The abrasive brush, my loyal companion for five years, rasped against the stubborn deck grime. Its monotonous rhythm was a stark contrast to the gulls' relentless cries above G-3, this steadfast Marine base stubbornly rooted in the Grand Line's capricious soil. As Marine Captain Darius's chore boy, my days unfolded in a predictable sequence of scrubbed floors, gleaming brass, and the endless, often invisible, tasks that kept this vital part of the Marine machine functioning.
"Lazarus!" Captain Darius's voice, a low growl that could wrestle a sea squall into submission, rumbled from the deck above. My spine snapped to attention.
"Aye, Captain!" I called back, abandoning the brush and wiping my rough hands on my worn trousers. A familiar flutter of anticipation, a blend of apprehension and a nascent hope, stirred within me.
He stood silhouetted against the vast, shimmering canvas of the Grand Line, his figure framed by the railing. "Report to my quarters. Now."
My mind spun. What now? Another mountain of paperwork? Boots demanding a mirror shine? I hurried below, the familiar scent of salt and engine oil filling my lungs. His quarters were austere yet meticulously ordered. He stood by the window, his gaze fixed on the horizon.
"You wished to see me, Captain?" I inquired.
He turned, his steely eyes sweeping over me. "Five years, Lazarus."
"Yes, Captain."
"For five years you've served under my command. You've cleaned, you've carried, you've… tidied."
A faint smile almost betrayed my lips. "I've done my best, Captain."
"Diligence is a virtue. The pirates… they grow bolder. We set sail at dawn."
My stomach tightened. Another hunt. I'd be scrubbing while they fought. "Aye, Captain. I'll ensure everything is in order."
He turned back, his gaze direct and unwavering. "No, Lazarus. You're coming with us."
My breath hitched. "Me, Captain?"
He raised a questioning eyebrow. "Is your hearing failing? You're coming. Prepare yourself." He picked up a Flintlock Pistol, checked its priming with practiced ease, and handed it to me. "For your defense. Keep it loaded." He turned back to the window, his attention once more claimed by the distant horizon.
I stood there, the pistol's weight a surprising comfort in my hand. Me? On a pirate hunt, armed? This was… unexpected.
What's he thinking? Five years of menial tasks, and now this? Perhaps a sliver of trust exists? I had trained in secret, honing skills that remained unseen, but I was undeniably weaker than the seasoned marines. This felt like an opportunity, a precipice.
The next morning, the Ironclad Resolve sliced through the waves. I clutched the pistol, its cold metal a tangible reality. Sergeant Major Gigby, a man whose laughter lines seemed permanently etched onto his weathered face, chuckled beside me. "Lost, Lazarus?"
"No, Sergeant Major. Just… the view."
His gaze flickered to the pistol. "That's new."
I offered a noncommittal shrug.
He probably thinks it's a jest.
My duties remained, amplified by the ship's relentless motion. Messages to deliver, meals to serve, spaces to clean. But now, the pistol was a constant presence at my hip.
During a long, silent watch, Captain Darius materialized beside me. "You're observant, Lazarus."
I froze, caught off guard. "Sir?"
"I've watched you. Persistent. You see a task through to its end."
He's been watching? He's seen my limitations… and yet…
"Thank you, Captain."
"Out here, everyone has a purpose. A clean ship breeds discipline, and discipline is the breath that keeps us alive. Have you practiced with that?" He gestured to the pistol.
"A little, Captain."
"Be ready."
Days bled into nights. We encountered fleeting glimpses of pirate vessels, swift, ominous shadows dancing on the horizon. I witnessed the controlled pandemonium of a naval engagement firsthand – the thunderous roar of the cannons, the sharp, decisive cracks of rifles, the shouted commands slicing through the air, the grim resolve etched on the faces of the marines. I remained on the periphery, a cog in the larger machine, ferrying ammunition, tending to minor wounds, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs, a chaotic blend of fear and exhilaration. And the Flintlock Pistol remained tucked securely in my belt, a weighty symbol of the Captain's unforeseen faith.
Then, the unexpected tore through the routine. A young Marine, his face ashen, sweat beading on his brow, sprinted towards Captain Darius, his boots pounding a frantic rhythm on the deck.
"Captain! Captain!" the Marine gasped, his breath ragged and uneven.
Captain Darius spun around, his hand instinctively moving towards the saber at his side, his movements sharp and decisive. "What is it, Private?"
"Sir! We've sighted a pirate ship bearing down on us fast!" The private's trembling arm pointed towards the horizon. "The insignia… Captain… it's the Bloodsucker's ship!"
A palpable wave of unease rippled through the nearby Marines. Even Sergeant Major Graves, a man whose gruffness was usually as reliable as the tides, seemed to stiffen.
"Bloodsucker?" Captain Darius's voice was low, a dangerous undercurrent rippling beneath the surface.
"Yes, sir! The skull with the crossed fangs… unmistakable! His bounty is fifty million berries, Captain! They say his crew is without mercy!" The private's eyes were wide pools of terror. "Sir, with all due respect, we should retreat! Request backup from G-3!"
Captain Darius's gaze narrowed, his jaw tight. He stared in the direction the private indicated, his expression an unreadable mask.
Bloodsucker… fifty million berries… a monstrous sum, a testament to his terror, I thought, my own heart hammering against my ribs. Even the seasoned marines looked shaken. Should we truly stand against him? The private's plea echoed my own fear; retreat, seek reinforcements, it seemed the only logical course.
Captain Darius remained silent for what felt like an eternity, his gaze locked on the distant horizon. The wind whipped his coat around him, amplifying his imposing presence. Finally, he spoke, his voice calm yet imbued with an undeniable steel, a resolve that cut through the rising panic. "Retreat? Request backup?" A short, humorless laugh escaped his lips. "Private, look around you. Do you have any comprehension of our distance from G-3? By the time a message even reached them, and by the time any reinforcements could possibly arrive… well, let's just say the Bloodsucker would likely be long gone, perhaps after using these very decks as a canvas for our blood."
He turned to Sergeant Major Graves, the earlier contemplation replaced by a decisive glint in his eyes, a spark of unwavering resolve. "Prepare the cannons! Sound the alert! All hands to battle stations! We will not yield. We will stand and fight!"
"Aye, Captain!" Sergeant Major Graves roared, his earlier unease replaced by a grim determination that resonated through the deck. His booming commands echoed as he galvanized the Marines into action.
The ship jolted to life, the preceding calm shattered by the urgent cries of orders and the hurried footsteps of the Marines scrambling to prepare for the impending conflict. The air crackled with a palpable tension, thick with the anticipation of violence.
Captain Darius turned his sharp gaze towards me. "Lazarus!"
"Captain?" I responded, my own fear a cold knot in my stomach, rising with the adrenaline that now coursed through the ship.
"You are not a combatant," he stated, his voice firm but devoid of malice. "Your strengths lie elsewhere. When the fighting commences… I want you to find cover. Locate a secure place below deck. Remain out of sight until it concludes. That is your direct order."
"But Captain…" I began, a protest forming on my lips, a desperate urge to contribute, to prove my worth in this moment of crisis.
He cut me off with a stern look that brooked no argument. "That pistol is your last resort, Lazarus, should you be discovered. Your primary objective is survival. Do you understand?"
Hide? He wants me to hide? After this unexpected inclusion? A wave of disappointment washed over me, quickly followed by a stark, sobering realization. He was right. In a direct confrontation against pirates of the Bloodsucker's notorious reputation, I would be more of a burden than an asset. My clandestine training, my underdeveloped strength… they would be woefully inadequate.
"Understood, Captain," I conceded, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Good. Now go. And ensure your safety." He turned his attention back to the rapidly approaching pirate vessel, his face a mask of grim determination, his focus absolute.
I tucked the Flintlock Pistol securely into my belt and moved swiftly towards the hatch leading below deck, the sounds of the Marines preparing for the brutal engagement echoing around me. Hide. Survive. That was my assigned role in this unfolding drama. The thought left a bitter taste, but I knew, with a chilling certainty, that Captain Darius was giving me the only order he could, the one that offered the slim hope of my survival in the face of the terrifying storm that was about to engulf us.