#Kidd speaking | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thegreatcaptainusopp · 6 months ago

Text

The Separation

Ao3 link

The Seer

Summary: After their encounter with Kuma, the Straw Hats have been catapulted off to various islands around the world. What do they do, and how do they react? Set right after The Seer, second in The Strength of Truth series

Chapter 1: Brook

“Oh my,” Brook says, scratching his head. “Now, how on earth have I gotten myself in this situation?”

The group around him blinks up at him, shocked.

“If I may ask,” Brook says, scrabbling for the dregs of his politeness. “Who are you? And how did I get here?”

One moment, he had been celebrating. One moment, he’d pulled out his violin, his crew around him, suffused in the thrill of victory and relief of survival. One moment, he’d put bow to string, drawn out the first note to the sounds of his name, and then—

And then everything around him had vanished, faces of his new family winking out of existence, and he’d been on his back, sailing through the sky for days and days and days without knowing why or how or where he was going…

Well. Brook has been through a lot in his (un)life. He’s seen too much and too little all at once. He’d experienced the very depths of human loneliness and come out the other side with his good nature firmly intact, grasped at hard even with bony hands.

This? This may have broken him. Time will tell.

He looks back at the group. They stand around him in a circle, dressed in identical black robes, hoods thrown over half-shadowed faces. Despite that, Brook can still see their gawking expressions, mouths open, eyes wide.

That doesn’t bode well for him.

He waits a few more beats, counting the rests, hoping they can provide him with information. When the silence stretches a little longer, he breaks it on the fourth bar, clearing his (non existent) throat. “Excuse me,” He tries again, letting a bit of his desperation leak through. “Does any of you, perhaps, know about how and why I got here? I was pulled away from my people quite suddenly, and I need to get back to them as soon as possible, I’m afraid.”

His gaze ticks around the crowd, landing on a young woman who holds eye contact. Her eyes widen at the look, then dart down to Brook’s feet.

He glances down himself, sees the smoking remains of a symbol of some kind. “Ah,” He says, looking back up at the crowd. “Did you summon me here, perhaps?”

At his words, the crowd seems to react as one.

They surge forward, hoods falling back from their heads as they fall to their knees in front of him, bowing low. They all start babbling as one, but Brook can pick out a very distinct word, repeated again and again..

Satan.

Ah. Brook thinks, a sense of dread rising up in his chest. This may prove to be very troublesome indeed.

Brook, in fact, had not been wrong.

After numerous attempts to get the truth out of the group (which, to Brook, seem like some sort of cult), he thinks he can surmise a few conclusive details:

1. They think he is Satan, or a demon of some sort. Brook can use this, perhaps. For now, he will neither confirm nor deny his situation.

2. The cult (for it is, in fact, a cult) want to use him in sort of revenge plot. They had reached out in desperation, want to save their friends and family from some sort of rival group. And, well…Brook can’t fault them for that. He really can’t.

3. They have no idea about where he was, nor do they know what has become of his crew. This detail is a little bit more concerning.

4. Most concerning of all, however, is the fact that he still doesn’t know how he got here.

The cult seems to believe that they have summoned him. He can’t rule that firmly out of the realm of possibility, but they also believe he is Satan, so he can’t say he has a lot of trust in their ability to get the facts straight.

So, of all the facts swirling around in his skull, this is the one that stands out to him most, begging to be resolved. Because if he knows how he got here, he might know how the others are doing. Not knowing might just kill him (again), it really would. Just when he had gotten them. He cannot lose them (again). He cannot.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts by the cult leader, who looks up at him hopefully. “Please,” the man begs. “Please. Can you help us? We will give you anything you want.”

Brook considers this.

“I want to go back,” He says, finally. “I will help you save your people. Then, you will help me leave. I have other responsibilities I must attend to.”

He doesn’t know where to even start. But, if he can somehow make his way back to Sabaody, he can begin to find his way back to his crew. He has no skin, but he feels cold without them.

The cult leader nods enthusiastically. “Of course!” He says. “I’m certain you have duties beyond the realm of the understanding of us mere mortals. We will send you on your way right away afterwards.”

“Erm, of course,” Brook says. For the first time since he landed, his fingers tighten over this violin. He lifts it up. “I believe this calls for some—”

Something flutters out of his violin, sinking gently to the ground.

He lowers the violin, a frown (unseen) growing over his face. “Hmm,” He hums, matching his tone to the rattling of his bones. “Now what could this be?”

He stoops suddenly, making the cult jump back in surprise. Brook scoops up the item from the ground, holding it carefully in his hands, then freezes.

He knows what this is. But how…

Brook peers closer at the Vivre Card. He knows what these are, but he has never owned one. And yet, here one is, on his person.

A chill runs down his spine. He disappears, then reappears on an unknown island, with a foolproof navigational tool on him? Either he is extremely lucky, or is falling into the world’s most obvious trap.

However, no matter what this could lead to, he has no choice but to follow. If it means even a chance of getting back to his crew, he will do whatever it takes.

Brook tucks the card into a suit pocket for safekeeping. “Right!” He says again, patting his suit pocket twice. The cult members all flinch again, in unison. He lifts the violin to his chin. “This calls for some music!”

The cult leader raises a hand. “M-music, my lord of darkness?”

“Why, yes,” Brook says, playing a warm up arpeggio. “We’ll need music before go in there together, you know?”

He waits for a yohohoho, but finds that he can’t quite get it out.

“Together?” The leader replies, horrified. Brook doesn’t reply, taking a deep breath into his next song.

Things had gone hilariously off the rails, as they usually do. Brook really can’t complain, though. He has nobody to blame but himself.

It had seemed like a foolproof plan, at first. Get the cult to stand up for themselves and their loved ones, and then reorient their belief system to rely on themselves and their own actions. Why, they’d be so grateful to him, they’d let him go! Possibly provide him with a ship! The Longarm tribe would be so terrified of him, they would leave him alone and let him go. It was brilliant!

This was not what ended up happening, however.

Instead, Brook is sitting in a cage with the Longarms, who peer down at him with a mix of curiosity and trepidation. “We can sell it off,” One of them says, tapping at his chin. “We could probably make a killing off of it. It’s a very unique specimen.”

“Not at all,” Brook says, waving his arms. “I’m quite an average deceased individual, I’m afraid. Not worth much. I’ll just get out of your hair, and then maybe—”

“You can talk,” The enterprising Longarm interrupts him. “Which is very much not average. You’re staying here.”

Brook feels panic beat at his ribs like a drum. It’s out of rhythm, and gives him a headache. “But..”

“No buts,” The man snaps. He reaches in his belt, grabbing a sheaf of papers and tossing them in the cage. “Read this, maybe it’ll occupy your time, and your babble.”

Brook doesn’t reach out to take the paper. The bars of the cage feel like they’re closing in on him, and he doesn’t have the capability to be boxed in anymore. He doesn’t. He can’t.

The bars seem to dip further, things in his sight getting hazier. His breathing (breathing? He breathes?) stutters once, twice, then—

Luffy’s face springs into his mind, unbidden. The large smile, even in his imagination, is enough to calm him.

He shakes his head, hair bouncing, hat swiveling. “Pull yourself together, Brook!” He chastises himself. “Losing your head, at your age! You will never be alone again, he promised you that. You will see them again. Now, what are you going to do about it?”

He hears someone whisper “It’s talking to itself,” before he reaches out, grabbing the paper. May as well occupy himself for now, while he thinks of a plan. They’ll wait for him, if they’re still there. He knows they will.

He flips open the paper, grounding himself with the news. His eyes trip over the headlines…ah, it seems they’re reporting on the war already. Maybe he’ll get to see more details, ones he hadn’t witnessed in person…

He turns the page, considering, then pauses.

He blinks (without eyelids), and a smile (without lips) breaks out over his face.

Brook leaps up, lifting the paper aloft in excitement! “Yes!” He cackles, shaking it in the air, elation hitting him with a thump. “Of course! I knew it, I knew you were alright! Aye-aye, Captain! Aye-aye!” He takes a deep breath, then, laughs from the pit of his soul “Yohohohohohoho!”

He looks back down to see the crowd of Longarms staring at him in confusion.

“Oh, my new friends!” Brook says, twirling his newspaper back down. “What a wonderful day we find ourselves in! Meeting new people is always such a joyous thing, don’t you think?”

The Longarms continue to stare at him, baffled. Fear seems to creep into some of the scattered expressions.

Brook tears at the newspaper, carefully folding the scrap and tucking it in his pocket, next to the Vivre card. “Now,” Brook says, picking his violin off his belt, lifting the bow alongside it. “Who would like to hear some music?”

The Longarms continue to stare at him as he opens his mouth, finally completing the note that he had started all the way back in Sabaody.

Over the next few days, Brook plans.

Well. Plans and plays, thoughtfully fingering the notes as he gets his thoughts in order. Because, well. He has the time now, doesn’t he? He can sit and plan and consider what to do during this time, because it’ll be so long…Oh, well. He’s waited longer before, much longer.

The others…he doesn’t know if they’re together or not, but he hopes they don’t get even a whiff of the past loneliness that he’s experienced before. Some of them, all of them really, are still so young. And poor Usopp, who had recently had a huge change of circumstances, needs stability and support now more than ever…

Brook shakes his head again, plucking out some staccato notes. No need to fall into despair when it’s unnecessary! All he can do now is figure out what he can do in the meantime, how he can come back better, improved. What can he do, then? What skills does he have that most benefit the crew?

“Excuse me?” Brought out of his thoughts, he finished the phrase before putting his violin down, pinning the Longarm who had talked to him earlier with a look.

“Yes?” He asks, eyebrows raising (spiritually, yohohoho!). The sudden politeness is surprising, and more than a little suspicious.

“Well,” the Longarm says, shifting nervously. “We were speaking…the rest of us, and all. Do you…do you play much?”

Brook looks down at his violin. “As a matter of fact,” He says, feeling generous. “I do. My role in my crew is musician, and I take it very seriously and gratefully every day. Music is the soul of life, you know.”

The Longarm doesn’t seem moved by his words, but he seems interested. “Say,” He says, cocking his head to the side. His eyes sparkle with…something, some nebulous intention. “What kind do music do you play?”

Usopp flashes through his mind briefly, what music do you like? “I play everything,” Brook replies, “Everything you could possibly think of.”

“Hm,” The Longarm says, eyes sparkling again. “How are you with rock music?”

The Longarms plan seems to have changed on a dime. Brook learns that this group seems to be largely profit driven, following whatever road will take them to the most money. And, it seems, they have determined that he will be more profitable with them than away from them.

Nami would’ve been proud, he thinks.

The Longarm who’d been talking to, Sancrin, had declared his intention to become his manager and, in time, make him a star. “It’ll be an investment,” Sancrin had informed him through the bars of his cage. “You’ll need to work hard, especially at the start. But if we work together, I think this could be a very fruitful partnership. And with a very big payout by the end.”

Brook hadn’t had to think too hard about accepting. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity, after all! And, he could use it to improve himself…he’s the ship’s musician, is he not? And so, he should improve his musical abilities.

He sticks out a bony hand through the bars. “Deal. We should discuss terms, though.”

An unsettling grin spreads over Sancrin’s face. He grasps Brook’s hand, giving it a solid shake. “That we will,” He says. “Welcome to the team.”

It takes them a few days, but they work out what Brook thinks is a fairly good deal.

Sure, they don’t let him out of his cage until it’s done, but that’s fine. He has the time, and it’s all fine now. He has a goal, and a direction, and an order to follow.

Then, he meets the team.

He has not one, not two, but three managers. Sancrin is head of his team, with final say on all matters. Eryu is head of styling, music, and his brand and marketing. Jiryu is in charge of the financial end: budget, logistics, and merchandise.

Well. Brook knows why they insisted upon a 70/30 split for profits now.

“Do we really need a team for this?” He asks, during their fourth official meeting. “I haven’t even released a single song yet.”

“We need to be prepared,” Sancrin says. “We’re going to hit the ground running. The minute we have the music, we’re going to market this heavily, and we’re going to do a tour to recoup the costs.”

“A tour?” Brook asks, baffled. “Already?”

Sancrin shrugs. “That’s what makes the most money with musical acts,” He says. “And it can be done. Ticket sales, merchandise? But we need to get started on this now. Can you have a set of songs done by the end of the week?”

“Yes,” Brook says, tuning into the music in his head. “Yes, I can.”

Eryu tells him they’re going to make him a rockstar.

Brook can’t argue that, nor can he contain his excitement at the prospect. It will take a lot of work, but this is the work he was made for. Finally putting the music is in head down on the page, making it a concrete oeuvre? It’s brilliant. He will return to his crew a more developed musician, and that’s all he can ask for.

However, there is more to becoming a rock star than the music, as he is quick to discover.

“Let’s talk about the image,” Sancrin says, and Brook wants to throw his head out of the window to escape the never ending conversation.

“Can’t hurt to go with the classics,” Eryu says, steepling his fingers together. “Leather jacket and pants, motorcycle, fire imagery. Plus, he’s a skeleton, so the aesthetics would fit perfectly.”

“It’s predictable, though,” Sancrin argues. “That’s what everyone’s expecting with a skeleton as the star. We need something new, something fresh.”

“Something cheap,” Jiryu pipes up.

Brook feels a headache begin to thunder through his skull. “Gentlemen,” He begins. “We won’t need much, really, just…”

“Anyway,” Sancrin says, interrupting. “We’ll need to decide on this first before we do any concept art, so this has to happen ASAP. Because…”

Brook tugs at his still meticulous afro. The din is giving him a headache, and he tugs and tugs and tugs until…

There’s a small cracking sound, and his Afro suddenly follow his hand, flopping with it to the other side of his head.

There’s a sudden silence, and Brook sees all three faces turn in his direction and stay there, eyes wide, mouths agape. There’s a sound like creaking hinges, and Brook realizes he’s holding…he’s holding part of his skull. He has opened his skull like a lid.

Brook eeps, swinging his head shut again in a panic. It clicks back into place, and he feels whole again. That was…that was…

Experimentally, he pulls at his head again. This time, it comes easier: the movement is smooth, with minimal creaking. And again, he’s holding his head open, skull exposed to the elements.

He looks at his audience, who are still staring at him with rapt attention. Well. Might as well take advantage of the fact that he finally has an audience.

Brook clears his throat. “I have a solution,” He says, voice echoing out from his open skull. “I don’t suppose you have any heart shaped sunglasses available, do you? And I had been considering a feather boa…”

A few weeks later, Brook wakes up.

Not literally. Brook had, of course, been doing his regular sleep (like the dead, of course…yohohoho) and waking up to the grind of his new and temporary career, as always.

No, instead, Brook had woken up to the reality of his situation. He’d been worrying over the bridge of one of his songs, going back-and-forth on whether or not to commit to the key change, before being struck with his revelation.

The string of his violin falls from nerveless (even more so than usual) fingers onto the sheets of music on the table while a concerning truth blunder its way into his mind:

This is not enough.

Because, frankly, it is not. He is the crew musician, yes. But being a better musician would not have stopped what had happened earlier. He doesn’t know how, or why, but he knows that improving his musicals skills would not have prevented his disappearance, nor whatever it is that had happened after that to bring him here. And, to make sure that it never happens again, he has to get better. Not just at music, but at…something, anything.

Better combat skills might suffice. He can work on his swordsmanship…he’s not the ship’s main swordsman, yes, but surely getting to improve would benefit the crew during battle…

There’s also the matter of his devil fruit.

Brook had been told, then witnessed, Luffy activating different gears of his devil fruit. He has seen Robin’s versatility in using hers, and Chopper’s ability to manipulate his transformations to serve his purposes.

If they can do it, why not him?

Surely there is more to it than this. He has immortality, yes. But there must be more to it than that. He has speed and a lightness on his feet, yes. But that is a matter of being dead, not of the devil fruit itself. Because, at the base of it all, his devil fruit did not affect his body, like it did for Luffy and Chopper and Robin.

No, Brook’s devil fruit affected his soul. His soul was what had lived, what had gone searching for his body after he had died. And that has to mean something, right?

His recent skull discovery has only made him more determined to actually try now, to embrace all of what he is. His crew needs it. He has to push himself, explore everything he can do.

And this means. Well. This means he’ll have to try to go back to that moment. The moment that he had died.

There’s almost nothing Brook wants to do less. What if it doesn’t work? What if it does work, and he gets stuck? What if it takes him decades to get back to himself again? He doesn’t have the time. He can’t do that again. His crew needs him.

He’s not going to kill himself, obviously. That would not be particularly helpful. But maybe…maybe he’d be able to figure out how to move out of his body on his own, without death.

Brook reaches down into himself. His reaches past the surface thoughts in his head, past the music still trailing around his head, past the physical sensations that echo around in his being, down and down and down until he hits…something.

He thinks be brave and then pulls, trying to coax the core of himself deep down up and out to the surface, scrabbling against the fear and natural response and his own soul trying to slot himself back where it belongs.

He keeps pulling and pulling and pulling and then…

And then something pops and he hears a jumble of bones collapse, and he’s not looking down at the table anymore. He’s looking down at himself, prone on the table, arm stretched and hand dangling over the side.

His (soul) mouth just about drops open. He’s done it. He’s done it.

Brook looks back down, and the memory of his reincarnation comes thundering back. Panicking, he moves (he can move!) and shoots back towards his body. His senses reorient and suddenly he’s staring down at the dark wood of the table again. He shoots up in place with a gasp, holding his hands out in from of him and moving each finger individually.

Everything’s working. He’s fine, it’s fine. He’s back.

Brook collapses back into his seat. It had worked. He had controlled his soul on command! Now, it may hav been too much now, but he can experiment with this, he can see—

“Hey,”

Brook’s soul nearly leaps back out of his bones at Sancrin’s entrance. The Longarm hesitates as he enters Brook’s space, frowning at him. “Are you staring off into the distance? We have a time crunch here!”

Brook shakes his head. “Yes,” He says. He declines to mention his breakthrough. “I’m almost done, there’s just a little tweak I have to make.”

“Well, make it,” Sancrin sits down across from him, tapping his fingers on the table. “And we still need your name. We can’t move forward without your stage name.”

“I told you I—”

“And I told you,” Sancrin interrupts. “We can’t use your name, or epithet. This is a rebrand. We need something new.”

Brook thinks about it for a second. “And you’re sure you’ll be able to get my name out to the entire world?”

Sancrin snorts. “That’s the whole point of this operation.”

Brook grins internally, as always. Perfect.

“Soul King.”

Sancrin frowns at him. “What?”

“My name,” Brook says. Maybe he can get out a message to his crew this time. “Soul King Brook. There you go. This way, we can use that crown too…”

It takes Brook two months to finish his album. It takes his team two weeks to get a distribution deal.

He can’t help but be impressed. They really had known what they were talking about when they had presented him with the deal.

They tell him to wait, and he does. He waits, he practices his music, and he trains.

Sometimes, he trains with the sword. He’s not the crew’s main swordsman, no, but he can’t let his skills get rusty either.

The Longarms are interested in his sword practice. In between bouts of fighting with distributors and getting deals, they sit in silence and watch him run through his fencing drills with the same interest and intensity that they show his music.

Brook is gratified with the attention. He sees his sword as an extension of his musicality: his sword fighting style is half dance, half technique, all deadly: it’s part of the performance that makes up the Brook-ness of himself, and he tends to overlook it more than he should.

A few weeks in, he sees the three of them in a huddle right outside his workspace. He ignores them, trying to focus on running though his exercises. He still doesn’t fully trust them, probably never well, so seeing all three of them scheming is enough to rattle his bones.

He soon hears them approach him, with Sancrin interrupting his set with a “Hey, Soul King!”

Brook stops, moving to sheath his sword. “What is it?” He asks, trying to hide his suspicions.

“Stop,” Sancrin says, pointing at Soul Solid. “Keep that out for a moment.”

Brook hesitates, but obliges. His bony fingers grip the sword tightly, but he keeps it in his hand, unsheathed.

Sancrin moves to Soul Solid, lifting it and eyeing it critically. “Good sword,” He comments. “We could use this as part of your brand, you know.”

“Good,” Brook says, jovial. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Sancrin eyes him suspiciously. “Hm,” He says, then “Needs sharpening, though. Give that over, and it’ll be sharper than the day it was given to you.”

Brook’s fingers tighten further. “It’s plenty sharp as is,” He comments. “Why, it’s so sharp, in fact, that—”

“Save it for the show,” Sancrin interrupts. He lets go of Soul Solid. “We’re well known for swords, you know. Look at any single one of our blades. They’re sharp. You’re representing us, so your sword needs to reflect that.”

Brook ponders this a moment. Their swords are sharp. And if he could give Soul Solid an upgrade, then, well…

“Fine,” Brook says. He keeps his hand on this sword. “I accept your generous offer. However, I would like to follow and see the process, if permitted. I do not wish to be parted from my sword, I’m afraid.”

Sancrin seems to wrestle with this for a moment. “Fine,” He concedes, gesturing for Brook to follow. “On the way, I have to run some ideas by you. What’s your limit when it comes to stage lightning, and do you overheat easily?”

Of course, sword fighting isn’t the only thing that Brook works on while he waits.

In the dead of the night, and in the quiet moments, he also works on his soul control.

At first, he starts by testing his range. It turns out he can go pretty far, so he spends some time wandering, exploring the immediate surroundings, and getting a good picture of the Longarms territory. He also finds out he can pass through objects with ease, which is also extremely useful.

Jiryu had told them that they would be leaving soon. Four months in, and his music had already already spread across the grand line, or so he’s told. He hopes it’s reached his crew, wherever they are. He hopes hearing him can bring them comfort.

He spends the time he has before setting sail again to anchor his body and allow his soul to wander further and further, testing his limits. He learns pretty quickly that his wandering soul is like his wandering body, and doesn’t come with a special or innate sense of direction. And so, he needs to pay attention or he could lose his body and that wouldn’t be good for anyone involved, would it?

Brook thinks it’s a good thing that Zoro had not eaten his devil fruit. If so, he probably never would’ve been able to find his way back to his body.

Regardless, this new development will surely be a useful one. This way, if he ever gets separated from the crew again, he can search for them whenever he likes. In the future, he’ll be able to find them again, and that’s all that matters.

He tries even now, sometimes. Sometimes, he feels himself begin to wander further than intended, trying to see if he can see a familiar face, before catching himself and feeling himself back in.

Six months in, and they’ve gathered enough funds to be able to officially start the tour. Brook bids farewell to the Longarm tribe and sets off with his three managers, a smile on his skull and a yohohoho playing in his heart. He’s one step closer now.

Sancrin, Eryu, and Jiryu tell him that they’re doing an official tour of the Grand Line. Minus the new world, of course. They simply don’t have the funds to insure a show in the new world. This suits Brook just fine…he doesn’t want to go there without his crew anyway.

Brook had always dreamed of being star, what musician child didn’t? But actually seeing it happen in front of him, walking up backstage to prepare for a performance and hearing the murmurs of thousands of people…fans, actual fans? Well. It’s enough to make even a nonexistent heart soar.

It also makes him think of another aspect of stardom. “Say,” He asks Sancrin, twirling his bow in his hands. “Would you say that there’s a lot of ladies out there in the crowd?”

Sancrin gives him glare. “Of course,” He says. “You’re a rock star, aren’t you?”

Brook lifts his bow high into the air. “Oh,” He says. “This is going to be fun!”

Nine months in, and Brook is a star.

His life consists of constant travel, stop after stop, with his free time being eaten up by practice with his music and his sword and his soul, still wandering, still testing, still searching.

Brook is exhausted. But it’s a good exhaustion, one that pushes at him and says do better get better be better. This is what he’s needed all along.

Still. Every night, he searches the crowds, hoping to see a familiar face. He never does, but he searches anyway.

When he finds one, it’s not at all what he expected.

They’re getting closer to Sabaody now, slowly but surely coming up to the destination of the tour’s final stop. Brook had made that part of the deal with his team, had insisted on it. They hadn’t put up too much of a fuss, which doesn’t bode well for him. He can only wait and see what that could lead to.

As such, he’s considerably more tense and also more excited as he heads into tonight’s concert. He does his usual pre-show “meditation” (aka, some soul wandering, examining the crowd) but he isn’t expecting anything. He takes great care to search though, coming closer than he’s ever dared, trying to find ways to stay as invisible as possible while still getting a good look…

He passes over a face, and pauses, right in the middle of a tree trunk. He slowly backs back up, trying to get a better view without being too conspicuous. It’s not someone he knows, but…the face, it’s familiar, it’s…

He flips through his memories, trying to place the face below him, and—

Ah.

An image floats up to the forefront of his mind: a wanted poster with a crazed grin and a feral stare, pinning the viewer with a look of disdain and violence.

He makes his way back to his body, sitting back up. Sancrin jumps in surprise. “Well,” He says. “That didn’t take you long this time.”

“Hm,” Brook says, considering. “I was thinking, Sancrin. I’ve heard tell that there’s a famous pirate out in the crowd today.”

He can practically feel Sancrin’s ears perk up. “Oh?”

“If you don’t mind,” Brook says. “Can you ask him to meet me backstage after the show? I so would like to speak with him.”

“Well…” Sancrin frowns, clearly thinking it through. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt at this stage. What, with you being dead already and all. Which pirate is it again?”

Brook taps a bony finger on his guitar. “Kid,” He says. “Captain Eustass Kid.”

Captain Kid is simultaneously exactly what Brook expected and not at all what Brook expected.

For one, he actually deigns to show up: Brook had anticipated a fight, had been a bit worried that he had committed some sort of offense, but…

But instead, Captain Kid saunters in after the show like he owns the place, all swagger and confidence and an air of being ready to snap into danger at any second. He’s trailed by another man in a blue and white mask and a shock of blond hair. Even though his face is hidden, Brook can practically sense the resigned expression that practically radiates from him.

That’ll be the first mate then. Excellent.

Brook, as his role as the host, speaks first. “Captain Kid,” He says, slowly rising to his feet. “How wonderful to see you attend one of my shows. You’ve made quite the name for yourself already.”

Kid practically preens at the words. “Sure,” He says, voice gruff and clearly attempting to maintain a cool exterior. “We’re on our way out, you know. To the New World. Why not catch one final performance before we go?”

“I’m honored,” Brook says, taking a seat on a rickety plastic chair near the back, carrying for them to do the same. “I hadn’t known my reputation had preceded me to this degree.”

Kid struggles to fit in the offered chair, but manages with a few awkward turns. “Rock is a dying art,” He responds. “Always good to keep it alive!”

Brook eyes (without eyes) Kid again, taking note of the fur, the nails, the headwear. He can certainly appreciate someone with a good sense of aesthetic.

The first mate sighs audibly. “Captain,” He says. “We’ve said our hellos. We’ve seen him. Let’s go.”

“Shut up Killer,” Kid says, and Brook tries not to let his knees knock. His name is Killer? “Anyway, there’s a reason I’ve accepted his invitation to talk.” And here, Kid pins him with a fiery glance. “You belong on that Straw Hat’s crew, don’t you?”

Ah. He had caught on quite quickly. “Yes indeed,” Brook says. “So, I believe my purposes in asking for this meeting are quite clear.”

Kid raises an eyebrow. “Of course,” He says. “Tell me, though.”

Doesn’t seem like he had known after all. “Well,” Brook says. “I’m not with them at the moment, but I’ll be meeting back with my crew somewhere down the line. I’d like to return to them with a formal notice of an alliance between our two crews, if possible.”

There’s a monetary pause before Kid throws his head back in a sharp bark of laughter. “And why should we do that?” He guffaws. “We’re after the same thing, you know. He and I. Why should two private captains chasing the same treasure form an alliance?”

“Excellent question,” Brook says, for that had indeed been one, and he really doesn’t have an answer for it. “I hear you’re both rookies. Would it not be beneficial to have someone in the same position as you as, if not a friendly face, at least a cordial one? There will be enough enemies in the New World as is without adding anyone from this side of the Grand Line too.”

“You think you’ll be—” Kid begins, voice rising, only to be interrupted by his first mate.

“Captain,” the first mate, Killer, cuts in. “Let’s hear him out,” Then, to Brook. “What would be in it for us? You’d only get in the way of our Captain’s goals.”

“Yeah!” Kid says, pointing at Killer. “What he said! Why should I do that?”

Brook shrugs. “It doesn’t have to be friendly,” He says. “Just…mutually beneficial. No shooting to kill, just the understanding that we both let each other go on our way unless there’s a direct challenge to the other captain’s goals.”

Kid looks back to Killer. “Why should I do that?” He repeats, eyebrows raising higher.

Oh, he’s just looking for an excuse now! Brook thinks, suddenly irate.

“Can’t hurt,” Killer muses. “One less person directly targeting us would be a help. It’s quite a tame agreement, all things considered.”

Kid suddenly guffaws again. “Fine,” He tells Brook. “Not like Straw Hat is going to be much of a threat anyway. Fine. Pass on the message to him, then…we won’t engage unless you get in our way.”

Brook grins wide on the inside. Won’t this be a nice welcome back present for the crew? “It’s a deal, then,” He says. “I’ll report this back to my captain. He’s honorable, he’ll keep his promises.”

“He better,” Kid grumbles. He makes to stand up. “That all?”

“No,” Brook says. “One more question. Have you ever heard of Haki?”

Kid snorts. “Heard of it?” He asks. “I’m a master of it.”

“In that case,” Brook says, patting at the sword in the sheath in his side. “If I may trouble you in asking you for a few pointers…how are your skills in Armament Haki?”

“Favor for favor,” Kid counters. “If I’m going to help you, I’ll need something in return.”

What could Brook possibly give—Ah.

“That’s fair,” Brook concedes. “How about this, then. I’ll give you and your crew another free concert right here, right now, in exchange for pointers. Free of charge.”

“Well,” Killer begins, before Lid jumps right back into the fray.

“Must have a high opinion of your music,” Kid begins, a gleam in his eye. “Exchanging my advice for something like that? Really?”

Brook has lived for too long to not recognize a bluff for what it is. “If that’s the case,” He begins. “Concert is off the table completely. How about—”

“Hey,” Kid interrupts. “Wait. You know what? I wanted some music. Play the set again, with a few extra thrown in. Then we’ll talk.”

“Pointers first,” Brook begins hopefully? “Concern last? That way you can drink til you pass out.”

“Was going to do that anyway,” Kid grumbles. “But fine. Now, just watch what I do—”

The tour goes by in flashes of color and sound and training and practice. Months pass in a blur, and then a year, and then he finds himself back on the ship, chugging along to the last stop of the tour. He’s parked at the front of ship, where he usually is when he’s not working, staring out at the water and hoping to catch sight of land.

Sabaody gets closer and closer, and Brook can practically taste it, feel the breeze of the archipelago in his curls. He glances back down at the card in his pocket, sees that it’s following the same direction that he’s going, that he has been going ever since the tour had begun.

He’s right. The card, whatever it may be for, is leading him towards Sabaody. And he knows in the depths of his wandering soul that his crew will be there too, waiting.

It’s all come to this now. He can plan a thousand things, come up with a thousand ways to ditch his increasingly shifty managers, think of a thousand greetings he can yell at his crew, dream up a thousand songs he can sing to them when he sees them again.

That’ll all come soon. But for now, Brook throws his arms out in the air, welcoming the sounds to the sea that drive the music in his heart, and laughs: “Yohohohoho!”

Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6

#one piece #op #speaks #brook #soul king brook #one piece fic #one piece fanfic #eustass kid #eustasscaptainkid #one piece eustass #eustass captain kidd

11 notes · View notes

tiamatwrites · 4 days ago

Text

Daddy's Little Monsters

A/N: This one is winding up to be Long, so this is probably the best to start with. Sidenote: You're gonna figure out really quickly where our blog name came from with this one, so enjoy that. TW: Swearing included, non-graphic alcohol consumption and violence towards the end, proceed as needed. Just as a heads up: this one is one of the ones that could get dark later on. It's not likely, but there is a chance. We'll do our best to keep on top of warnings for each part.

Part 1

Evelyn’s pov

The car is fucking loud. Somehow, I notice it better in the daytime, when I’m driving at speed for eight hours with my sister bitching in the passenger seat. I adore my car, I do, but Doc is not subtle. Normally that works in my favour, but today? After almost eight hours of highways and freeways and other cars? It’s irking me. Admittedly, everything is irking me at the moment. Everything from the curls that have come loose to sit around my eyes when I check my rear view mirror to merge, to the brightness of the sky overhead, to the sound of Fiore continuing to have an issue with the upholstery of Doc's seats.

“So have you figured out where I’m gonna drop you off yet?” I ask, cutting through the new round of complaints about the comfort of the leather seats. As though I had the time to put the seat covers on this morning when she was snarling and spitting and hissing like a feral cat. She pauses in the tirade to glance down at her unlocked phone, Carmine eyes scanning over messages between her and one of Whitebeard’s people, filling her in on the half a dozen fights set for tonight in our desired city.

She twirls a piece of hair around her finger as if she hadn't just been threatening to skin my car. It’s bright orange as if it’d been dyed with the morning sun, and the dark brown closer to the roots looked like it was growing out, but no many how many times she'd cut it, the ends would be orange come the morning. “I’m thinking the one out in the dockyards. You know, with the warehouses?” But she'd always been able to turn heards, Ignoring the almost white golden fox ears sprouting from her head and the nine tails to accompany them. “I remember.” I nod. Of course I did; one of the first fights we’d attended, though just as a spectator, was at those docks. Gramps always spent a decent chunk on gambles when they were hosted there, and Dad had still been trying to get him to quit it when we’d left. “Tell me which warehouse I’m dropping you off at so I’m ignorant. And don’t get caught.” “I’m not an idiot, Slut bag.” “I know, but it bears reminding.” I mutter. “You know as well as I do that it’s one of the favourites.” She rolls her eyes, folds her arms and turns away from me, “Whatever.”

I have never felt more like our father. Not a great way to feel, honestly. Far too depressing. “Fi, the warehouse?” “Seventeen,” She snaps, sharp teeth bared in mock warning.

The drive is quiet from then on, at least for a while.

•°•°•❈•°•°•

We make it into the city, and more importantly to the warehouse, before the sun is fully down. Fiore grabs her to-go bag that has all the shit she needs and climbs out silently. Before she can slam the door shut, I lean over and grab it, looking out at her with a half assed glare. She has her tails on display, a writhing mess of fluffy white-silver-grey behind her, and her ears poke up from the loose hair that sits around her face. I know that she’s been picking at her claws for hours, but she won’t let them scratch up the car. “Hey. Kick their asses. Don’t end up in the morgue.” She grins, her teeth all sharp and dangerous, “Of course. And don’t tell me what to do.” I roll my eyes, “Sure Fi, go win yourself some money or whatever.” The door is closed before I sit back up properly, and she is inside the warehouse, probably going to register for at least half a dozen fights, or one particularly brutal one, depending on how she feels.

I leave as soon as she’s out of sight. Longer than I’m meant to stay, but not long enough to attract too much attention. It’s an easy enough task to navigate my way through the familiar streets, deeper into the city, and then back out the other side again, even in the falling darkness. The houses in the suburbs all almost look the same, the lawns still evenly cut, the bushes and trees all still perfectly manicured. When I get to the one I'm looking for, I’m struck by how familiar it is, how I could almost step out of my car and walk back in time to the days after my graduation. The rose bushes were starting to bud, and the flowers would probably come out soon, the trees had been trimmed and were also starting to flower. The porch light is off, which means that my parents aren’t home yet, and I honestly can’t be bothered with waiting for them, so I park on the grass, before reaching back to grab my own to-go bag, electing to leave my and Fiore's main bags for now, and make my way to the ivy trellis attached to the back of the house.

Climbing the trellis was something Fiore and I only tried once or twice in highschool before we worked out that it was easier to steal the keys and plan to get back once our parents were asleep. I grab the key we’d made for ourselves from under one of the pots beside the doors and unlock the balcony doors. They open to a bedroom coloured with forest green fabric on mahogany furniture, with pale yellow accents. It’s beautiful, tasteful, but it’s nothing compared to the way that the claimed bedrooms of the house are decorated. Returning the key to its place before stepping in and then closing the doors behind me and locking them again, I turn to go to my room and a bed that I can collapse into without being unceremoniously woken up. My room is the same familiar mess of aquas and creams that I left it, though it’s thankfully clear of dust, and my shelves are still tidy, even if my father hated the way I stacked the books. My desk has been tidied, which I might have to fix later, but it is clean and the wood looks like it’s been polished which is a pleasant surprise. The closet and draws are also all closed and I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d been tidied up as well. I don’t move to check the bathroom, as I have no desire to move further than I have to. I don’t bother with changing or even stripping, I simply kick off my shoes and flop onto the bed, pulling the crocheted blanket at the end up over me and letting myself drift to sleep.

•°•°•❈•°•°•

Fiore’s pov

To nobody’s surprise, and especially not my own, the docks smell like shit. I beat my fist on the door until a bouncer answers– he smells like sugar. Donuts. Sharp eyes and purple hair. Odd, but not unexpected in these parts. Not odd enough to be a signature. “What's the password?” he sounds like he could be more bothered to be there, but isn’t. “Let me the fuck in, is the password.”

He pauses, before slamming the slider for the hole in the door shut. I start to kick it, hard enough to dent, before he opens it again. “What’s the password?” he repeats, sounding vaguely more interested in my presence than before. Funny that being a defiant shit tends to get that reaction. “Ever heard of Tiamat?” I ask, stepping back and crossing my arms. The tails and ears may look for show, but they do the intimidation tactic well. The man raises a brow, “Haven't heard that name in a while. What’s got you down here?” I make no attempt to hide my growing impatience. “What do you think, asshole? Let me in or I’m going to kick down this fucking door.” “Alright, alright… Miss Tiamat.” he closes the slider, before opening the door. Tall, didn't expect him to be that tall.

“Right, thank you,” I say, walking inside. Must be one of Big Mom’s boys. It makes sense, given that she runs most of these places. It’s dark inside, as they all are, dimly lit with warm yellow lights. The patronage is nothing to write home about– old men who get off on the violence and the betting, young men who want to prove themselves in the next fight, and middle aged women who want to pay for a rough night with the hottest fighters.

I turn back to the bouncer, “tell me, who’s the best fighter here tonight?” “The best fighter, Miss? Well, for the younger men–” “I’m not looking for a fuck, asshole,” I snap, “set me up against the best fighter you’ve got here tonight.” He pauses, an amused expression on his face. “Very well, Miss.”

I walk away, towards the ring that the patrons had circled around, the sound of flesh striking flesh echoing with the hollering of the crowd. I follow the sound, face schooled into its regular scowl. This wasn’t impressive, compared to the ones I'd seen in Whitebeard’s territory. Haruta had been fucking ridged about that shit, and there’d still managed to be full-to-the-brim venues every time. I slip past a pair of men, peering into the fight. A scrawny looking younger man, and a built up man, probably in his thirties. Neither look as though they'd be the best of the night, though the older one looks worn, like he does this for a living.

It takes about half an hour until I'm called on– which I spend finding the bar. A bar at a warehouse? More likely than you’d think. I’m two drinks in before a tall, masked man approaches. Muscled, long blonde hair– I’m fighting this guy? “You’re Tiamat?” he asks. “Asked for the strongest fighter here? He’s ready.” Fucking finally. “Great. So it’s not you, then?” I remain leaning against the bar, chin propped up on my palm. “No ma’am. You’ll be against my boss. Kidd Eustass.” I raise a brow. “Never heard of him.” “Must be new to the city, ma’am.”

He escorts me to the ring, offering no new information about his supposedly well known boss. If Dad never mentioned it, I'm sure this guy is just up his ass about himself. When I step into the ring, I see the opposition. A monolith of a man, with a– “I’m not fighting a fucking cripple.” “And I’m supposed to fight some mite-sized prissy cunt who’s too big for her damn britches?” I pause for a long moment. Before bursting out laughing. “Oh, I'm gonna kill you.”

•°•°•❈•°•°•

Third pov

The fight begins with a bang. Literally. Kidd hits the ground as Fiore tackles him, and he manages to grab her by the ankle, slamming her into the wooden floor. Once the two are up again, it’s blow after blow. A broken nose on Kidd’s end and a broken rib on Fiore’s. Both are grinning wildly, exchanging one vulgar insult for the other. “You look like your mother half swallowed.” “You look like you dance on poles for a living.” The crowd is laughing as if it’s a comedy show– and the middle aged women look like they’re taking hits of second hand embarrassment. Which is fucking hilarious, because Fiore’s pretty sure that was a compliment. Killer’s right up at the barricade, more curious than ever because he can see that his boss isn’t pulling his punches but is intentionally missing vital spots. He can see that Tiamat is doing the same– hitting spots that’ll bruise, visibly. God he wants to leave, this place is full of a vomiting amount of sexual tension.

Fiore manages to get her arms around Kidd from behind, knees in his back so he can’t get her off. He gets increasingly agitated the less he can breathe. So he taps out.

He.

Taps.

Out.

The crowd goes silent.

Fiore jumps off him, dusting her hands off as if touching the man had disgusted her. Kidd watches her with his usual scowl. “What’s your name?” he asks, rubbing his throat with his flesh hand. “Why do you care?” she responds, a smirk on her pink lips. “You just kicked my ass, little girl.”

She simply gives him finger guns, and walks away.

#one piece #eustass kidd #killer #charlotte katakuri #modern au #mafia au #original character #self-insert characters #non graphic violence #alcohol mention #swearing warning #Fiore has the Kitsune DF #Liberties taken with Kitsune DF #Fiore is insane #personally speaking I adore her #Evelyn is just Tired #she'll get over it #one piece fanfiction #one piece fic

4 notes · View notes