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Little Sister
Aug. 23rd, 2014 09:18 pm It was pleasant to be out on her own, without a guide or guard or awkward Nakama to deal with. The trip to Sabaody took her only a week from where she left Shanks and his crew on Dawn Island. Most of the time was spent swiftly sailing over the Calm Balt, with a few stops to swim and catch something to eat. Shanks had generously left her ketch's hold filled with barrels of rum, and neglected anything resembling food.
Their sparse letters over the last two years hadn't set a specific date for their reunion, so Little Sister wasn't sure if she'd be early, or late, and couldn't quite bring herself to worry over it. Brother could take care of himself after all, hopefully by now he'd figured out she could do the same, and wouldn't stress himself grayer.
Her hair was awkwardly shoved in her hoodie, trailing loosely out the bottom hem to tickle her knees and she promised herself for the thousandth time in two years that she'd cut it all off. Shanks was a great fan of fun and games, one of the earliest he'd taken to heart being 'slice Sisters hair ties'. She'd run out some time after six months, resorting to stealing from Ben, then when that failed, to improvising with leather, ribbon, assorted plant life... Eventually she gave up and focused on more important matters, but the lack of her lifelong braid made her feel... naked. Vulnerable. Angry.
The fact she hadn't cut it all off to feel more in control was simply another mark in their ever escalating game of pissing each other off.
The outfit was another 'gift' from Shanks. She'd woken one morning to find there were no other clothes available, and it was wear the offering or go about naked in front of an entire crew of Admiral level pirates. None of them women. Most perverts.
She'd gone naked for a week until *someone* broke, her clothes never returning but a new, slightly less offensive set of garments offered in a compromise that reeked of a blood truce. The white pleated skirt was shorter than anything she would have chosen for herself, and the top was obviously stolen from some noble daughters school uniform, a sailor collar and bow and sea-green skipper stripes. She purchased the hoodie to help delay the inevitable recognition from her bounty poster and went barefoot rather than try the knee socks.
Her ketch was the original her brother had stolen, with a few small modifications and a fresh coating of paint. During the long nights she'd taken her basic stitching classes and turned her medical satchel into a small backpack, her Bun still safely stuffed and cramped at the bottom. She hadn't allowed herself to take it out and hold it where any of Shanks crew might find out. Now, sailing back to meet up with her only family, she found herself unable to sleep without clutching it tight to her belly.
Sometimes, in the false dawn light or the breaking of a sudden patch of clouds, Little Sister caught herself rubbing the thin scar between her eyes. A game of 'tag' that went rather worse than it needed to. Shanks had been angry, very angry, and Little Sister still refused to feel sorry for finding out the man's secrets when they were so obvious to her. She'd been raised to seek Justice, and Truth went hand in hand with it. She still wasn't sure if he'd meant to land that strike or not, he'd been horrified afterwards, in the bare seconds between her feeling burning pain across her face and reacting by leaping to tear his throat out.
Shanks never apologized for her scars. She never apologized at all.
Their sparse letters over the last two years hadn't set a specific date for their reunion, so Little Sister wasn't sure if she'd be early, or late, and couldn't quite bring herself to worry over it. Brother could take care of himself after all, hopefully by now he'd figured out she could do the same, and wouldn't stress himself grayer.
Her hair was awkwardly shoved in her hoodie, trailing loosely out the bottom hem to tickle her knees and she promised herself for the thousandth time in two years that she'd cut it all off. Shanks was a great fan of fun and games, one of the earliest he'd taken to heart being 'slice Sisters hair ties'. She'd run out some time after six months, resorting to stealing from Ben, then when that failed, to improvising with leather, ribbon, assorted plant life... Eventually she gave up and focused on more important matters, but the lack of her lifelong braid made her feel... naked. Vulnerable. Angry.
The fact she hadn't cut it all off to feel more in control was simply another mark in their ever escalating game of pissing each other off.
The outfit was another 'gift' from Shanks. She'd woken one morning to find there were no other clothes available, and it was wear the offering or go about naked in front of an entire crew of Admiral level pirates. None of them women. Most perverts.
She'd gone naked for a week until *someone* broke, her clothes never returning but a new, slightly less offensive set of garments offered in a compromise that reeked of a blood truce. The white pleated skirt was shorter than anything she would have chosen for herself, and the top was obviously stolen from some noble daughters school uniform, a sailor collar and bow and sea-green skipper stripes. She purchased the hoodie to help delay the inevitable recognition from her bounty poster and went barefoot rather than try the knee socks.
Her ketch was the original her brother had stolen, with a few small modifications and a fresh coating of paint. During the long nights she'd taken her basic stitching classes and turned her medical satchel into a small backpack, her Bun still safely stuffed and cramped at the bottom. She hadn't allowed herself to take it out and hold it where any of Shanks crew might find out. Now, sailing back to meet up with her only family, she found herself unable to sleep without clutching it tight to her belly.
Sometimes, in the false dawn light or the breaking of a sudden patch of clouds, Little Sister caught herself rubbing the thin scar between her eyes. A game of 'tag' that went rather worse than it needed to. Shanks had been angry, very angry, and Little Sister still refused to feel sorry for finding out the man's secrets when they were so obvious to her. She'd been raised to seek Justice, and Truth went hand in hand with it. She still wasn't sure if he'd meant to land that strike or not, he'd been horrified afterwards, in the bare seconds between her feeling burning pain across her face and reacting by leaping to tear his throat out.
Shanks never apologized for her scars. She never apologized at all.
