-Real World-
On the Sky Screen, Kozuki Momonosuke was a figure of considerable reputation — heir to the Kozuki Clan, future Shogun of Wano Country, a name spoken with weight and expectation across the broadcast's timeline.
In the present, he was a cold, hungry child sitting in a snow cave.
He and Kinemon had been stranded on Punk Hazard long enough that the routine had become its own particular torture. Kinemon dove into the sea to catch fish. Momonosuke ate the fish. They slept under hay in a cave dug from the snow. When thirst came, they ate the snow itself. There were no vegetables, no fruit, no pastries, no anything that made food worth eating — only fish, every day, in every preparation a man who had to catch them with his bare hands in a frozen sea could manage.
Momonosuke had been very clear with Kinemon about how he felt about this arrangement.
He was not satisfied. He wanted to know when they were leaving. He wanted to know why Kinemon hadn't found a ship yet. He wanted to know how long a person was expected to tolerate a place this cold before it officially became someone's fault.
Kinemon, for his part, had listened to all of this with the patience of a man who had made a vow and intended to keep it regardless of the personal cost.
-Real World — Punk Hazard-
The cave was dark and cold when Momonosuke woke.
The fire had gone out. Without it, the temperature inside the snow cave settled to exactly as miserable as the temperature outside, which was the wrong direction entirely. He pulled his thick cotton coat around himself and sat up from the hay-covered floor.
"Kinemon?"
No answer. He called twice more into the dark, on the small chance that Kinemon was simply not listening. Still nothing. The cave was empty except for him.
His stomach registered its opinion of the situation immediately.
He hadn't eaten since the previous night. Whatever Kinemon had given him then — fish, inevitably, plain fish with no seasoning to speak of — had long since stopped being relevant to how hungry he currently was.
When can I eat something that isn't fish? If I have to eat another—
The smell arrived before he finished the thought.
It came from outside the cave entrance, faint through the packed snow blocking the door: something cooked, something hot, a mixture of meat and vegetables that hit the back of his throat and made his stomach clench with want. It was a smell with no business being on Punk Hazard, and it was coming from somewhere close.
Kinemon had been extremely on this point: Momonosuke was not to leave the cave alone. Under any circumstances. Doing so without a retainer present was, in Kinemon's professional assessment, equivalent to walking directly into danger and requesting it.
Momonosuke stared at the snow-packed entrance.
His stomach said something on the subject of Kinemon's instructions.
He dug.
Outside, in the snow-blanketed dark of a Punk Hazard night, a Marine patrol had made camp. Five of them — one veteran captain, four recruits — had set up a tent, built a fire, and produced from somewhere a pot of actual food: meat, vegetables, the smell of broth, something that bore no resemblance whatsoever to plain fish.
They were miserable, and they were saying so freely among themselves while the pot cooked.
"We've been looking for the Kozuki kid for weeks," one recruit said, staring at his empty bowl. "He's not here. He was never here. Someone made this up."
"The tough jobs always go to the people without connections." Another recruit. "Send us to a frozen wasteland to search for a child. Meanwhile everyone else gets a posting where you can actually eat."
"At least we can eat now," said a third, watching the captain ladle from the pot.
The captain filled his own bowl first — prerogative of rank — tasted it, and declared it acceptable. The recruits descended on the spoon in the particular way of people who have been hungry long enough to stop pretending otherwise. The last recruit scraped the bottom of the pot and supplemented with hard black bread soaked in broth, which was worse than the meat and vegetables but significantly better than nothing.
They ate. They complained about the Marine — the corruption in distant postings, the phantom salaries, the officers who treated enlisted men as personal staff, the general gap between what the institution claimed to stand for and what it actually delivered to the people at the bottom of it. The recruits had opinions. They expressed them freely, in the way people do when they're tired and full and there's nobody above their station within earshot.
One of them mentioned that there were rumors — the Fleet Admiral was a woman now, some Artoria nobody had heard of before she was suddenly in charge of everything — and that maybe that would change how the money moved.
"Maybe," the captain said, finishing the last of his soup. He didn't sound convinced. "A few more days, we sweep this sector, and then HQ sends us home. That's the mission."
They arranged the watch schedule. One recruit outside, the rest into the tent. Within minutes, the sounds coming from the tent suggested that the patrol's collective exhaustion had resolved itself efficiently and without protest. The recruit left on watch sat by the dying fire, wrapped against the cold, staring at the coals.
His head drooped.
His breathing slowed.
He was, by any reasonable definition, asleep.
In the snow cave, Momonosuke had created a gap just wide enough to see through. He watched the sleeping sentry for a long moment, measuring the depth of it. The snoring from the tent was audible from here. The fire was low. The pot was sitting unattended.
He was so hungry.
Kinemon's instructions were very clear and also not currently present.
Momonosuke eased himself out of the snow cave inch by inch, pressing flat to the ground, and began crawling through the snow toward the Marine camp.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Writing takes time, coffee, and a lot of love.If you'd like to support my work, join me at [email protected]/GoldenGaruda
You'll get early access to over 50 chapters, selection on new series, and the satisfaction of knowing your support directly fuels more stories.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~