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A Ghost Story (of your own making)
Marine 47 cowers behind a crate and prays to every deity he knows to save him.
His hiding place is small and it feels claustrophobic, like the walls are coming closer and closer with each involuntary blink of dry eyes. His breathing is way too loud. He is convinced that it must be audible all the way up at the deck but there is nothing he can do about it. It is out of his control. Like there is something inside of him, wanting out, screaming through his lungs for freedom and escape. He tries to keep it down, tries to slow the rapid inhaling and exhaling by counting his breaths.
1 2 3 4 in - 5 6 7 8 out.
Doesn't help.
Once again the air in his lungs just bursts forth from between chapped lips with a high pitched whine and a whispered ‘pleasepleaseplease’ underneath it all.
No one will help.
Marine 47 doesn't know what is going on outside his small hiding place but he is pretty sure that he is the only one left. He'd been on his way to go under deck when he'd heard the sounds of panicked men and women running back and forth across the deck. He'd stuck his head back out the trapdoor barely long enough to watch the infamous Jolly Roger emerge from the fog with agonizing slowness before he'd booked it down below without a backwards glance.
A small voice had told him to stay and fight. To defend the honor of the World Government until his dying breath.
He'd told that voice to kick rocks.
His fellow marines are probably all dead by now.
No honor in that.
For what felt like hours but was probably merely minutes he'd been able to hear nothing but screams and shouts and rifle fire.
And then silence.
The silence has lasted for a long time by now. Long enough that Marine 47 thinks maybe he'll be okay. Maybe they just left. Maybe he'll live another day.
But then a sound reaches his ears, a sound that feels familiar and yet not. Unfamiliar in these surroundings, a soundtrack to his fears and the horror that is still trying to crawl its way up his throat. The sound reminds him of home, lazy Sundays spent running around the house with his siblings.
Barefoot.
A chill runs down his spine and his hands start to shake from where they are suddenly clamped over his ears.
Bare feet, slapping against the steel floor. Coming his way.
tap tap tap tap tap
Fast. Joyful.
Deadly.
tap tap tap tap tap
Up and down the hallway. Up and down, up and down. Passing the room he's hiding in once, twice, a third time.
Maybe… maybe….
The door is thrown open and all the air seems to be sucked out of the room. 47 clutches at his chest now, ears ringing. His heart is suddenly beating hard and fast to a rhythm he has no control over. It skips and jumps and beats against his ribcage and he wants to scream but he doesn't have the breath for even a whisper.
He is still sitting behind the crate and facing the wall but the light from the hallway gets reflected in the steel and it's just enough that he can vaguely make out the horror that has barged into his hiding place.
He doesn't want to look but he can't close his eyes. When he tries, the beating of his heart vibrates in his eyeballs and it hurts. So he keeps them open and watches that… thing enter the hold.
The steel of the wall is not a perfect mirror so the figure is slightly distorted. Arms and legs longer than they should be, head misshapen. But 47 sees enough. He sees blinding whiteness and red eyes and a large grin. Teeth sharp enough to bite clear through his jugular.
The figure laughs, loud, jarring. Number 47 slaps his hands over his ears again but it's futile. This laugh, it penetrates everything, every thought 47 might still have had other than terror.
He closes his eyes. It goes bump bump bump behind his eyelids. He snaps them back open.
"Yo!"
Number 47 rears back and the crate seems to swallow him whole. It's not solid anymore. It's soft and malleable and 47 sinks into it. It is sucking him in, a mockery of an embrace. He sees the wood distort from the corners of his eyes, the metal edges bend in ways they shouldn't.
He thinks he might be losing his mind.
He wishes he was only losing his mind.
The thing crouches on top of the crate that is not a crate anymore and stares down at him, upside down.
Red eyes framed by white hair rocking in non-existent wind. The eyes are swirling with an unholy light. Madness lies in wait in their depths, a depth as deep as the deepest sea and just as dark. They dance, seem to jump from number 47's forehead to his nose to his chin and back again.
They are mesmerizing.
"Yo!" The thing, this otherworldly being, repeats, grin wide and threatening. "Why are you hiding in here? Are you a coward? Hahaha, I hate cowards, you know?!"
Number 47 shakes his head. He doesn't know why.
The being cocks his head, humming, chuckling. "Your friends ran away! They were cowards too. What's your name?"
Had 47 felt a tiny morsel of loyalty for his fellow Marines he might have wondered about the ‘ran away’ part.
He doesn't.
All he can think about is his own survival. His training. The first thing they learn at the academy.
Never tell the enemy your real name.
Not even g
ods
devils.
"Marine Nr. 47-3981. Infantry Beta Alpha Ome-"
The being laughs and throws himself backwards, holding his stomach and rolling around on the floor. The floor turns into the sea, a rolling storm in this tiny pocket of space and time that is witness to their meeting. "What a funny name! Omoshiroi!"
He laughs and laughs and laughs and 47 chokes on the matching laughter in his throat. He doesn't want to laugh. Nothing about this sound echoing off the walls is funny.
It's terrifying.
The being stops and sits up, blinking large eyes at his surroundings. "I better get Robin." he mutters, dreamlike, eyes staring at nothing. "She'll know what to do about you."
The smile, as he turns away, is distracted, his thoughts already a thousand miles away. On his next meal, on Chopper's excitement when he found the fully stocked infirmary, on Nami reminding him to look out for treasure they can take while he explores the big ship with the weak and cowardly marines.
The marine at his back with the funny name is nothing but a footnote in his day, not even worth thinking about any longer.
Already forgotten, actually.
Marine 47 doesn't know any of that. He doesn't know that he is nothing to a God. Doesn't know that he is about to walk out of this ghost story of his own making with nothing but hurt pride and some food to tide him over until he reaches the next island with the lifeboat they will provide for him.
If he had known, if he had believed, maybe things would have turned out different for Marine 47.
Instead he panics. Instead he fumbles with the gun in his belt and raises it, pointing it directly at the back of the one being god man that could be his salvation.
His finger curls around the trigger but before he can take proper aim something moves in the shadows behind him. A huff of breath hits his neck, hot and cold at the same time. The sound of steel sliding free almost gets lost under Strawhat’s carefree humming.
Marine 47 freezes, can only turn his head an inch. It's enough to witness his end.
Green hair. Dark eyes. Golden earrings.
"Bad idea." the demon growls and three swords descend upon their chosen victim.
Marine 47 only feels the first blade.