Post by The Love Ballad on Feb 21, 2020 21:47:17 GMT -5
Aboard the Shiroshiro – The East Blue
It was a crisp autumn’s day, the small amount of wind causing the crisp white sails of the ship to flap in on themselves in an ever-present metronome. The ship itself, the Shiroshiro, was the size of a corvette and in truth had clearly served that purpose in the marine navy at some point. That organisation’s insignia could be found slowly fading on parts of the ship, its new inhabitants barely bothering to hide where they had found their new possession. The scent of seawater that would often accompany such a ship when out in the vastness of the blue, for once, was tainted by other smells. The heavy copper-laden stench of blood mixed with the tart sweetness of sweat to create a cacophony so strong one could taste it in the back of their throat. Yet as the ship set loose another volley of cannon fire to scuttle the small merchant ship to its starboard, the unmistakeable stench of gunpowder overpowering the disharmonious union of scents.
Mag lazily lit a cigarette, half-heartedly offering a second to the young boy hastily moving boxes from the deck of the Shiroshiro to its cargo hold.
The redhead shrugged and rolled his shoulders, enjoying the strong taste of smoke as he lazily strolled to ship’s portside. It was with a cheery thought that he allowed himself to look over the vast blue ocean and the seabirds so far off he couldn’t even tell what kind of seabird they were. He was one step closer to achieving his dream. What exactly that was, he didn’t know, but he knew that he was moving in the right direction.
He was sore, a hard day of fighting and hauling loot would do that to a man. But it had been good fighting, and the hauling was a worthy price to pay in exchange for the share of the gold and goods that he would for sure be getting handed to him at their next port of call. Sure, his shoulder hurt like it had been stabbed a million times by molten blades, but he wasn’t dying and he was considerably richer than he’d been in past few weeks. Well, he had more than zero beri, that fact alone meant that he was richer than he’d been in over a fortnight.
“Oi!” His silent contemplation was cut but the deep-voiced yell to his rear, “You planning on helping with packup, Magherafelt!?”
Mag didn’t even bother to turn around, “Ne, considerin’ oi killed more than ye and half the greenhorns here put together, I dun really care te.” To add insult to injury, he flicked his right arm backwards in a strange flippant remark that would confuse anyone not at least a little familiar with the man.
“The greenhorns didn’t kill anyone, you lazy sack of-“ The other man boomed.
“And neither did ye’!” Mag roared back, turning his head around to glare at the seven-foot-tall pound of bald muscle that faced him down.
Bald may have been an understatement, Boz didn’t have a shred of hair on his entire body, from scalp to toe. He was near polar opposite to Mag in that regard, with his entire body of unwashed red locks.
“I don’t know why we even bothered picking you up, shithead!” The other man retorted, his voice raising yet another decibel.
“Because if it weren’t for meh ye’d be not only stuck drinkin’ swill, ye’d be feckin’ dead, ye useless blighter!” Mag pulled the cigarette between his fingers to yell, his body now well and truly facing the other man.
All around them, the rest of the crew had ground their work to a halt, looking at the building argument between their crewmates.
“I’ll show you dead, if you dare raise your hand at me, boy,” The bigger man spat back.
Mag lifted his right hand with a sly grin and flicked the still lit cigarette at Boz, the twinkle of mischief in his eyes dancing with the fire of rage with which it shared its home.
Boz roared and moved to close the distance in an explosive lunge. His body-weight shifted as he did so. His hips pivoted to give leverage to the clearly telegraphed haymaker he threw with his right arm. Without skipping a beat, Mag ducked the wild blow and stepped to his opponents now exposed right flank. His own blow was a harsh uppercut to Boz’s ribs, an animalistic shout ripping from his throat as he did so. Boz to answer let out a sharp gasp, air struggling to return to his lungs.
Mag moved again, this time behind his enraged opponent. The pirate reached his hands to his belt, both grasping two of the pilfered mercenary knives he’d strapped there not an hour prior. The two men faced each other again. An uneasy silence set over the ship, only the explosive metronome of the shuttling cannons breaking the air.
“Move and die, fek’ed,” Mag snarled.
Boz spat.
The eye contact between the two men didn’t falter for what felt like an aeon.
Mag cracked a broken smile, revealing his crooked and disgusting teeth. Boz answered with one of his own. All at once, the uneasy quiet over the deck was replaced by uproarious laughter by the entire crew.
“I’ll get you one day, Red,” Boz roared, this time in good nature, as he swung his arm around the shorter fellow’s shoulders.
“Oi ‘aint garn die to ye, ye ‘aint no feckin’ marine!” Mag boomed back.
Laughter ripped through the entire crew once more. Every single man, from the smallest boy to Old Raph, with his grey hair and glass eye, was of course, rip-roaring drunk. They had been drunk for hours, ever since they’d sent the last mercenary to the depths. There was a real sense of revelry amongst the men as they went about either working to get the loot into the cargo hold, or shirking off on their duties. It wasn’t every day that a group of ragtag thugs, bandits and buccaneers actually managed to make a big score without a heavy hitter aboard their vessel. Yet they’d managed it, a merchant vessel guarded by no shortage of hired guns had fallen prey to their machinations, and they were one step closer to a world where they didn’t need to worry about pay or gold.
This was the East Blue, not the Grand Line, there was no grand dream of adventure of becoming king of the pirates here. The men who preyed upon the weak didn’t do it for pursuit of some grand goal, rather they did so as a way to make a living. They weren’t honest, but they were hard-working. Mag couldn’t help but respect that aspect of his latest batch of crewmates. They knew what they desired, easy and rewarding scores, with little risk. He had been comfortably picking up his share of the spoils for near a month now, and wasn’t at risk of starving. Yet, he felt his life was lacking something, lacking that push. The whole reason he’d left the small island he’d called home for so many years was in pursuit of grand adventure, not to become but another faceless bandit upon the bluewaters of the East.
Mag laughed with the men he’d called comrades for the past few weeks, but he did not feel like laughing. There was a deep-seated emptiness within him, one that he knew he could not quell through the ransacking of near-helpless merchant ships alone.
The joking would continue for a while, and soon enough Mag would find himself hauling boxes of goods and trinkets down to the cargo hold with the rest of the crew. A newly-lit cigarette always in his mouth as he did so, and a cheeky grin along with it. His own existential dread could wait, there was gold to be divided and drink to be had. Drink that Mag himself had distilled. Truth be told it was little more than paint-thinner masquerading as moonshine, in turn masquerading as rum. But it hit hard and it saved the quartermaster from having to think about the otherwise absurd sum he’d spend on grog and the like in-port, and thus the crew were forced to deal with it. The only real side-effect was the god-awful hangover that would all but decimate the men in the morning. That was a small price to pay for a night of celebration and fun.
The last thing Mag remembered was two of the younger men putting the last box in the hold and the captain giving the order to crack the barrels. From there the night was nothing but blackness.
Blackness and fire.
Mag’s body reacted all at once. The ship’s rocking moved as if unison with the rampant explosions and thunder that sounded through the air. He launched himself from his hammock in the crew quarters and smashed himself against the ground with a painful thud. The other men in the room seemed slow to rise, the alcoholic endeavours from the night before dulling their reactions.
Another explosion and another violent quake through the ship sent Mag to floor, and half of the crew out of their beds. The alarm bell rang throughout the room, and Mag forced himself to his feet. He all but pushed himself out of the quarters and up the narrow staircase to the deck of the ship.
The sight that met him was all but horrifying. The starless night-sky was cut through by the unmistakable red glow of fire. Fire that was coming from the Shiroshiro itself. They were under attack. Mag could barely comprehend it, yet it was undoubtedly true, the nonstop shaking of the ship gave him no doubt of that. The distinctive lack of the sound of steel against steel made it clear that they had not been boarded. They were to be sunk without even a second thought, sent to the depths of the dark deep blue from afar. The horror of the situation crushed Mag all at once. He was going to die without being able to do anything about it, he was to be lost at sea, another victim of those with power. The flexing of muscles of those born above mere mortals like him, stomping out any dreams of ambition before he could even think to blink.
As the sheer magnitude of the situation froze Mag into place, slowly but surely, with their own movements and reactions quickening, the rest of the crew emerged from below the deck. Emerged on to the nightmare that had befallen their ship. Pirates swarmed the deck of the Shiroshiro as ants escaping a collapsing anthill. The fear in the air was so thick, Mag could taste it.
“Marines!” One man yelled, Mag couldn’t tell who, “They’re coming up from the port side. The marines are upon us!”
“Where’s the captain!?”
“What do we do!?”
“We’re doomed!”
“Abandon ship! We can’t do anything now, get to the lifeboats!”
Frantic screams ripped through the night, the pirates not knowing what to do under the threat of fire. All at once, their celebrations from the night before were lost, instead it was as if they’d been doomed. Pride cometh before the fall. As Icarus had done, they had dared fly to close to the sun. They had challenged the world government and had lost. Their small acts of defiance had done little, they had been rich for all of five minutes before they had been stamped out.
“Get aboard the lifeboats!” Boz screamed out above the fire.
The tall man stood on the portside of the ship, his knife hacking away at the rope that tied the lifeboat to the side of the ship. His screams both authoritative and panicked, a symphony of fear and dread.
“Get aboar-“ he disappeared into wooden shrapnel as a cannonball seemed to hit him directly.
All at once, Mag was forced from his fearful slumber. The thug from the North Blue spat on the ground, his mind funnelling out all of the screams of his crewmembers. They were all as good as dead anyway. Moving quicker than he thought he could, the redheaded pirate sprinted to the starboard side of the ship and peered over the edge. No lifeboats were there. Gone into the night, and with them the pirates who had moved quick enough to escape. Mag roared, but couldn’t hear himself over the sounds of death all around him.
Desperate, Mag scanned the horizon, looking for any sign of a boat. Straining his eyes so hard his head hurt, he finally managed to make out a capsized craft. A lifeless lifeboat, adrift on the blue, upside down and lonely. It too had lost its purpose, cast adrift.
Without even a second thought, Mag dived into the sea. The sharp cold cutting his skin as he was engulfed by the brine. The shock of the temperature froze him in place for a moment, before he quickly moved back into action. Gasping for air and panting through the freezing water, Mag’s head shot above the non-existent waves. With the fires in the background, the pirate swam. He swam with all his might toward the lifeboat. Exhaustion ripped through his shoulders, fear ripped through his brain and regret ripped through his heart.
As soon as he had climbed onto upturned bottom of the vessel, he collapsed onto his back. The pants that had started from the cold were all the more present now. His heartbeat beating as a clock out of rhythm, too fast and too irregular. He couldn’t bring himself to move, only stare at the burning ship growing ever further and further away, as the slow currents of the sea took the lifeboat further from the scene of the battle. He could see the Shiroshiro burning, he could see desperate men jumping into the depths. More over, he could see the vessel that had dealt the blow. The white flag of the marine corps blazoning red in the night
The ship went down in flames, explosions rocked the night.
Location Unknown – The East Blue
Mag sat cross-legged on the upside-down boat. The waves threatened to throw him off with every minor lapse against the hull. He was forced to clench and move his body just to remain seated, the vessel obviously not designed for the form of travel it wasn’t currently being used for.
Dawn had come, and with it its own set of challenges. For one, Mag had no idea where he was, he was merely adrift at sea. For two, he had no food nor water, and would soon starve to death or die of dehydration. Finally, he was clearly visible to any passing ship and he had no story to tell the local marines or any of their ilk as to why he was adrift at sea so close to where a known pirate crew had been shelled into the depths of oblivion. He had survived, but he was still shit out of luck.
So, he sat, and watched the sun rise. It had only occurred to him in the middle of the night while he had shivered in the wet, that he had no shirt. He didn’t even know at what point he had lost it, if he had even been wearing it whilst he slept. He knew where he had lost his shoes however, in the frantic swim away from the sinking Shiroshiro. It seemed the only clothing he had to his name and body were his ragged linen pants, the rope that he had used to tie them off before his knees to keep them out of the water, and the leather belt that held true around his waist.
As to non-clothing related goods, apart from three knives haphazardly strapped to his belt, he was poorer than a beggar. He couldn’t even hope to survive a day, he had no means of gathering food nor water. It seemed his only hope was to hope and pray for some kind of rescue.
He was alone with his thoughts, alone and soon to die.
Those thoughts tore through him as he waited for death to come upon him, perched there in the middle of the ocean above little more than a piece of driftwood. He had yet to even see a single fish, nor a cloud in the sky. It seemed nature too had abandoned him.
For what? For what purpose did the world deign to give rights to the few, to the blessed and the lucky? Marines, pirates, revolutionaries, all of them had been born with gifts befitting fate’s plan for them. He was a nobody, a mere pawn in the grand game of kings that the rest of the world seemed to be involved in. Fate had set him on his course, and he had played his part swimmingly. Another thug amongst an ocean of thugs, a man without purpose but to serve as an extra. Now he was to be doomed to die. He had no devil fruit powers, nor did he have any natural understanding of fighting or the natural universe. Maguire Magherafelt Jr. was just another man, not even worth considering in the long run.
Had he been born with the threads of destiny at his fingertips, then he’d have been able to fight off the marine attack. He’d have been able to reach a lifeboat that had the ability to actually sustain life. He wouldn’t be doomed to die of dehydration at sea, surrounded by water.
“Well fek fate!” Mag roared, standing to his feet, “Oi ‘aint boutta let yer grand plan fer me rule my destiny, world! Who the fek do yer think Oi am!?”
The pirate screamed at the sky, impotent rage built within his very core. He was doomed to be impotent from the day he was born. That was the true injustice of the world!
“I ‘ain’t doi’in’!” Mag spat, aware that no one was listening.
Survival would be a task however. His only hope was to be rescued, and how exactly he was to go about doing that was alluding him. He couldn’t light a signal fire, he couldn’t make a flag or anything. He would have to rely on sound it seemed, and the only way he could do that was to yell into the void. Yell and scream and rage against the injustice of it all, against the fear of death itself.
So, he did, as the sun stayed at its zenith Mag yelled at the sky, desperate for help. Desperate for any sort of rescue. He yelled until his throat ran hoarse, until it felt like fire was ripping at his vocal cords. He couldn’t drink to sooth the pain, for he had no water. Against all odds, against his predetermined death itself, Mag yelled and yelled and yelled.
As the sun set, the pirate had slumped onto his back again. The taste of iron in his mouth as he became aware of how the sheer desperation of his yells had ripped at his throat itself. He could yell no more, he felt as if he could barely speak. He was thirsty and exhausted.
His body even seemed to reject his efforts, despite his desire to maintain water, to not die of dehydration, tears ran down his sunburnt and salt-cracked cheeks. He wanted so desperately to live, and he knew he couldn’t. Thus, he stared at the great blue sky, his last thoughts turning to his father. Was he proud of him? Probably not, he had become a no-good sea bandit after all. Mag let out a pained, wry chuckle, at least he wouldn’t embarrass the old man anymore.
Mag’s mind drifted off to happier memories, of a misspent youth in the cold of his North Blue home. Far from the sun and sea that would become his greatest dream and his tomb.
Those thoughts polluted his mind up and until he became aware of the fisher boat approaching him. At first he had thought that the calls out to him had been illusions, the sounds of friends calling him to join them as they vandalised another house in the nicer part of town. Yet even as he tried to ignore them, they pierced through his clouded mindscape. Mag turned his head to the right, and saw the two men and their tiny sailing vessel approaching. He was so happy he could cry. It seemed that fate was finally on his side, he had finally, in all of his years, finally, had a stroke of good fortune.
He wasn’t dead yet and as long as he lived, he could fight against the world that had wronged him so.
“You ok, buddy!?” One of the men yelled, the older one, and Mag became very aware that the two men were clearly father and son, “Hang on, we’re coming to you!”
Mag simply smiled and croaked an answer, “Aye… Oi am now…”
Port August – East Blue
Mag punched the bag again, harder this time. Sweat covering his fists and the punching bag as he did so. He was in pain, but a good pain, one that showed him that he was alive and that he was becoming stronger. Again, and again he railed his punches into the makeshift training instrument he’d tied to one of the trees in the little village he’d been in for the past month. A month of regaining his strength and building upon it. Never again would he be in a position where he was at the behest of the winds of fate. He was going to take charge of his own damn life.
Mag hit the bag again, as had become ritual since his recovery. He had taken to working on the docks and serving on fishing boats during the day to pay for his meagre accommodation at a local inn, before taking to the streets to train on the bag. Building his strength and hitting power, he couldn’t rely on knives alone, not always. He needed to be physically strong to be able to go toe to toe with the monsters that the marine corps employed if he was to continue with his piracy career. No more would he run from fights by diving into the drink.
He may not have natural talent on his side, but he’d be damned if he let his ambition be defeated by nothing but raw power. Power might be inherited, but grit, that had to be earned. He would conquer those with talent through grit alone, that was who he was. That was who he had to be.
No more could he crew-hop and jump form ship to ship as little more than hired muscle, a grunt slightly above the head of the other grunts. He was bound to die if that were to ever happen. More importantly than that, however, was the damage that his pride had taken. He had set out with the goal of becoming more than just a shepherd’s son from the middle of nowhere. Being a no-name pirate from nowhere was hardly an improvement upon that.
When he had finally landed his last punch, he found time to stop and to drink from the flask of water he had brought with him. He was exhausted, and he was sure he’d be even more exhausted at the crack of dawn when he was expected to go fishing with a couple of the locals.
“Hey, Mag!” He heard the voice from behind him.
Mag took one last gulp of the water and screwed the cap back on to the flask before he turned over his shoulder to see who was approaching.
The same man who had first spoken to him when he’d been adrift at sea, awash in the deep blue ocean, “You ok, mate? You can take a break sometime you know.”
Mag merely shook his head, “Oi do take breaks, brother.”
“I mean you can take a day off, not just go and drink yourself silly after you finish on the bag.”
“Oi don’t just drink moiself silly afte’ Oi finish on the bag, brother. Sometoimes Oi go for a run then drink moiself silly,” Mag responded as he put his shirt back on.
“You’ve been working yourself to the bone since we picked you up, you need to rest to recover.”
“And what of me’ pride?” Mag retorted, his voice’s pitch not changing, “Oi won’t let me’self be caught in the same situation again.”
“Hitting a bag will stop a shipwreck?” The older man asked, the disapproval evident in his tone.
Mag paused and glared at him, “It might stop the ship from being wrecked.”
“You’re not being healthy, Mag, you can’t prevent bad things happening to you buy exercise alone,” The man seemed almost exhausted with the pirate.
Mag merely grunted in response, barely even acknowledging the man as he wandered back into town towards the inn where was both staying and drinking.
He didn’t have time to be held back by notions of moderation, he had a raw ambition that needed to be tamed. A raw ambition that would see him take on fate itself, to escape that life that he had been trapped into. He had been at the mercy of the waves and those stronger than him before, he would not allow himself to fall to his knees again.
For the next few weeks his routine would continue, work, train, drink and repeat. The only respite Mag could find from his regime in search of strength and money was his continued indulgence in liquor and the various weaker drinks he find himself enjoying. He would drink and sing with the working men during the evening, but during the day he was a man of single focus.
Mag may not be destined for greatness, but he would seize it if he was able.
It was another few weeks of his new routine before a sizeable ship finally pulled into the small port to refuel on supplies. A merchant vessel very similar to the one that Mag had waylaid not too long ago with his crew from the Shiroshiro. It was almost ironic as he find himself aboard the ship as hired help to defend the small crew from pirate raids, in the same role as many of the man he had killed without mercy barely two months prior. The world had a sense of dramatic irony to it as if the full circle of actions was destined to keep Mag trapped in his new role in the Blue.
Yet as the sun set over Port August and Mag sailed away with his new temporary comrades he knew what he needed to do. He needed to break free from the chains of fate.
It was a crisp autumn’s day, the small amount of wind causing the crisp white sails of the ship to flap in on themselves in an ever-present metronome. The ship itself, the Shiroshiro, was the size of a corvette and in truth had clearly served that purpose in the marine navy at some point. That organisation’s insignia could be found slowly fading on parts of the ship, its new inhabitants barely bothering to hide where they had found their new possession. The scent of seawater that would often accompany such a ship when out in the vastness of the blue, for once, was tainted by other smells. The heavy copper-laden stench of blood mixed with the tart sweetness of sweat to create a cacophony so strong one could taste it in the back of their throat. Yet as the ship set loose another volley of cannon fire to scuttle the small merchant ship to its starboard, the unmistakeable stench of gunpowder overpowering the disharmonious union of scents.
Mag lazily lit a cigarette, half-heartedly offering a second to the young boy hastily moving boxes from the deck of the Shiroshiro to its cargo hold.
The redhead shrugged and rolled his shoulders, enjoying the strong taste of smoke as he lazily strolled to ship’s portside. It was with a cheery thought that he allowed himself to look over the vast blue ocean and the seabirds so far off he couldn’t even tell what kind of seabird they were. He was one step closer to achieving his dream. What exactly that was, he didn’t know, but he knew that he was moving in the right direction.
He was sore, a hard day of fighting and hauling loot would do that to a man. But it had been good fighting, and the hauling was a worthy price to pay in exchange for the share of the gold and goods that he would for sure be getting handed to him at their next port of call. Sure, his shoulder hurt like it had been stabbed a million times by molten blades, but he wasn’t dying and he was considerably richer than he’d been in past few weeks. Well, he had more than zero beri, that fact alone meant that he was richer than he’d been in over a fortnight.
“Oi!” His silent contemplation was cut but the deep-voiced yell to his rear, “You planning on helping with packup, Magherafelt!?”
Mag didn’t even bother to turn around, “Ne, considerin’ oi killed more than ye and half the greenhorns here put together, I dun really care te.” To add insult to injury, he flicked his right arm backwards in a strange flippant remark that would confuse anyone not at least a little familiar with the man.
“The greenhorns didn’t kill anyone, you lazy sack of-“ The other man boomed.
“And neither did ye’!” Mag roared back, turning his head around to glare at the seven-foot-tall pound of bald muscle that faced him down.
Bald may have been an understatement, Boz didn’t have a shred of hair on his entire body, from scalp to toe. He was near polar opposite to Mag in that regard, with his entire body of unwashed red locks.
“I don’t know why we even bothered picking you up, shithead!” The other man retorted, his voice raising yet another decibel.
“Because if it weren’t for meh ye’d be not only stuck drinkin’ swill, ye’d be feckin’ dead, ye useless blighter!” Mag pulled the cigarette between his fingers to yell, his body now well and truly facing the other man.
All around them, the rest of the crew had ground their work to a halt, looking at the building argument between their crewmates.
“I’ll show you dead, if you dare raise your hand at me, boy,” The bigger man spat back.
Mag lifted his right hand with a sly grin and flicked the still lit cigarette at Boz, the twinkle of mischief in his eyes dancing with the fire of rage with which it shared its home.
Boz roared and moved to close the distance in an explosive lunge. His body-weight shifted as he did so. His hips pivoted to give leverage to the clearly telegraphed haymaker he threw with his right arm. Without skipping a beat, Mag ducked the wild blow and stepped to his opponents now exposed right flank. His own blow was a harsh uppercut to Boz’s ribs, an animalistic shout ripping from his throat as he did so. Boz to answer let out a sharp gasp, air struggling to return to his lungs.
Mag moved again, this time behind his enraged opponent. The pirate reached his hands to his belt, both grasping two of the pilfered mercenary knives he’d strapped there not an hour prior. The two men faced each other again. An uneasy silence set over the ship, only the explosive metronome of the shuttling cannons breaking the air.
“Move and die, fek’ed,” Mag snarled.
Boz spat.
The eye contact between the two men didn’t falter for what felt like an aeon.
Mag cracked a broken smile, revealing his crooked and disgusting teeth. Boz answered with one of his own. All at once, the uneasy quiet over the deck was replaced by uproarious laughter by the entire crew.
“I’ll get you one day, Red,” Boz roared, this time in good nature, as he swung his arm around the shorter fellow’s shoulders.
“Oi ‘aint garn die to ye, ye ‘aint no feckin’ marine!” Mag boomed back.
Laughter ripped through the entire crew once more. Every single man, from the smallest boy to Old Raph, with his grey hair and glass eye, was of course, rip-roaring drunk. They had been drunk for hours, ever since they’d sent the last mercenary to the depths. There was a real sense of revelry amongst the men as they went about either working to get the loot into the cargo hold, or shirking off on their duties. It wasn’t every day that a group of ragtag thugs, bandits and buccaneers actually managed to make a big score without a heavy hitter aboard their vessel. Yet they’d managed it, a merchant vessel guarded by no shortage of hired guns had fallen prey to their machinations, and they were one step closer to a world where they didn’t need to worry about pay or gold.
This was the East Blue, not the Grand Line, there was no grand dream of adventure of becoming king of the pirates here. The men who preyed upon the weak didn’t do it for pursuit of some grand goal, rather they did so as a way to make a living. They weren’t honest, but they were hard-working. Mag couldn’t help but respect that aspect of his latest batch of crewmates. They knew what they desired, easy and rewarding scores, with little risk. He had been comfortably picking up his share of the spoils for near a month now, and wasn’t at risk of starving. Yet, he felt his life was lacking something, lacking that push. The whole reason he’d left the small island he’d called home for so many years was in pursuit of grand adventure, not to become but another faceless bandit upon the bluewaters of the East.
Mag laughed with the men he’d called comrades for the past few weeks, but he did not feel like laughing. There was a deep-seated emptiness within him, one that he knew he could not quell through the ransacking of near-helpless merchant ships alone.
The joking would continue for a while, and soon enough Mag would find himself hauling boxes of goods and trinkets down to the cargo hold with the rest of the crew. A newly-lit cigarette always in his mouth as he did so, and a cheeky grin along with it. His own existential dread could wait, there was gold to be divided and drink to be had. Drink that Mag himself had distilled. Truth be told it was little more than paint-thinner masquerading as moonshine, in turn masquerading as rum. But it hit hard and it saved the quartermaster from having to think about the otherwise absurd sum he’d spend on grog and the like in-port, and thus the crew were forced to deal with it. The only real side-effect was the god-awful hangover that would all but decimate the men in the morning. That was a small price to pay for a night of celebration and fun.
The last thing Mag remembered was two of the younger men putting the last box in the hold and the captain giving the order to crack the barrels. From there the night was nothing but blackness.
Blackness and fire.
Mag’s body reacted all at once. The ship’s rocking moved as if unison with the rampant explosions and thunder that sounded through the air. He launched himself from his hammock in the crew quarters and smashed himself against the ground with a painful thud. The other men in the room seemed slow to rise, the alcoholic endeavours from the night before dulling their reactions.
Another explosion and another violent quake through the ship sent Mag to floor, and half of the crew out of their beds. The alarm bell rang throughout the room, and Mag forced himself to his feet. He all but pushed himself out of the quarters and up the narrow staircase to the deck of the ship.
The sight that met him was all but horrifying. The starless night-sky was cut through by the unmistakable red glow of fire. Fire that was coming from the Shiroshiro itself. They were under attack. Mag could barely comprehend it, yet it was undoubtedly true, the nonstop shaking of the ship gave him no doubt of that. The distinctive lack of the sound of steel against steel made it clear that they had not been boarded. They were to be sunk without even a second thought, sent to the depths of the dark deep blue from afar. The horror of the situation crushed Mag all at once. He was going to die without being able to do anything about it, he was to be lost at sea, another victim of those with power. The flexing of muscles of those born above mere mortals like him, stomping out any dreams of ambition before he could even think to blink.
As the sheer magnitude of the situation froze Mag into place, slowly but surely, with their own movements and reactions quickening, the rest of the crew emerged from below the deck. Emerged on to the nightmare that had befallen their ship. Pirates swarmed the deck of the Shiroshiro as ants escaping a collapsing anthill. The fear in the air was so thick, Mag could taste it.
“Marines!” One man yelled, Mag couldn’t tell who, “They’re coming up from the port side. The marines are upon us!”
“Where’s the captain!?”
“What do we do!?”
“We’re doomed!”
“Abandon ship! We can’t do anything now, get to the lifeboats!”
Frantic screams ripped through the night, the pirates not knowing what to do under the threat of fire. All at once, their celebrations from the night before were lost, instead it was as if they’d been doomed. Pride cometh before the fall. As Icarus had done, they had dared fly to close to the sun. They had challenged the world government and had lost. Their small acts of defiance had done little, they had been rich for all of five minutes before they had been stamped out.
“Get aboard the lifeboats!” Boz screamed out above the fire.
The tall man stood on the portside of the ship, his knife hacking away at the rope that tied the lifeboat to the side of the ship. His screams both authoritative and panicked, a symphony of fear and dread.
“Get aboar-“ he disappeared into wooden shrapnel as a cannonball seemed to hit him directly.
All at once, Mag was forced from his fearful slumber. The thug from the North Blue spat on the ground, his mind funnelling out all of the screams of his crewmembers. They were all as good as dead anyway. Moving quicker than he thought he could, the redheaded pirate sprinted to the starboard side of the ship and peered over the edge. No lifeboats were there. Gone into the night, and with them the pirates who had moved quick enough to escape. Mag roared, but couldn’t hear himself over the sounds of death all around him.
Desperate, Mag scanned the horizon, looking for any sign of a boat. Straining his eyes so hard his head hurt, he finally managed to make out a capsized craft. A lifeless lifeboat, adrift on the blue, upside down and lonely. It too had lost its purpose, cast adrift.
Without even a second thought, Mag dived into the sea. The sharp cold cutting his skin as he was engulfed by the brine. The shock of the temperature froze him in place for a moment, before he quickly moved back into action. Gasping for air and panting through the freezing water, Mag’s head shot above the non-existent waves. With the fires in the background, the pirate swam. He swam with all his might toward the lifeboat. Exhaustion ripped through his shoulders, fear ripped through his brain and regret ripped through his heart.
As soon as he had climbed onto upturned bottom of the vessel, he collapsed onto his back. The pants that had started from the cold were all the more present now. His heartbeat beating as a clock out of rhythm, too fast and too irregular. He couldn’t bring himself to move, only stare at the burning ship growing ever further and further away, as the slow currents of the sea took the lifeboat further from the scene of the battle. He could see the Shiroshiro burning, he could see desperate men jumping into the depths. More over, he could see the vessel that had dealt the blow. The white flag of the marine corps blazoning red in the night
The ship went down in flames, explosions rocked the night.
Location Unknown – The East Blue
Mag sat cross-legged on the upside-down boat. The waves threatened to throw him off with every minor lapse against the hull. He was forced to clench and move his body just to remain seated, the vessel obviously not designed for the form of travel it wasn’t currently being used for.
Dawn had come, and with it its own set of challenges. For one, Mag had no idea where he was, he was merely adrift at sea. For two, he had no food nor water, and would soon starve to death or die of dehydration. Finally, he was clearly visible to any passing ship and he had no story to tell the local marines or any of their ilk as to why he was adrift at sea so close to where a known pirate crew had been shelled into the depths of oblivion. He had survived, but he was still shit out of luck.
So, he sat, and watched the sun rise. It had only occurred to him in the middle of the night while he had shivered in the wet, that he had no shirt. He didn’t even know at what point he had lost it, if he had even been wearing it whilst he slept. He knew where he had lost his shoes however, in the frantic swim away from the sinking Shiroshiro. It seemed the only clothing he had to his name and body were his ragged linen pants, the rope that he had used to tie them off before his knees to keep them out of the water, and the leather belt that held true around his waist.
As to non-clothing related goods, apart from three knives haphazardly strapped to his belt, he was poorer than a beggar. He couldn’t even hope to survive a day, he had no means of gathering food nor water. It seemed his only hope was to hope and pray for some kind of rescue.
He was alone with his thoughts, alone and soon to die.
Those thoughts tore through him as he waited for death to come upon him, perched there in the middle of the ocean above little more than a piece of driftwood. He had yet to even see a single fish, nor a cloud in the sky. It seemed nature too had abandoned him.
For what? For what purpose did the world deign to give rights to the few, to the blessed and the lucky? Marines, pirates, revolutionaries, all of them had been born with gifts befitting fate’s plan for them. He was a nobody, a mere pawn in the grand game of kings that the rest of the world seemed to be involved in. Fate had set him on his course, and he had played his part swimmingly. Another thug amongst an ocean of thugs, a man without purpose but to serve as an extra. Now he was to be doomed to die. He had no devil fruit powers, nor did he have any natural understanding of fighting or the natural universe. Maguire Magherafelt Jr. was just another man, not even worth considering in the long run.
Had he been born with the threads of destiny at his fingertips, then he’d have been able to fight off the marine attack. He’d have been able to reach a lifeboat that had the ability to actually sustain life. He wouldn’t be doomed to die of dehydration at sea, surrounded by water.
“Well fek fate!” Mag roared, standing to his feet, “Oi ‘aint boutta let yer grand plan fer me rule my destiny, world! Who the fek do yer think Oi am!?”
The pirate screamed at the sky, impotent rage built within his very core. He was doomed to be impotent from the day he was born. That was the true injustice of the world!
“I ‘ain’t doi’in’!” Mag spat, aware that no one was listening.
Survival would be a task however. His only hope was to be rescued, and how exactly he was to go about doing that was alluding him. He couldn’t light a signal fire, he couldn’t make a flag or anything. He would have to rely on sound it seemed, and the only way he could do that was to yell into the void. Yell and scream and rage against the injustice of it all, against the fear of death itself.
So, he did, as the sun stayed at its zenith Mag yelled at the sky, desperate for help. Desperate for any sort of rescue. He yelled until his throat ran hoarse, until it felt like fire was ripping at his vocal cords. He couldn’t drink to sooth the pain, for he had no water. Against all odds, against his predetermined death itself, Mag yelled and yelled and yelled.
As the sun set, the pirate had slumped onto his back again. The taste of iron in his mouth as he became aware of how the sheer desperation of his yells had ripped at his throat itself. He could yell no more, he felt as if he could barely speak. He was thirsty and exhausted.
His body even seemed to reject his efforts, despite his desire to maintain water, to not die of dehydration, tears ran down his sunburnt and salt-cracked cheeks. He wanted so desperately to live, and he knew he couldn’t. Thus, he stared at the great blue sky, his last thoughts turning to his father. Was he proud of him? Probably not, he had become a no-good sea bandit after all. Mag let out a pained, wry chuckle, at least he wouldn’t embarrass the old man anymore.
Mag’s mind drifted off to happier memories, of a misspent youth in the cold of his North Blue home. Far from the sun and sea that would become his greatest dream and his tomb.
Those thoughts polluted his mind up and until he became aware of the fisher boat approaching him. At first he had thought that the calls out to him had been illusions, the sounds of friends calling him to join them as they vandalised another house in the nicer part of town. Yet even as he tried to ignore them, they pierced through his clouded mindscape. Mag turned his head to the right, and saw the two men and their tiny sailing vessel approaching. He was so happy he could cry. It seemed that fate was finally on his side, he had finally, in all of his years, finally, had a stroke of good fortune.
He wasn’t dead yet and as long as he lived, he could fight against the world that had wronged him so.
“You ok, buddy!?” One of the men yelled, the older one, and Mag became very aware that the two men were clearly father and son, “Hang on, we’re coming to you!”
Mag simply smiled and croaked an answer, “Aye… Oi am now…”
Port August – East Blue
Mag punched the bag again, harder this time. Sweat covering his fists and the punching bag as he did so. He was in pain, but a good pain, one that showed him that he was alive and that he was becoming stronger. Again, and again he railed his punches into the makeshift training instrument he’d tied to one of the trees in the little village he’d been in for the past month. A month of regaining his strength and building upon it. Never again would he be in a position where he was at the behest of the winds of fate. He was going to take charge of his own damn life.
Mag hit the bag again, as had become ritual since his recovery. He had taken to working on the docks and serving on fishing boats during the day to pay for his meagre accommodation at a local inn, before taking to the streets to train on the bag. Building his strength and hitting power, he couldn’t rely on knives alone, not always. He needed to be physically strong to be able to go toe to toe with the monsters that the marine corps employed if he was to continue with his piracy career. No more would he run from fights by diving into the drink.
He may not have natural talent on his side, but he’d be damned if he let his ambition be defeated by nothing but raw power. Power might be inherited, but grit, that had to be earned. He would conquer those with talent through grit alone, that was who he was. That was who he had to be.
No more could he crew-hop and jump form ship to ship as little more than hired muscle, a grunt slightly above the head of the other grunts. He was bound to die if that were to ever happen. More importantly than that, however, was the damage that his pride had taken. He had set out with the goal of becoming more than just a shepherd’s son from the middle of nowhere. Being a no-name pirate from nowhere was hardly an improvement upon that.
When he had finally landed his last punch, he found time to stop and to drink from the flask of water he had brought with him. He was exhausted, and he was sure he’d be even more exhausted at the crack of dawn when he was expected to go fishing with a couple of the locals.
“Hey, Mag!” He heard the voice from behind him.
Mag took one last gulp of the water and screwed the cap back on to the flask before he turned over his shoulder to see who was approaching.
The same man who had first spoken to him when he’d been adrift at sea, awash in the deep blue ocean, “You ok, mate? You can take a break sometime you know.”
Mag merely shook his head, “Oi do take breaks, brother.”
“I mean you can take a day off, not just go and drink yourself silly after you finish on the bag.”
“Oi don’t just drink moiself silly afte’ Oi finish on the bag, brother. Sometoimes Oi go for a run then drink moiself silly,” Mag responded as he put his shirt back on.
“You’ve been working yourself to the bone since we picked you up, you need to rest to recover.”
“And what of me’ pride?” Mag retorted, his voice’s pitch not changing, “Oi won’t let me’self be caught in the same situation again.”
“Hitting a bag will stop a shipwreck?” The older man asked, the disapproval evident in his tone.
Mag paused and glared at him, “It might stop the ship from being wrecked.”
“You’re not being healthy, Mag, you can’t prevent bad things happening to you buy exercise alone,” The man seemed almost exhausted with the pirate.
Mag merely grunted in response, barely even acknowledging the man as he wandered back into town towards the inn where was both staying and drinking.
He didn’t have time to be held back by notions of moderation, he had a raw ambition that needed to be tamed. A raw ambition that would see him take on fate itself, to escape that life that he had been trapped into. He had been at the mercy of the waves and those stronger than him before, he would not allow himself to fall to his knees again.
For the next few weeks his routine would continue, work, train, drink and repeat. The only respite Mag could find from his regime in search of strength and money was his continued indulgence in liquor and the various weaker drinks he find himself enjoying. He would drink and sing with the working men during the evening, but during the day he was a man of single focus.
Mag may not be destined for greatness, but he would seize it if he was able.
It was another few weeks of his new routine before a sizeable ship finally pulled into the small port to refuel on supplies. A merchant vessel very similar to the one that Mag had waylaid not too long ago with his crew from the Shiroshiro. It was almost ironic as he find himself aboard the ship as hired help to defend the small crew from pirate raids, in the same role as many of the man he had killed without mercy barely two months prior. The world had a sense of dramatic irony to it as if the full circle of actions was destined to keep Mag trapped in his new role in the Blue.
Yet as the sun set over Port August and Mag sailed away with his new temporary comrades he knew what he needed to do. He needed to break free from the chains of fate.