The hammer felt good in my hand. Not "destined to wield this" good—more like "swiped it from a Norse god's garage sale" good. Solid. Dependable. I gave it a lazy swing, the kind that says, yeah, I understand physics, I just don't feel like obeying them.
"Ten billion berries," I muttered. The number hung there like a bad joke. "At that price, I should at least get a crown or a coupon book."
Perona lounged on a cannon, ghosts orbiting her like half-bored backup dancers. "Better believe it," she said, snapping her gum like she was auditioning for Mean Girls: Goth Edition. "They don't just want you dead anymore—they want your head mounted on a spike. Big step up."
Below deck, Shyarly's tail brushed across the planks. She didn't raise her voice; she didn't need to. "The Marines are closing every exit from the New World. Admirals are mobilized. Mariejois lit up the sky, and they noticed."
I rested the hammer on my shoulder, the metal cold against the shirt I hadn't bothered to iron in days. "Attention means we're doing something right." The lie burned on my tongue. A ten-billion bounty isn't recognition—it's a countdown. Even Perona's ghosts quit their act, drifting low like they were rehearsing my funeral. Shyarly's fins twitched—her tell, like poker but with scales.
Then the Den Den Mushi croaked. Not normal—pigeon-patterned. Lucci. Because the universe likes comedy.
I grabbed it. "Report." No pleasantries. We weren't friends. We weren't even LinkedIn connections.
Lucci's voice came cold enough to frostbite. "Straw Hat Luffy and his crew are contained. Punk Hazard proved… advantageous. Your intel was precise."
Mission accomplished. R.O.B.'s little directive fulfilled. I should've been celebrating. Instead, my grip on the receiver turned white-knuckle.
Perona floated closer, not smirking for once. "Contained? That rubber idiot actually got caught?" Her ghosts jittered, anxious. "Thought he was supposed to be unstoppable."
Shyarly shimmered uneasily, her scales catching the light. "The currents shift. His fall creates a vacuum the Government will exploit."
Of course the intel had been precise. I'd binged One Piece like everyone else. I knew the script—until I rewrote it. Punk Hazard wasn't supposed to be a trap. My interference turned it into one. And now Lucci held the cheese.
"Contained how?" My voice came tighter than I meant. "Alive?"
"For now," Lucci said. "They're being moved to Impel Down. Level Six."
That's not prison—that's erasure. And Luffy? He isn't just another pirate; he's the axis this world spins on. Pull him out, and good luck surviving the collapse.
Perona's ghosts shrieked in stereo. "Impel Down? That's not containment—that's a tomb!"
Shyarly's tail cracked the deck. "The sea mourns. If Luffy falls, the dawn dies with him."
Perfect. Doom prophecy and ghost wailing. Friday night sorted.
I slammed the hammer into the deck, wood groaning. "He can escape. He's done it before." The words tasted like ash.
Perona's laugh came brittle. "Yeah—before you gift-wrapped him for Lucci."
Shyarly's stare was sharper than any blade. "You didn't just strike Mariejois. You shattered the loom of fate."
The Den Den blinked, slow and mocking. Lucci's voice slid back, calm as ever. "Interesting. You sound almost… guilty."
I stiffened. "Guilt? Don't flatter yourself. It's pragmatism. Remove Luffy now and the Government fills the void overnight. That's chaos with no rhythm. I don't like off-beat chaos."
Perona drifted down, poking me in the chest. "Quit lying—to him and yourself. That's not strategy face. That's the face of someone who just sold out their childhood hero."
Shyarly nodded, calm in that irritating way only she could pull off. "She's right. Your regret radiates like heat from a dying star. Loud. Ugly."
Lucci's chuckle slithered through the line, like knives scraping underwater. "Your crew is sharp, Doomsday. Denial is fascinating when it's so transparent. You didn't just deliver the Straw Hat. You sabotaged him. Betrayed him. And now you can't stand the mirror."
Silence. Long enough to freeze the blood. Then colder: "Your guilt isn't pragmatic, Cassian. It's pathetic."
And I had nothing. No joke, no fury, not even a comeback. For me, that's a full system crash. Lucci hadn't just poked the bear—he'd wired Wi-Fi into its skull and started redecorating. Perona's ghosts whimpered like background singers at a funeral. Shyarly's tail froze mid-slap, coiled tight. The deck felt less like wood and more like quicksand with commitment issues. And those words—sabotaged, betrayed, reflection—kept bouncing around in my head. The reflection? Real Picasso nightmare. Fanboy turned traitor. Great character arc, Cassian. Truly award-winning. My knuckles ached from how hard I was gripping the receiver.
"Are we done?" I ground out, voice raw. "World to destabilize. Busy schedule. Chaos doesn't self-manage."
Lucci took his time, savoring the pause. "For now. But I suspect we'll talk again. You have… unique insights. Should another chance arise to refine the chaos you claim to crave, you'll make time for a call?" Translation: keep selling out your conscience, champ.
The snail's pigeon face bent into something like a smirk—impressive for a mollusk with bad stage makeup. I stared at it, jaw locked hard enough to crack porcelain. Above me, Perona's ghosts spun in anxious circles. Shyarly's stare dug into me like she had Poseidon on speed dial. Lucci wasn't offering partnership. He was dangling poison, and I'd already taken a bite.
"Yeah," I muttered, voice like gravel. "I'll make time." I slammed the receiver down before he could twist the knife again.
The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. The kind that makes you reevaluate your life and your Netflix queue.
Shyarly slithered closer, scales whispering against the deck. Her eyes—ancient, endless, the kind that make you feel like a toddler scribbling with crayons—locked onto mine. "Cassian. The Straw Hat saved Fishman Island. He broke chains that held us for generations. He is a cleansing current." She placed a cool hand on my arm, grounding me like the last adult in the room. "We cannot let him rot in that abyss. The Sea demands balance. We must attempt a rescue."
I pulled away, sharper than I meant. "Impossible. Look at us. I've got ten billion berries stapled to my forehead. Marines are crawling every sea lane. And Luffy?" I jabbed toward the horizon like Impel Down was waving from just over it. "He's not just a prisoner. He's their golden goose. Storming that fortress isn't rescue—it's a group-rate funeral."
Perona drifted closer, unusually serious. "She's got a point, Captain. That rubber idiot saved your favorite fish lady's island. You owe him." Her sarcasm cracked, leaving something softer. "Besides… he's Luffy. The world feels wrong without him messing it up."
I tightened my grip on the hammer, metal biting into my palm. "Owing him doesn't mean dragging you into a meat grinder. Impel Down isn't a prison. It's a death trap with branding. We'd just be names on a slideshow." The thought clawed in—Perona's eyes gone glassy, Shyarly broken under harsh lights. My gut twisted. "No."
Shyarly's tail snapped against the deck. "Cassian," she hissed, her gaze a tsunami. "You wield chaos and yet you cower from the storm? The Straw Hat is the tide that lifts all ships—even yours. To abandon him is to drown the dawn." Her voice dropped, rough, pleading. "We don't need certainty. Only the chance to try."
I held her stare, knuckles white around the hammer. "The chance is zero. It's suicide dressed up as heroics. And I won't gamble your lives for it. We survive. That's the mission."
Perona's ghosts keened, hollow and sad. Her eyes said what her mouth didn't. Disappointment. Sharp. Clear.
Shyarly didn't argue. She didn't have to. The light in her scales dulled, like the ocean itself was dimming. "Survival without purpose is stagnation," she murmured. "But I hear you, Captain." She turned and slipped below deck, quiet as a secret.
Perona lingered a moment, hovering low, her smirk gone. "You know she's right," she said softly. "But fine. Play it safe. See how that ten billion feels when the seas are empty and the Marines own everything." Then she drifted after Shyarly, ghosts huddled around her like mourners.
The silence left behind wasn't empty. It was loud. Accusing. And it sounded a hell of a lot like guilt.
**
The door clicked shut, and somehow the room shrank, like the universe was giving me side-eye. Fake Mjolnir leaned against the wall like a polished accusation. Rescue Luffy. Shyarly's words clung to me like barnacles. Impossible? Probably. Let him rot in Impel Down, and the world files a wrongful-death claim against hope.
I dropped into a chair and let it complain on my behalf. Okay, I told whatever broken part of me still ran the show. Assume it's possible. Now—logistics.
First step: stop being a walking wanted poster. I shrank down from twenty-five feet of mood into something less conspicuous. The hammer shrank with me, faithful as ever, resting in my hand like it approved. But size wasn't enough. If I wanted past admirals and prison guards, I needed a new face.
So I pushed. Not a quick disguise—a full remodel. Bones cracked, skin reshaped, hair rearranged. When I caught my reflection in the hammer's shine, someone else looked back: sharper jaw, black hair, wider eyes, horns curling from my temples like an apocalypse fashion statement. Not perfect. But not me. Good enough.
Perona drifted in, smirk half-loaded. "Creepy," she said, circling me like a critic. "You look like Luffy's edgy cousin. Coffee-shop brooding, heavy-metal playlist, existential crisis included." She poked my cheek. "And of course you gave yourself horns. Très doomed-antihero."
I laughed, because what else do you do when you're wearing your childhood hero's face in funhouse mode? Black Luffy. Fitting. I helped turn him into a casualty, and now I was wearing him to undo it. The universe loves symbolism.
"Think it'll fool Impel Down's guards?" she asked.
"Doesn't need forever," I said, flexing new fingers. "Just long enough to slip in, find him, and get out. We blend into the transfer, track him, and crack the place open. Quick, messy, effective."
"Damage control, not heroics," I added, because the optics mattered. "I broke it, I clean it. Ledger balanced."
Her grin widened. Even the ghosts seemed to clap. "Damage control with horns," she said. "Admit it—you missed playing superhero."
Before I could deny it, she leaned in, pressed a ghost-kiss to my cheek, and floated out. "Shyarly's below. Brooding. Or praying. Hard to tell with fish-ladies."
I found Shyarly bent over her crystal, storm clouds swirling inside. "We're going," I told her, voice clipped. "Not for glory. For the alternative."
She lifted her gaze, the ocean in her eyes—vast, patient, unforgiving. Then she moved like a tide and wrapped me in an embrace that was colder and fiercer than I deserved. Her scales pressed into my stolen frame. "Thank you," she breathed. "The Sea sings again."
I froze. Physical affection from an ancient sea-being should come with a manual. "Don't get mushy," I muttered, patting her awkwardly. "This isn't redemption. It's cleanup."
But her gratitude still cut deep. Perona might be right—it looked heroic. And beneath the horns and the smirk, Lucci's word pathetic still echoed. I wasn't saving Luffy out of nobility. I was saving him because living as the guy who betrayed his own hero felt worse than dying trying to fix it.
Not a sunrise. But refusing to try felt like darkness with better lighting. So I kept the horns, adjusted the smirk, and walked out to face the idiotic, necessary plan.