The first thing I was aware of—other than the dull throbbing pain somewhere between my shoulder and ego—was that I was healed. Not taped together. Stitched back together. Healed. Like some unseen miracle had worked double-time off-screen while I slept and dreamed about getting thrashed by Mihawk in glorious 4K. My powers of regeneration must have kicked in sometime in the course of my nap, which was a blessing and an anticlimax in equal measure. I didn't have any sense of being invigorated or anything like that. But if One Piece had me down as a lesson learned, it was that surviving a clash with the human personification of mortality meant I got me a free power-up as part of my software package.
The bandages were a nice touch. Very neat, methodical. Not Mihawk's doing, no way—not that I'm disrespecting the man, but he's got "sword maintenance over patient care" written all over him. No, this was Perona's work. I could tell by the oddly floral scent of the wrappings and the way they kept from getting in the way of my aesthetic. Mihawk may have lent a hand, perhaps, but Perona had done the lion's share. She was the one who'd probably saved me from dying of something embarrassingly mundane, like blood loss or pride.
She sat up on a stool in front of the window, crossing her legs and reading a book too big for a ghost-themed goth look. I might have turned my head to get a closer look if not for the horns on my head being in their constant state of rebellion. Sleeping on your side isn't very convenient when your body has decided to go "let's go full buffalo prince" without asking. Instead, I had to content myself with turning my eyes—smooth and subtle and possibly a bit too stalker-ish.
She was... breathtaking. Porcelain pale skin with razor-like features and goth villain chic for days. The kind of girl who'd have you writing terrible poetry in an effort to get her to look at you. I knew—deep in the lowest-down, caveman darkest corners of my brain—that I wanted to dick her down before I departed. Crass? Maybe. Honest? Absolutely. I was a man. A black man with abs and horns and no chill.
I shrugged and stood from the mattress like a mythological being rising from the deep for round two. She shrieked, melodramatically loud, as if she had been spooked by someone springing out and surprising her with a tax return. One Piece characters were melodramatic—easily recalling that in the midst of trauma, the trauma, and more trauma.
"You're awake," she stated as if what was clearly true was a revelation.
Didn't react. Just flexed my hand, cracked my knuckles and cracked my neck until I managed a loud pop like with bubble wrap. Still, getting use to this body. It still felt like I was siphoning energy from a god who didn't entirely trust me yet.
I nodded once. "Yes. I am."
One beat. Next: "Thank you for fixing me up."
"It was nothing," she grumbled, looking at the book as if it had somehow developed ten times the fascination of the half-naked male she had just rescued.
I threw my legs over the edge of the bed. The air was a shot of espresso. I didn't waste a second in wrenching off the bandages and throwing them away, exposing my torso—once again bare, once again chiseled like a final boss. If I was expecting a reaction, I didn't get one. No blush. No gasp. Just a flip of the page.
That was when I realized something profoundly important.
This was going to be a challenge.
There wasn't much I'd stored away in memory about Perona. Gothic girl. Pink hair. Ghost-spitting parasol. Spins a few rounds in Thriller Bark and then sort of disappears into the Mihawk-sized tear in the fabric of reality that was Kuraigana Island. She wasn't one of the game-changers in the sense of ending the world or declaring war. Just... a background character with presence. I didn't think much about her until now—until waking up half-naked and bandaged in her care. Ha! Guess getting the crap beat out off from a sword god will get someone to pay attention to the little things. Like how she crossed her legs while she reads a book, or how she scanned the page a fraction of a second faster when she was actively working to avoid catching your eye.
Honestly speaking, I wished I had been more attentive to her back then. I never knew I'd be the one who's here now saying, "What was her personality like again?" like I had dozed off in class. But it's never too late to do home work.
"What're you reading?" I asked in a relaxed tone, as if I wasn't also acclimating to the feeling of new demon-core biceps under new skin.
She stiffened for half a beat as if I had demanded a recitation of her browser history. "What?" She spit out the word and—honest to God—blushed. Full-on cherry blossom.
I blinked. "I simply wish to know what book you're reading."
Easy. Relaxed. No pressure. Rule number one of speaking to women: avoid pressing the gas pedal too hard. Make it a Sunday afternoon even when in your mind you're secretly scheming the fucking.
She slowly blinked as she gathered herself. "It's a dark romance novel," she confessed as if she had committed a crime.
I nodded and absorbed that. I'd never in my life touched one, but from the darker recesses of BookTok and some alarmingly explicit subreddit discussions, I was pretty sure that it was either one of two things: morally ambiguous men committing atrocities in the name of love... or non-consensual sex scenes with a gothic twist. With how she looks, really, it was probably both.
"That's.. nice," I said with a lag long enough to be embarrassing, and then receding again with a smile. I had no clue what to say to this one, and nice was a safe option. Nice was neutral. Nice meant I'm accepting what's apparently a very private and sacred daydream of yours where the vampire boyfriend ties you up to a wall and rapes you.
She didn't respond right away. Her fingers toyed with the edge of the book, clearly in distress.
She changed the subject. "Now that you're healed, what will you do now?"
It was a strategic question. A sound one. Enabled her to reassert control of the exchange.
"I don't know," I said dishonestly, even though I did. "But," I went on, leaning in a little bit, "I'd like to get to know you, though."
That was a half-truth. I wanted to do more but let us not jump chapters.
"Oh," she whispered and the blush was once again back in a big way.
"I'm Perona," she stated, though I knew this already.
"I'm Cassian," I said with an outstretched hand.
She hesitated, then took it—slow as if she was buffering at an emotional level. She shook hands with a tentative, gentle but lingering hold long enough to utter I'm thinking about you too much at this moment.
"You're... nice," she exhaled as though the very word itself was a foreign expression on her lips. And then, as though moved by some force unknown to her, she continued and added, "And handsome."
Bingo.
It was working. Not flawlessly overnight—but seeds had been planted. I'd played enough video and emotional games to know when a person was battling themselves rather than me.
But watching her squirm, torn between fascination and embarrassment, I knew.
This had nothing whatsoever to do with charm or looks or even with me sauntering around shirtless with the physique of a Greek god and a Netflix antihero's voice.
It was because I had game—real, intentional game. Calculated game. And there wasn't any here. Not in this world. Not in One Piece.
These men didn't date. They didn't flirt. They made declarations. With food, swords, or flags of mortality. Luffy? Socially unhinged. Usopp? Virgin energy with friendly demeanor. Franky? Transformer-made, dad-at-a-strip-club. Sanji? Walking harassment lawsuit. Zoro? Emotionally constipated with a love affair with swords. Mihawk? The brooding introvert who also makes chicks fall in love with him by being—and probably resents that.
I was one of the fortunate few in a world like this.
I was normal and being normal was what did make me an aberration.
Perona didn't stand a chance. No one in One Piece did.
Assuming I had even half-decent game—and let's be real, it was still leagues better than anyone one here—I was going to be banging any girl in the One Piece world. Not because I was a Weinbaum-grade alpha strutting around waving my Haki and abs, but because I was probably the only guy in this area who knew how to talk to a girl without yelling, simping, or brooding off into the distance like a male model auditioning for a perfume ad.
I finally inquired as to the obvious. "So what brought you here? To Mihawk's Creepy-as-fuck Dracula's castle?"
It was rhetorical---I already knew. But metaknowledge isn't as helpful when you're roleplaying an unfamiliar stranger in a world where sky islands exist as a normal thing. Had to act cool and let things proceed normally.
She paused, lost in a stare as if she was looking at a corner of herself she did not approve of. "Well... with the fall of Moria to the Straw Hats, I had nothing. Thriller Bark was destroyed. Everything I had ever known collapsed. Mihawk took me in."
It was said without tears, but grief hung on her words like dampened clothing. Helplessness was looked good on her, although I hadn't come by for a tear-filled emotional path. I nodded. I'd hear her out. But in truth, as she spoke and spoke and spoke some more, the only thing I was conscious of was how lovely she'd be on her knees—lipstick smudged black, eyes glassy, mouth full of me.
Yes, I'm that guy. I never claimed sainthood.
"It sounds hard," I spoke truly. Not because I was going to bemoan her fate but because I had known what it felt like to be homeless. To wake up from a crash and have any notion of who the hell you were wiped from your memory. "But you don't have to be lost anymore. You have me now."
I let that sink in. I was close enough to be there but not close enough to be desperate.
"I'd like for you to accompany me. Outside. On the seas."
We locked eyes. A flush spreading like a brush fire up her neck. She knew what I meant. Perhaps she had waited to hear me utter these words.
"Really?" she whispered softly but with eyes growing wider. Hope and warmth blended with her tone.
"Yes, really." I said with a smile so big, it had the potential to be a war crime in a number of countries.
I moved in then, traced a knuckle down her cheek, and let my hand settle on her jaw. A pause. Let the air get thick between us. Let her decide how close she'd come.
She leaned into his contact. I felt the softness of her chin against my fingers, her body heat, the catch in her breathing—enough to know the tension was shared. One of those brief, small giveaways. You don't have to get kissed to know somebody's down bad. You need the pause of a heartbeat.
But I had no idea how soon I was going to be fucking her—but I wasn't impatient. It had turned into something greater than scoring the notch in the bedpost and flying the coop. No, I was thinking in larger terms. Strategically. If I was going to be a player in this technicolor pirate game, did I have to be single? Maybe not. Maybe I could do this with someone—someone who was hot, skilled with her hands, and enough off the chain to be completely sold on my plan.
I kept looking into her eyes. Where the control truly starts. "So," I spoke slowly, evenness in my tone, "will you go with me?"
She didn't answer immediately. She blinked, chewed on her lip, stared around at my face like she was expecting me to hit her with a punchline. Then she relaxed and gave me the kind of answer girls give in the final scene of a young adult romance.
"Yes," she said. A little breathlessly. A bit melodramatically. I was on the verge of rolling my eyes.
I nodded a little. "Alright."
She stood up and paced like she'd made the choice to pick up her entire life and hit the road. I knew—it was a reaction to the stifling silence of Mihawk's walled compound, the eerie hallways and echoes of happier times. I was providing her with something the Warlords had never been able to offer: motion.
"Do you need time to get your things?" I inquired, stepping back, giving her some room but little. She nodded quickly, somewhat guiltily. "I swear it's not a big deal," she continued, her voice tiny as though she was expecting me to sigh or scoff.
I didn't.
I shrugged. "Go ahead."
I might have told her that packing her things wasn't going to be a burden. That she didn't have to sell herself short. It would've taken five seconds. But why offer her a security blanket now? Let her be in doubt. Let her work for comfort. Withholding things like this kept things cutting edge. Kept her in a state of alertness. When a woman isn't entirely sure where she stood in a man's eyes, she works to keep herself in reach. This was game.
She smiled gently, the sort of smile girls give when they think they have done the right thing but have no idea what lays ahead.
I didn't smile either.
Not yet.
**
It wasn't much, like she'd claimed. One suitcase full of clothes packed with another suitcase and a single duffel bag and one of those tiny gothic tote thingies which had supposedly been hexed and brought with a playlist of Evanescence. I would have bet she was checking into a weekend getaway in a haunted rental house rather than embarking into the morally gray horizon with a 25-foot war god if I didn't know her.
I was standing out by the castle, resting against a sturdy tree, back in full Hydra Dragon size—high and broad and unabashed. Like slipping into my own skin. Human size was like knotting shoes together and attempting to walk normally. The trees groaned a little beneath me but I did not say sorry.
The Humandrills, bless their primitive little monkey hearts, had learned respect at last. They had thought that I was just another action monkey photo walking down the road before my battle with Mihawk—big mouth, loud, boastful. Now I was treated with a wide margin of respect by them, strung out in the trees like paranoid squirrels. I'd transitioned from "king in waiting" to "existential threat" overnight.
Perona strode over, the gentle thump of her boots in the grass with the sole that muted noise for miles. She regarded me with a proud, excited look on her face as though she'd been formally invited to ride in a war film.
"I'm ready," she smiled and turned the bag around. "I also brought a map. Just in case,"
I hunched my head up and above her, eyes drifting to Mihawk by the remains of the castle. Watchful. Likely not moving since I'd left the bedroom. The guy was stuck like a gargoyle but with some attitude.
I nodded to him. He nodded, his expression stoic to the very end.
That was our goodbye.
My gaze turned back to Perona and I smiled ever so slightly, touching one finger to her brow. She closed her eyes in surprise at the softness of the act.
"Let's go then."
No fanfare. No delay. I entered the meadow and transformed—no crescendo, no bellow, no Hollywood explosion of wings. I was fighting no one. I did not need the theatrics.
Bone crunched. Flesh stretched out. Wings unfolded. Five faces blinked into being. I towered over the treetops, green scales flashing like it was times square in daylight. The trees winced as if nature was wiser than to get between me and what I desired.
That was when Mihawk spoke.
"Do come back sometime," he said nonchalantly, as though referring to a game of poker. "I was hoping to fight you again… when you actually have experience."
One of my heads swiveled, its voice older and deeper. "I will."
Perona climbed onto my back, her equipment rattling like a gambler's dice. She perched upon my shoulder blades, wedged in between two of my wings.
"And next time," I continued, my voice trembling with determination, "I'll win."
A lean smile from Mihawk. "We'll see about that."
I sounded like a cocky bastard to Mihawk.
But to myself I sounded like a confident dragon.
We lifted off and the air split as I flew. The wind rushed by me with a pure and swift rush, the trees falling away in a smear of green below. I did not need a Log Pose or a chart. As a Hydra Dragon, I had an innate sense of direction and this was an old and precise thing. The world was a compass and I was the needle.
I favored Perona's attempt though. A map, just in case. Gods should always have backup plans.
I knew where I was going.
Sabaody Archipelago.
Time to plant a bullet in the head of this world's social order. Because if you ever need to make a big statement of your arrival in One Piece as much as causing chaos, there's no bigger statement than by killing a Celestial Dragon.