[Almost as soon as he's said it (take me with you, how cliched, how ridiculous, a line from some sort of idiotic book he’d read growing up, where someone gets captured by pirates and spirited away from their home and is rescued by some Marine hunk with rippling pectorals), Koby is certain that he’s going to be laughed back into the hold, that the red-haired pirate’s magnanimity is going to run out and be replaced with the sort of cruelty he’s more accustomed to. Maybe this was all some big test, one he’s summarily failed, one that was supposed to see how loyal he truly was. Maybe Alvida and the red-haired pirate are working together, and the seemingly-dead crew is about to rise from the deck laughing and laughing and laughing, and Koby’s going to face punishment like he’s never experienced before.
The possibility of this (absurd and outlandish as it is) has him recoiling a little as the blond-haired pirate approaches, hands clinging to the mop so tightly they go white-knuckled, holding it between him and the man like it’ll – protect him, somehow. But he’s told to put it down, told to follow the stranger off the Miss Love Duck and onto the considerably more impressive ship alongside it, and somehow his trembling knees unlock enough to obey, to lift one foot, then the other, to walk over the bloodied deck he’s scrubbed on his hands and knees a thousand times and across the gangplank to – to what?
Alvida seems to know. She yells it, bloodied and crazed and crew-less, and Koby reacts like he’s accustomed to, eyes down, shoulders set, accepting the insults and threats like they don’t dig their way down, down into the very core of who he is, like they don’t snag there to ache alongside every other horrible thing she’s told him. Sometimes Alvida goes days without even acknowledging Koby’s existence, but her voice is always there, echoing in his ears, in every panicked beat of his heart as he pushes himself past the limit to keep her placated, as he works his fingers bloody again and again.
Even the content of the threats isn’t anything new – Alvida’s held that exact scenario over Koby’s head since that first day, since she found out exactly who (what) he was. There were no secrets on her ship, not from her, and when she found the bandages Koby’d grown accustomed to wrapping around and around his chest, when she demanded he show her exactly why he needed them – well. There were no secrets from Alvida. She’d made it very clear that if anyone else on the crew found out, she wouldn’t be able to hold them back. This was something just between the two of them, something nobody else would accept about him, something only she knew. It bled into threats, it echoed in the softer, sweeter words in her cabin, when there was almost a streak of perverse fondness in her hand on his hair, his chin, cupping it and clicking her tongue, shaking her head. It’s lucky you’re such a hard worker, Koby, Alvida would sigh, squeezing his face, forcing him to look at the smug, gloating smirk on her face. Because I’m not interested in the only other thing you’re good for. But maybe it’ll prove useful, later on, hm? You could help me bargain my way out of a hard spot.
That concept lodges in Koby’s mind now, the idea that maybe – maybe Alvida’s just bought her freedom, her triumph with him, like she always threatened, and his body threatens to seize up in panic, there on the deck, surrounded by a crew of pirates, of men with unclear motives, unclear desires. He’s about to turn, to scramble back and drop onto his knees in front of Alvida, to beg for forgiveness, because it couldn’t be worse than being alone on a ship of strangers, but – but then there’s an explosion that has him stumbling back into Hongo, grabbing at him instinctively, curling away from the familiar heat and scent of cannon fire.
Except. Except there’s no cannon. There’s just the ship crumbling, the crackling sound of something still resonant in the air, and Koby’s half-turned to look, to see what happened, but Hongo is – scooping him up before he can protest, before he can do anything but grab at his glasses to keep them from falling off his face as the crew of pirates springs into action, bounding off the creaking, groaning deck of the Miss Love Duck as the world itself seems to crack itself into pieces. Koby’s hands are up over his ears, eyes squeezed shut, and part of him realizes he’s been set down, because he scrambles backwards until his back hits something solid, some box or barrel. He wants to stay curled in on himself, hidden from the sight and sound of everything that’s happened in the last handful of moments, but not knowing what’s going on is worse.
So he looks up, just in time to see the captain – red-haired, smiling, still smiling, broad-shouldered and powerful and deadly – swing onto the deck like he hadn’t just killed an entire crew and it’s captain without exerting any effort whatsoever. He turns towards Koby, says – something, he doesn’t quite hear it because he’s jerking back against whatever he’s huddling beside, hard enough that his head smacks into the wood, making his ears ring.
But it registers, eventually, and Koby shakes his head hard, breath coming quick, quick as the birdlike race of his pulse, eyes flicking around from one member of the crew to another, always coming back to the captain, like a compass pulled north again and again. He’s dizzy with fear, with the mounting terror of the situation he’s gotten himself into, but beneath it there’s – curiosity, wonder, amazement at what this man had just done, the power he was capable. Swallowing hard, convulsively, he croaks out:] N-No, I’m. I’m f-fine, sir.
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The possibility of this (absurd and outlandish as it is) has him recoiling a little as the blond-haired pirate approaches, hands clinging to the mop so tightly they go white-knuckled, holding it between him and the man like it’ll – protect him, somehow. But he’s told to put it down, told to follow the stranger off the Miss Love Duck and onto the considerably more impressive ship alongside it, and somehow his trembling knees unlock enough to obey, to lift one foot, then the other, to walk over the bloodied deck he’s scrubbed on his hands and knees a thousand times and across the gangplank to – to what?
Alvida seems to know. She yells it, bloodied and crazed and crew-less, and Koby reacts like he’s accustomed to, eyes down, shoulders set, accepting the insults and threats like they don’t dig their way down, down into the very core of who he is, like they don’t snag there to ache alongside every other horrible thing she’s told him. Sometimes Alvida goes days without even acknowledging Koby’s existence, but her voice is always there, echoing in his ears, in every panicked beat of his heart as he pushes himself past the limit to keep her placated, as he works his fingers bloody again and again.
Even the content of the threats isn’t anything new – Alvida’s held that exact scenario over Koby’s head since that first day, since she found out exactly who (what) he was. There were no secrets on her ship, not from her, and when she found the bandages Koby’d grown accustomed to wrapping around and around his chest, when she demanded he show her exactly why he needed them – well. There were no secrets from Alvida. She’d made it very clear that if anyone else on the crew found out, she wouldn’t be able to hold them back. This was something just between the two of them, something nobody else would accept about him, something only she knew. It bled into threats, it echoed in the softer, sweeter words in her cabin, when there was almost a streak of perverse fondness in her hand on his hair, his chin, cupping it and clicking her tongue, shaking her head. It’s lucky you’re such a hard worker, Koby, Alvida would sigh, squeezing his face, forcing him to look at the smug, gloating smirk on her face. Because I’m not interested in the only other thing you’re good for. But maybe it’ll prove useful, later on, hm? You could help me bargain my way out of a hard spot.
That concept lodges in Koby’s mind now, the idea that maybe – maybe Alvida’s just bought her freedom, her triumph with him, like she always threatened, and his body threatens to seize up in panic, there on the deck, surrounded by a crew of pirates, of men with unclear motives, unclear desires. He’s about to turn, to scramble back and drop onto his knees in front of Alvida, to beg for forgiveness, because it couldn’t be worse than being alone on a ship of strangers, but – but then there’s an explosion that has him stumbling back into Hongo, grabbing at him instinctively, curling away from the familiar heat and scent of cannon fire.
Except. Except there’s no cannon. There’s just the ship crumbling, the crackling sound of something still resonant in the air, and Koby’s half-turned to look, to see what happened, but Hongo is – scooping him up before he can protest, before he can do anything but grab at his glasses to keep them from falling off his face as the crew of pirates springs into action, bounding off the creaking, groaning deck of the Miss Love Duck as the world itself seems to crack itself into pieces. Koby’s hands are up over his ears, eyes squeezed shut, and part of him realizes he’s been set down, because he scrambles backwards until his back hits something solid, some box or barrel. He wants to stay curled in on himself, hidden from the sight and sound of everything that’s happened in the last handful of moments, but not knowing what’s going on is worse.
So he looks up, just in time to see the captain – red-haired, smiling, still smiling, broad-shouldered and powerful and deadly – swing onto the deck like he hadn’t just killed an entire crew and it’s captain without exerting any effort whatsoever. He turns towards Koby, says – something, he doesn’t quite hear it because he’s jerking back against whatever he’s huddling beside, hard enough that his head smacks into the wood, making his ears ring.
But it registers, eventually, and Koby shakes his head hard, breath coming quick, quick as the birdlike race of his pulse, eyes flicking around from one member of the crew to another, always coming back to the captain, like a compass pulled north again and again. He’s dizzy with fear, with the mounting terror of the situation he’s gotten himself into, but beneath it there’s – curiosity, wonder, amazement at what this man had just done, the power he was capable. Swallowing hard, convulsively, he croaks out:] N-No, I’m. I’m f-fine, sir.
[Shanks. Alvida had called him Shanks.]