serpents of smoke | ASL Fic

Kefi - Six

Twisting around thick trunks of trees, Ace maneuvered forward. Careful of each spare branch he came across, he adjusted his steps accordingly. The stench of Grey Terminal was as potent as ever, reaching his nostrils even from a reasonable distance.

Dropping low, he used the cloak of shadows cast from the night to keep his frame disguised. There was the resounding click and clatter of people in the trash, even this late into the night. But Ace wasn't here for them. Strolling casually into Grey Terminal, Ace kept his stance straight and didn't flinch when people brushed against him. For the most part, they neglected his presence and he favoured that. Taking a sharp turn around a pile of garbage, Ace's boots dug into the mud, managing to locate the structure he had come to the junkyard for. It was a long steel tunnel and inside he knew he would find Wyonna's hideout.

Entering it effortlessly, his pipe on his shoulder, Ace clambered through the entrance—his steps echoing despite himself. The area he stepped into was devoid of life, for the most part. And as far as the ten-year-old knew, this was not typically the case. Peering around, Ace became aware of something startling clear. Dead centre, nailed to a cross, was Wyonna's body. Her head hung limp, dried blood coating her forehead and gaudy cheeks like a mosaic painting. And as Ace stepped closer, he glimpsed her eyelids that were taped open, revealing her lifeless, dull blue eyes to the world. Her once long, blonde hair, was matted with the crust of blood—the smell she gave off was that of piss and decay. Ace pinched his nose, staring wide-eyed at the dead body in front of him.

He had never known Wyonna personally; he had little care for the woman who had tortured Luffy, but even this was a grotesque sight that left Ace's stomach in a flurry of butterflies. He felt sick. Stumbling with jerky steps, Ace retreated from the scene. Desperately, he began to lock the memory away—there was nobody that hung from the cross, it had been all a creative ploy of Ace's brain.

Despite his spiralling thoughts, disgust twirled in his gut like a knot of strings, coiled too tightly—ready to explode. Ace could not help but think this was a warning.

-

Sabo's fingers curled around the chilly metal of the bars, his palms growing white with the force of which he gripped them. "Sabo," a honey-like voice called, reaching Sabo's ears but not quite his heart. Despite the delicate way she spoke, a hint of disgust poisoned her words, filling the room like a cloud of toxic waste. "What are you doing?" She sang sweetly, her painted lips pursed as she stared heavily down at him, towering over him like a god. Her dress was long and flowy, sporting unique floral patterns that Sabo knew her assistants had painstakingly sewed, their hands bleeding as they crafted art. It framed her body like a glove, but still portrayed the perfect image: bright pastel colours, nothing too striking, lest she take attention away from her husband—a modest wife and mother. The perfect noble lady.

"Mother." He greeted, not with a loving drawl but like how one would address their superior. "I was watching the birds." He lied through his teeth; in reality, he had been watching the guards change shifts and storing the time within his mind.

She smiled, but it was twisted and sharp around the edges: "Oh, but aren't you supposed to be studying?" She shook her head, her lengthy blonde hair following her movements, the curls of them bouncing with every twitch she gave. "Outlook would be disappointed..." Her lips tilted down, the wrinkles along her face pronounced from the action. She always hated it when people pointed them out. Her manicured nails reached out, twisting around the loose curls along Sabo's head. The touch was meant to be comforting but Sabo only felt cold seeping through his skin. "You're due for another haircut."

Sabo flashed a pleasant smile—even if he hated the very notion of getting another buzzcut. "Of course, Mother." His words were smooth but under the surface, he seethed with rage. Her hand subtracted, the skin of it a sickly pale—she had a fear of tanning, for whatever reason.