracked open. A clawed hand, half-shadow, half-flesh, dragged itself through the flames.
"Finish it," the leader ordered.
The falcon-masked agent aimed. A shot rang out—but the subject was gone. Only a smear of black ooze dripped into the vents.
"Let the fire handle it," the leader said. "Move."
Thatch smelled the smoke first.
"Oyaji!" he called, sprinting to the ship's railing. "There's a fire inland! And CP0's ship's anchored offshore!"
Whitebeard lowered his sake cup. His eyes narrowed. "CP0… hiding secrets, are they? Thatch. Take Haruta. See what they're burning."
The two pirates vanished into the trees.
Haruta gagged. "What the hell _is_ this place?"
The lab's ruins smoldered. Charred limbs—too many, too twisted—littered the floor. Thatch crouched, poking a melted syringe. "Human experiments. Gov'ment specialty."
A whimper.
Haruta froze. "Did you hear that?"
Behind a collapsed beam, something stirred. A mass of sinew and shadow, one human eye glowing in the ash.
"_K…ill… me…_" it rasped.
Thatch recoiled. "Holy—! It's _alive_?!"
The creature's eye locked onto Haruta's. Pleading. _Human_.
"We're taking it to Oyaji," Haruta said.
"Are you _insane_?! Look at it!"
"_Look at it again._"
Thatch did. The shadowy flesh pulsed—like a heartbeat. Like a _child's_.
"…Alright. But _you_ carry it."
The crew fell silent as Haruta staggered aboard, the creature cradled in his arms.
Whitebeard rose, his bisento thudding against the deck. "What… is this?"
"A survivor," Haruta panted. "CP0 tried to burn him. He's… one of the experiments."
Marco stepped forward, blue flames flickering. "His body's tearing itself apart. Hybrid Lineage Factor, maybe? Like Vegapunk's failed models."
The creature trembled. A tendril brushed Whitebeard's boot.
"_P…lease…_"
Whitebeard knelt. For a long moment, he studied the monster—the eye, the trembling shadow, the _human_ voice. Then he laughed. A deep, rumbling quake of a laugh.
"You've got guts, brat. Surviving all that?" He grinned. "Welcome to the family."
Marco's flames enveloped the creature. The shadows receded, just a little.
In the light, the boy's face flickered—human, for a heartbeat.
"Wh…y…?" Boy whispered. "I... Monster!"
Whitebeard poured a new cup of sake. "Because, brat… monsters belong on this ship. The world considers me a demon, You are but a small harmless monster."
The boy suddenly went on a flashback of his life, or his previous life.
The boy's earliest memory was hunger.
He'd been left at **Graystone Orphanage** as an infant, swaddled in rags reeking of salt and smoke. The matron, a gaunt woman with a crucifix hanging from her neck. The orphanage was a prison of peeling walls and frostbitten windows, tucked in the slums of a war infested country.
The older children stole his bread. The matron sold the "pretty ones" to men who came at night, their carriages creaking like coffins. Kael, too scrawny and hollow-eyed to attract buyers, became a shadow. He slept in a closet, curled beneath moth-eaten coats, and learned to chew paper to quiet his stomach.
But he had one escape:
In the attic, behind a loose brick, Kael hid a treasure—a water-damaged **One Piece manga volume**, smuggled in by a dead boy named **Jin**. The pages were smudged, the panels warped, but Luffy's grin burned brighter than sunlight.
_"I don't wanna conquer anything! The man with the most freedom in the world… that's the Pirate King!"_
Kael traced the words with cracked fingers. At night, he dreamed of Zoro's swords, Sanji's kindness, Nami's maps.
Years ground past. Kael turned 13, then 15, then 17. The war in the country worsened and the environment in the cities was of savages.
**Silas**, the oldest orphan, broke his ribs for sport. "Freak," he spat, kicking Kael's shins as he curled
The orphanage furnace roared. Kael stood before it, his reflection warped in the iron door.
"No family. No friends. No dreams."
He climbed inside.
The flames ate his skin first. Then his bones.
But as the pain peaked and everything went cold_.
Kael gasped. His lungs filled with viscous fluid. His body… _small_. _Wrong_.
He floated in a glass tank, wires snaking into his veins. A toddler's limbs, pudgy and alien, pressed against the glass.
No. No. NO.
Memories surged but his new throat couldn't scream.
"Subject 13's vitals spiking!" a voice barked.
Scientists in white coats scribbled notes. One tapped the tank, grinning.
"Remarkable… the Lineage Factor rewrite didn't erase his past consciousness. The Celestial Dragons will pay _billions_ for this."
Kael pounded the glass. _Let me die! LET ME DIE!_
But his fists were soft. Weak.
One year old. He got his memories back after a year of being born.
Time passed in the tank,
Days blurred. Years?
The scientists pumped his tank full of serums. "Devil Fruit compatibility test #47," they droned.
Agony became routine. His bones cracked, regrew. Skin melted, reformed.