𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐅𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 ➳ 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐀𝐭 𝐒𝐞𝐚 (one piece fanfic)

Chapter 49 ✨✨

Ace stared at the perfectly cooked meat with dubious eyes, poking it with his fork. "Did you really cook this, Konan?"

"I'm offended you don't believe me," she pouted, intently staring at him and back at the meat on his plate again.

"Fine, I'll try it," he muttered hesitantly as he brought the meat to his mouth and took a small bite.

Thatch burst out laughing when he saw Ace's green face as he spat everything back out.

"How much salt did you put in this??" he shouted, downing his drink to try and wash the taste.

"I might have mistaken salt with another key ingredient, resulting in this unique result," she sheepishly explained.

Ace shook his head in despair before abruptly falling headfirst on his plate.

"Welp, there he goes," Konan commented, pushing his head back before cleaning it with a handkerchief. She was about to continue eating when a butterfly landed on her shoulder, its wings fluttering gently before stopping as a paper dropped in her hands.

She read the paper silently, before getting up, "I'm sorry, but it seems I must absent myself," she paused, smiling at him, "thank you for the cooking lesson, it was quite entertaining."

Thatch noticed her hurry and curtly offered, "With pleasure, come back for another one whenever you wish to."

She nodded before dispersing, leaving behind a few drifting papers. She had forgotten she had a mission that day...

_________________

Life as a slave was excruciating. They were the forgotten ones, living life in the shadows, with neither a name nor an identity, they were no different from mere objects sold to the highest bidder and thrown when broken.

The 'special' slaves lived a life worse than death, they couldn't even end their own lives, even as they desperately tried to smash their heads in, stopped eating, or tried drowning just as they were on the threshold of deliverance, of death, they were always brought back. They would know, they tried, and amongst the most rebellious slaves, there was a special one, slave 987.

987 stared at the sleeping guard in dead silence, regulating their breath, taking off their measly straw shoes, tying their long hair in a messy attempt to free their vision. The night was looming over, the fresh air offering a change from the permeating smell of death and blood.

They waited, in silence, eyes set on the keys dangling from the guard's hips. They shone brightly in the darkness, with everything they represented, a chance at freedom. 987 remembered perfectly the paths of the guards, the moment when they were least wary, they had been preparing for a long time. They had one chance, if they screwed up, they would be placed in another cell and it would take another few months to elaborate another plan.

987 waited, watching as the guard's chest slowly fell deeper in and their eyes closed. He was taking a nap. 987 walked closer to the cell bars, before bending down to the crevices of the bricks and taking out a long wooden stick. They held their breath as they carefully navigated the stick through the cell to the keys. After a long minute, the keys were in their hands. Finally, they slowly unlocked the cell and stepped out.

They held their breath as they walked past the guard, making sure to keep to the darkness against the walls. When they were out of sight of the guard, they began running through the complex maze of corridors, remembering where to go to avoid the guards. In the distance they could hear the tremors of the crowd, cheering on the underground arena as slaves fought to the death for their entertainment.

They clenched the slave collar restricting their neck, there was no way to unlock the collar unless they had the key of the president of the underground arena, and there was no way of obtaining that so they could only settle on trying to flee. It was all that really mattered to them, fleeing, surviving, and coming back to burn the place to the ground.

Lost in their thoughts, they barely managed to avoid running into a few guards who were secretly skipping their round. They backtracked, putting a hand above their mouth to prevent any unwarranted sounds until they began to hear steps in the direction they came from. They were stuck. In that split second, they made a choice and started running past the two guards who took a few seconds to realize what was happening.

As 987 was running, they began to hear sounds of pursuers but they didn't dare look behind. Until now, they had attempted many times to end their own life, but they were never allowed to die, because 'they were too precious to lose'.

However, this time it was different, this escape attempt was a direct insult to them. Where the suicide attempts were seen as mere entertainment for the Nobles, a fun hobby to laugh at with a cup of wine and a couple of biscuits, an escape attempt was an outrage for them. It wouldn't end with simple starvation.

Many of those who tried lost their legs as a warning, this managed to dissuade most of them. However, there were still a few crazier ones who remembered their earlier lives, before becoming slaves, who remembered the sun on their skin, the warmth of their loved ones, the sweet whispers of freedom. For those, the call of freedom was too strong, the desire to escape was budding in their eyes, an inexorable and ineluctable yearning of the free air. 'Death was preferable to slavery' they whispered as they were hanged, whipped to death, starved till they became mere bones.

Though the Nobles tried to shut down those whispers, it was to no avail, it always prevailed, like spark being passed on to those who heard it.

987 didn't remember life before. Neither their parents nor their friends, neither the sun nor the fresh air of freedom. The earliest memory they had was of waking up in a cold and dark cell, weeping. Why? They couldn't remember.

They were special, different from the rest, with eyes a pitch black that saw things no one else did. Still, like many others, they too were burned with the spark of freedom, from an older slave who painted in their heart the picture of a bright sky where they could eat and laugh as they pleased, without fearing the pain of a whip, nor the screams of a looming torturer.

"Here you are!" A huge hand appeared suddenly and gripped their shoulder, stopping them from moving. 987 struggled against their grip, trying to pry his hand apart but to no avail, it was stuck deep, like a hook piercing their flesh. And in their mind, piercing their dreams of freedom.

"You didn't think you would be able to escape, did you now, 987?" he asked with a wide smile, though his eyes told of hot fury, as his fingers dig dipper in their shoulder, "you're our precious slave, remember."

As 987 heard the rough and cold voice, they stopped struggling, feeling the deep pain from their shoulder spread. Struggling there would only bring needless pain. Their eyes slid towards the end of the corridor where an imposing door stood, with two guards on either side. The exit.

Behind their back, the man was standing tall and lean, his smile deceptively kind. It never fooled 987, around the man, they could easily see the shadows of children, bleeding out, some latched onto him, others chained to him, but all seemed to scream of injustice.

"What do you see, 987?" He asked gently, his other hand landing heavily on their other shoulder.