[There’s a lot that happens, all at once, a barrage of input on levels Koby’s unused to – the visual, the blood on the deck, the crewman (Slicer? Dicer? Something stupid and made-up and meant to sound impressive when telling stories at the bar, a reedy, weasel of a man who’d deliberately walk over a just-swabbed deck and then tell Alvida Koby was slacking on his duties just to get him in trouble) with a bullet hole in his head, slumped in a pile on the deck like an empty bag, death in a way that Koby’s unused to. Alvida favors blunt force, the sickening cracking squelch of mace against skull, the pulping of human bodies into something that barely resembles a person anymore. She delights in it, revels in the carnage, the blood. A bullet is so – businesslike. Quick, simple, one wound, one act and then: death.
These are not pirates who waste time, who should be trifled with by any captain in the East Blue – Koby knows that immediately, as surely as he could tell the direction of a high wind, the scent of an oncoming storm, the movement of a strong current. It’s an instinct down to his bones that keeps him frozen in place, even as Alvida commands him to speak, to explain. He’s not usually her mouthpiece, she doesn’t like him to talk – doesn’t like it when he stammers, when he stumbles over his words, doesn’t like how his voice pitches up when he’s anxious. Keep your mouth shut unless it’s “yes captain” or “no captain” had been one of the very first lessons Alvida had taught Koby, punctuated with her hand belting him across the face.
But this is – different. This is not a merchant or a fishing vessel or even another East Blue pirate. And their leader is nothing like Alvida. He exudes power, strength, control in a way that’s completely effortless, completely natural, none of the bellowing or posturing that Koby’s become accustomed to over the last two years. He doesn’t need to do anything but stand there, but turn and look over at the chore boy still frozen halfway out of the hold, and everything inside Koby goes weak and helpless and terrified, like a rabbit pinned in place by a fox, a hawk, a warship with cannons. He barely even registers the pistols turning his direction – honestly, it’d be better to go out that way, rather than via whatever force this red-haired pirate possesses. A bullet would kill him, but this man could unmake him without even trying.
Alvida doesn’t seem to pick up on this at all – or maybe she’s just too enraged, bellowing insults that Koby’s so used to they barely register anymore (useless, ungrateful, worthless, whimpering runt, stop standing and gaping like a coward and do something!). He almost laughs at that, because what does she expect him to do? Tackle the effortlessly powerful pirate captain and mop him to death? There’s a wild, ridiculous giggle bubbling up in his chest at the mental image, but then the pirate is turning, and something, something crackles all around him, like dark lightning, like schisms in the fabric of reality, and the rest of the crew just.
Drops dead.
And suddenly, nothing is funny. Because Koby knows, he knows he’s going to die too. He’d always anticipated it – ever since that first awful day, half-grown and scrawny and just shy of sixteen, hair still choppy from hacking it short by a beach campfire, feeding the long, long braids he’s had since childhood to the flames and deciding who he was going to be, what he was going to do, his whole life unspooling in front of him, full of possibility. A chance conversation with someone at the village port, an offer – we’ll take you as far as Shell’s Town, it’s hard work, but honest, you can help us bring in nets and when we get there, you can enlist – that was so perfect, so good that Koby didn’t question why a fishing trawler would be pink, why it’d have heart-shaped sails, too naive and excited and eager, overflowing with questions, with energy, with hope, him and a handful of other young men, all eager to prove themselves. And when they’d been lined up, when the captain had swanned her way down the steps, had shattered the illusion with the truth (this here’s the most fearsome pirate crew in the East Blue, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll bend the knee to it’s captain here and now, fellas), the others had refused while Koby stayed frozen, too afraid to speak up, too afraid to defy her. But they had – three of them, young and bold and fearless, saying they’d rather die than join a pirate crew.
Those had been the first deaths he’d swabbed off the seasalt-swollen boards. Alvida had shaken viscera and gore off her mace, handed it off, then looked Koby right in his pale, terrified, blood-splattered and tearful face. She’d seen – something, something she could control, something she could use, and that horrible, hateful smirk had curled her crimson mouth for the first time. You – I have a job for you, sweetie~, she’d cooed, reaching out to smooth his bloodied hair back, making his whole body recoil. Then she’d shoved a mop in his hands, patted his shoulder and murmured: Clean it up. Or you’re next. And he had – because he was a coward, because he was afraid, because it was easier to obey (and obey and obey and obey) than fight back and end up as another bloodied smear on the deck.
And now, apparently, that bought time, bought and paid for with Koby’s blood, sweat and tears (so, so many tears, enough that he’d thought he’d eventually have to run out, he’d have to hit his limit of crying, his limit of being hungry and cold and aching all over, his limit of threats and whispers and being told he was nothing, nothing at all without her, that if, when she finally got sick of him, nobody would mourn and nobody would care and nobody would notice he was gone) has run out. The red-haired pirate is looking at him again, and he’d – smiled, earlier, at Koby, had smiled and repeated his name, and maybe that was good and likely that was bad, and either way it didn’t matter. He was going to die anyway, before or after Alvida, and the entire ship would go to the bottom of the sea and nobody would morn or care or notice, just like she’d told him.
Except – that’s a question. Koby’s being asked a question. The hazy, foggy, frantic snarl of his thoughts snaps to attention, because that’s conditioned, you get a command, you complete it, you get a question, you answer it. The pirate is asking if…he wants Alvida to live or die. He’s giving Koby a choice, a chance to decide her fate. And he thinks about – everything, about every day of the last two years, about the perpetual humiliation and fear and misery, about the blood under his nails and the kicks aimed at his ribs when he’s scrubbing the deck and the way three of his fingers won’t curl all the way because she’s snapped them too many times for imagined slights and the nights in her cabin listening to her talk, listening to her muse about how fortunate he is to be here, how anyone else on the crew would kill for this sort of attention from their beloved captain, how men are like dogs, hungry, hounding and desperate, how if they can’t have her, maybe they’d be satisfied with him, maybe they need an outlet, someone to hurt, someone to ruin, and how it’s only Alvida’s good graces, only her watchful eye keeping Koby safe and unharmed, and how that sort of benevolence should earn her unquestioning, unflinching loyalty for the rest of his life, and how every time Koby would nod and say yes, Captain again and again and again and again, even when she slid her fingers into his hair and left them there, even when she made him stand and watch her eat, watch her bathe, watch her dress, wait to be released, wait to be sent back to the hold, wait to hear her rumbling snoring before he let himself shiver into mindless silently sobbing terror, knowing she was right, knowing that he owed her, and hating himself for it, for allowing it.
All that could be over. All of it could end, right now, with a word from him, with a head shake or a nod. It could be done. He could be free. Or he could spare her, and see if that makes it better, if that changes the hell she’s created on this ship, if she’ll let him go because he spared her life, or – or if it’ll be a thousand times worse if it’s only the two of them, only the nightmare in that cabin magnified, expanded, just Koby the coward and the monster who owns him. The options war in his mind, vivid on his face, on the way he looks at her, at the bloodied sneer that’ll never, never leave his mind for the rest of his life.
And then he looks up, jaw set, eyes hollow, and meets the red-haired pirates gaze.] I don’t care. [It comes out in a whisper, hoarse, shuddering. Alvida laughs, hollow and sharp, and Koby ignores it, somehow, taking a hitching breath. And again:] I don’t care, as long as you don’t leave me here. As long as you take me with you.
no subject
These are not pirates who waste time, who should be trifled with by any captain in the East Blue – Koby knows that immediately, as surely as he could tell the direction of a high wind, the scent of an oncoming storm, the movement of a strong current. It’s an instinct down to his bones that keeps him frozen in place, even as Alvida commands him to speak, to explain. He’s not usually her mouthpiece, she doesn’t like him to talk – doesn’t like it when he stammers, when he stumbles over his words, doesn’t like how his voice pitches up when he’s anxious. Keep your mouth shut unless it’s “yes captain” or “no captain” had been one of the very first lessons Alvida had taught Koby, punctuated with her hand belting him across the face.
But this is – different. This is not a merchant or a fishing vessel or even another East Blue pirate. And their leader is nothing like Alvida. He exudes power, strength, control in a way that’s completely effortless, completely natural, none of the bellowing or posturing that Koby’s become accustomed to over the last two years. He doesn’t need to do anything but stand there, but turn and look over at the chore boy still frozen halfway out of the hold, and everything inside Koby goes weak and helpless and terrified, like a rabbit pinned in place by a fox, a hawk, a warship with cannons. He barely even registers the pistols turning his direction – honestly, it’d be better to go out that way, rather than via whatever force this red-haired pirate possesses. A bullet would kill him, but this man could unmake him without even trying.
Alvida doesn’t seem to pick up on this at all – or maybe she’s just too enraged, bellowing insults that Koby’s so used to they barely register anymore (useless, ungrateful, worthless, whimpering runt, stop standing and gaping like a coward and do something!). He almost laughs at that, because what does she expect him to do? Tackle the effortlessly powerful pirate captain and mop him to death? There’s a wild, ridiculous giggle bubbling up in his chest at the mental image, but then the pirate is turning, and something, something crackles all around him, like dark lightning, like schisms in the fabric of reality, and the rest of the crew just.
Drops dead.
And suddenly, nothing is funny. Because Koby knows, he knows he’s going to die too. He’d always anticipated it – ever since that first awful day, half-grown and scrawny and just shy of sixteen, hair still choppy from hacking it short by a beach campfire, feeding the long, long braids he’s had since childhood to the flames and deciding who he was going to be, what he was going to do, his whole life unspooling in front of him, full of possibility. A chance conversation with someone at the village port, an offer – we’ll take you as far as Shell’s Town, it’s hard work, but honest, you can help us bring in nets and when we get there, you can enlist – that was so perfect, so good that Koby didn’t question why a fishing trawler would be pink, why it’d have heart-shaped sails, too naive and excited and eager, overflowing with questions, with energy, with hope, him and a handful of other young men, all eager to prove themselves. And when they’d been lined up, when the captain had swanned her way down the steps, had shattered the illusion with the truth (this here’s the most fearsome pirate crew in the East Blue, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll bend the knee to it’s captain here and now, fellas), the others had refused while Koby stayed frozen, too afraid to speak up, too afraid to defy her. But they had – three of them, young and bold and fearless, saying they’d rather die than join a pirate crew.
Those had been the first deaths he’d swabbed off the seasalt-swollen boards. Alvida had shaken viscera and gore off her mace, handed it off, then looked Koby right in his pale, terrified, blood-splattered and tearful face. She’d seen – something, something she could control, something she could use, and that horrible, hateful smirk had curled her crimson mouth for the first time. You – I have a job for you, sweetie~, she’d cooed, reaching out to smooth his bloodied hair back, making his whole body recoil. Then she’d shoved a mop in his hands, patted his shoulder and murmured: Clean it up. Or you’re next. And he had – because he was a coward, because he was afraid, because it was easier to obey (and obey and obey and obey) than fight back and end up as another bloodied smear on the deck.
And now, apparently, that bought time, bought and paid for with Koby’s blood, sweat and tears (so, so many tears, enough that he’d thought he’d eventually have to run out, he’d have to hit his limit of crying, his limit of being hungry and cold and aching all over, his limit of threats and whispers and being told he was nothing, nothing at all without her, that if, when she finally got sick of him, nobody would mourn and nobody would care and nobody would notice he was gone) has run out. The red-haired pirate is looking at him again, and he’d – smiled, earlier, at Koby, had smiled and repeated his name, and maybe that was good and likely that was bad, and either way it didn’t matter. He was going to die anyway, before or after Alvida, and the entire ship would go to the bottom of the sea and nobody would morn or care or notice, just like she’d told him.
Except – that’s a question. Koby’s being asked a question. The hazy, foggy, frantic snarl of his thoughts snaps to attention, because that’s conditioned, you get a command, you complete it, you get a question, you answer it. The pirate is asking if…he wants Alvida to live or die. He’s giving Koby a choice, a chance to decide her fate. And he thinks about – everything, about every day of the last two years, about the perpetual humiliation and fear and misery, about the blood under his nails and the kicks aimed at his ribs when he’s scrubbing the deck and the way three of his fingers won’t curl all the way because she’s snapped them too many times for imagined slights and the nights in her cabin listening to her talk, listening to her muse about how fortunate he is to be here, how anyone else on the crew would kill for this sort of attention from their beloved captain, how men are like dogs, hungry, hounding and desperate, how if they can’t have her, maybe they’d be satisfied with him, maybe they need an outlet, someone to hurt, someone to ruin, and how it’s only Alvida’s good graces, only her watchful eye keeping Koby safe and unharmed, and how that sort of benevolence should earn her unquestioning, unflinching loyalty for the rest of his life, and how every time Koby would nod and say yes, Captain again and again and again and again, even when she slid her fingers into his hair and left them there, even when she made him stand and watch her eat, watch her bathe, watch her dress, wait to be released, wait to be sent back to the hold, wait to hear her rumbling snoring before he let himself shiver into mindless silently sobbing terror, knowing she was right, knowing that he owed her, and hating himself for it, for allowing it.
All that could be over. All of it could end, right now, with a word from him, with a head shake or a nod. It could be done. He could be free. Or he could spare her, and see if that makes it better, if that changes the hell she’s created on this ship, if she’ll let him go because he spared her life, or – or if it’ll be a thousand times worse if it’s only the two of them, only the nightmare in that cabin magnified, expanded, just Koby the coward and the monster who owns him. The options war in his mind, vivid on his face, on the way he looks at her, at the bloodied sneer that’ll never, never leave his mind for the rest of his life.
And then he looks up, jaw set, eyes hollow, and meets the red-haired pirates gaze.] I don’t care. [It comes out in a whisper, hoarse, shuddering. Alvida laughs, hollow and sharp, and Koby ignores it, somehow, taking a hitching breath. And again:] I don’t care, as long as you don’t leave me here. As long as you take me with you.