A chill ran through me as Perona's icicle toes dug into my ribs again. Shyarly's tail weighed down on my leg like a soaked rope. Sharing a bunk can be a problem when you're huge. Sharing a space with two small countries? You're suddenly just an article of furniture with emotions. I gazed up at the ceiling, following a crack in a wood plank. No sleep for me. No way. Sleep jumped ship quicker than a pirate sensing navy lights in the horizon.
Then splits started to appear. Not the 'I need to drink more serious stuff' kind, think ripped-apart fabric and a reality unwinding before me. One minute I'm thinking about squashing my girlfriends when I roll over, and before I know it, I'm lying flat out on an endless plane of white so bright it seemed my eyes were begging a refund.
"Ah Shit. Here we go again." I started smoothing out my clothes but stopped because I was pristine. Pure white all over, like an unwritten page with lines never drawn. My words didn't echo back; they simply dissipated, absorbed into thin air, like a punch line with no punch. No scent lingered in the air, neither fresh nor ripe, but empty, as if aroma had been erased from memory.
One moment, there was nothing. Then R.O.B. simply existed, no fade in, no flash, but just existed. Though not exactly human-like in form, more of an outline constructed from chunks of light loops which curved if you looked at them for too long a time. Looked at them crooked, and pain hit me in the head. Like squinting into bright light with a fizzing burp tickling my tongue. "Cassian," he said. "You've been... entertaining." The sound of which occurred in a variety of tongues, a multitude of which I knew but others I did not but seemed to grasp anyway. Some of them probably hadn't even originated from Earth.
"I try," I said, rubbing at temples where a visual migraine was developing. "Although 'entertaining' is a subjective word. The Marines definitely did not think so when the war turned their fancy command center into a work of postmodern art. Which, you'll recall, you owe me therapy for, by the way."
R.O.B. glitched out like a broken screen, and – BAM! – we were inside the remains of Marineford, everything after the naval authorities faced off with pirates getting-rendered into oblivion. A thick pall of smoke choked the air, reeking of charred steel and crushed hubris, with a hint of something sour – maybe a whiff of guilt. The trenches dug by Shanks, Dragon, et al., and whatever remnants were left of Whitebeard's crew were still spewing steam, and I chuckled. "Rebuilding? Forget it. Money wouldn't cover it. They'd need therapy... and a whole bunch of good luck."
"Chaos," R.O.B. growled, his chopped-up body flickering like a broken neon sign. But it lived – a messy, textured life. "You defied their laws until they were fluttering scraps in a storm, turned their idea of order into a joke. You have people whispering your name in every corner of the earth – in ancient ports and amidst marble spires – and wince when they speak it." The earth beneath me melted away, replaced by quick shots: me in a beast form with multiple heads, setting warships ablaze; and Fake Mjolnir shattering whole islands wide open, like ripe fruit. Seconds later? All over. We were standing in another nothingness. "You're not finished," he smiled without smiling.
I barely had a chance to laugh when my skeleton started moving. Skin pulled tight, contracted, and readjusted into a new form – a smaller one. Looking down, spots dotted the skin on the arms. A red sleeveless jacket dangled loose. Watching these fingers (these were his fingers, after all) curve slowly, bob with a rubber elasticity. "What the fresh hell is this?" The question choked in mid-word, leaping an octave.
R.O.B. swirled around me like a predator. "This is what you always dreamed of, isn't it? Lying awake in your dingy apartment with volume 73, being dog-eared from multiple readings. Wishing you could see what it would be like to stretch beyond your boundaries, to drink in pure adventure without a filter. " Pause. "The dream was buried under hydra scales and thunder, but I am God, Cassian. I dig deep."
The thud hit hard, in the center of my chest. Not some kind of boost, but more a matter of old memories repurposed. That idiot grin creeping up on me (was it mine? or ours?) seemed suddenly normal. Pressing what this might be good for, I stuck out one arm far out, far... until it jerked back sharply and flipped me over. "Alright," I gasped, huddled up tight, "that kinda stings a bit."
R.O.B. dangled above, swirls racing erratically. "Call it.... a reset. Between world-shaking calamities." he began. Then he started flickering into dots. "Go on. Try being the protagonist for once." he urged. Then the bright blankness popped, and suddenly I was myself again, Cassian but different - because beneath my skin, a coiled energy thrummed, poised to burst.
I breathed deeply, focusing on those ancient flaws above. To jump about like a mentally unstable toy seemed impossible to ignore, but lying flat had two good reasons: first, disturbing these girls meant harm, plain and deadly, second, transforming from a giant Hydra-Dragon into Monkey D. Luffy himself mid-snore would absolutely warrant retaliatory violence.
As the sun rays entered the room, I stopped pretending to be asleep. Suddenly, my hands began moving with a freakish energy – as if soda were flowing through my veins rather than blood. I slowly raised my limb and forced it to grow longer. Skin peeled off from where it was attached to my shoulder, with sounds that were akin to infinite snaps happening simultaneously.
Shyarly's tail went stiff out of nowhere. Then Perona screeched - a shriek so loud it might shake a grave. Ironically, this was funny considering her powers. "What the hell is going on?" Shyarly interrupted, her gills flared wide.
I pulled my limb back quickly. "Awakened Devil Fruit?" I smirked, with a grin of a shark looking at dinner on a beach.
Perona floated up, her nightgown fluttering. "Bullshit. You don't just wake up with a whole new fruit ability," she said.
"Unless," Shyarly thought, tapping a claw against her chin, "you ate another fruit. Which should have killed you."
"Ah." I rolled onto my side, resting my head in one massive palm. "What if I told you a cosmic being with iffy entertainment recommendations handed it down to me because I had a ridiculous One Piece obsession when I was a teenager?"
Their blank stares combined could have sunk a warship.
"So. Either you're lying," Perona's lip curled.
"– or you've finally lost it," Shyarly finished.
I cracked my knuckles—and I mean, I really did. That sound echoed in the room, loud and abrupt, as I pushed my finger quick into Perona's forehead. She squeaked, her hands flying up to her head, where her dark shadows burst into frantic life.
"Still think I'm lying?" I raised an eyebrow.
"You're sleeping on the deck tonight," Perona growled. His glare would melt steel.
Shyarly sighed, rubbing her temples. "We're going to need stronger alcohol," she said.
I raised both arms above my head, enjoying this ridiculous extension. "We'd never be short of hands if I did everything myself," I muttered, pointing toes until they touched the far wall. "Maybe – "
A pillow smacked me squarely in the face. That must be Perona. Those masks are a dead giveaway. "Maybe you should stop getting into mischief," she shouted, "before we eat,"
***
The hammer - my wild, messy, way-too-heavy chunk of metal - hung in the corner on its rack, shining like it was judging me. It'd had a name, "Fake Mjolnir," for an eternity, but it never fit the complete and utter destruction it left in its wake when I went to use it. Meanings were important. And so when I sat there and watched Shyarly pour what seemed to be engine fuel into her coffee mug, it just clicked.
"Pandemir," I called out, craning my head up to look up at them upside down. The name seemed apt – it had a cheap booze and poor decisions kind of bite to it. Not because it rhymes or sounds cool, but because every time I employ this tool, order unravels and randomness gets a promotion.
"Huh... that name kinda works," Perona stopped drinking halfway, her pink hair bouncing a little.
Shyarly's gills spread wide when she inhaled air quickly. "Your weapon's name is based on hell," she explained.
"Also the high capital of Satan, if you want to get pedantic," I explained, flexing my new rubber fingers. "Besides, it's better than 'Sparky McSmasherton.'"
The conversation escalated into teasing... until a Hollow suddenly fell from the roof, screaming and waving a scroll as big as a kayak. That seal? Worth more than a Marine General's betting loses; soft pink, intricate designs, featuring the grin of a shady character.
Perona went pale. "Tell me that's not," she started to protest.
"Yeah, no doubt," I muttered, pulling the scroll out of the Hollow's trembling hands. It opened with a sound of snapping twigs—ink curling in fancy loops with a scent of sugar and shadow. "Listen to this," I muttered, imitating Big Mom's voice, "Sweetest Doomsday. What you did at Marineford? Tasty. Get your butt to Whole Cake Island—we'll have tea."
Shyarly's coffee cup froze midway to her lips. "She did not just write 'tea' like it's a euphemism for assassination,"
I flicked the scroll shut. "Of course she did - it is an invitation in Linlin's parlance, come as in you'll be in your coffin," I said. I heaved myself up from the floor and scooped up a yawned Perona, lifting her as if she were a stray cat. "Pack your gloomiest dresses, ghost princess because we're crashing a marriage"
"Are you insane? She's a Yonko!" Perona's shriek would have shattered glass.
"And I'm the guy who turned Marineford into a sandbox," I retorted, bouncing her lightly in my palm. The rubbery elasticity of my new form made this action disgustingly effortless. "Besides, she won't start anything. Not when I can change into a hydra the size of her castle and bounce around like a drunk monkey,"
Shyarly's tail lashed once, hard enough to break the floorboards. "You're forgetting she has an army of homies, three Sweet Commanders, and— "
"Weird obsession with superpowered sons-in-law," I shouted, straining my neck towards the round window, where the Thousand Calamities were carving a path through the deep blue swells of the Grand Line. The sun had reduced the water to liquid gold, a sight lovely enough to be hypnotic, but I was busy tallying up how many of Big Mom's daughters were actually marriage material before they started a war. "Come on, she's always after guys with 'EXTREMELY STRONG,' 'somewhat unstable,' and 'capable of leveling a town by mid-morning' tendencies. Well, let me tell you: that describes me to a T."
A cloud of Perona's Hollows hung above her, glowering. She drew close enough for our noses to be almost touching. "You can't be serious about this," she whispered.
A combination of damp earth and floral soap assaulted me. It wasn't a common combination. "Consider what will follow if she holds Pudding before you. But worse, if it's Smoothie?"
I forced a grin wider, feeling the skin of my face pull tight with effort, like overworked taffy. "Well, look on the bright side," I said, snapping my fingers—literally, with a rubbery twang that made Shyarly's gills flare in annoyance. "We'll have one extra member of our team. Either a psychotic pastry chef or a walking juice bar who can transform into a sword. Either way, it's a win."
Perona screeched, sounding like a whistling kettle with a meltdown. Her Hollows fired at my head, poking through it with needles of ice—yeah, it stung, but it was kinda funny because my soft head just pushed 'em right back out with a bouncy ghost net.
"Oh come on," I wheezed, grabbing one by its stumpy little legs. "You're telling me you don't want front row seats to the dumpster fire that will be Big Mom's face when I show up with Luffy's powers and a five-headed hydra form?"
Shyarly slammed her mug down – like a door on an ass after an argument. "We're not getting into Yonko territory just so you can collect all wives like loose stickers,: she shouted, her skin dully shifting to a slurry gray.
Perona was already swaying towards the wardrobe when she finally lost it, pushing this black lace parasol into me hard enough to make a dent in my rubber ribs, "If I end up dead just because you decided you wanna dress up as 'Monkey D. Luffy' for some ridiculous tea party. Well, you get two ghosts on your back."
I looped an arm over each of them, pulling them into tight hugs. Their grumbling sank into the front of my chest. "Chill," I whispered before kissing Shyarly's forehead, then Perona's—mostly just to capture her damned pink spot on her cheek. "Not stepping there clueless."
Letting go, I raised my hands up until they touched the wooden rafters above me. "With new powers come new advantages. Just think about how surprised Big Mom will be when her sparky friends shock us, but rather than getting burned..." I relaxed my arm completely, swinging it loose like a damp piece of spaghetti. "Woops, rubber's insulating. Or when her swordsmen realize they're fighting a hydra who can stretch like taffy,"
Shyarly took a quick breath, her gills opening wide – another indication she'd had enough, a sign I'd finally gone too far. As for Perona, she had the scowl of someone sucking a sour orange, which in her case meant quitting but with a lot of attitude.
The Hollows around her shoulders were slouching, as if they had no energy left, with their small spirit faces completely exhausted. It wasn't a contest for me to convince them.
I still needed to mention to them that I could turn into Luffy. For real this time. Not just a size alteration. My power was weaker compared to the real thing though.