Chapter 3

Unfortunately for him, those carefree days didn't last. He'd let his guard down, thinking it was all smooth sailing after he'd avoided the Whitebeards, and was caught completely off guard when that was proven to be far from the case.

Pirates attacked his home island.

A month after Rebecca and the Whitebeards left, his favorite coat finally gave up the ghost. He had to admit, he was actually surprised it had lasted as long as it had, but he was still rather sullen over having to replace it. He was in the jungle hunting down a wolf for the fur-lining on his new coat (he was aiming for the Wolf Lord, but the wily beast had taken to avoiding him, and even with Observation haki it was hell tracking it down) when the attack came.

He was kneeling down to look at some tracks when a loud boom split the air, so sudden that the surprise had him falling on his ass. There he was, sitting in the dirt and looking blankly up at the sky. And then he saw the tendrils of smoke drift across the sky. That's when he knew something was wrong. He was up and running back towards the town before he registered what he was doing, he just knew he had to do something.

He didn't recognize the cannon fire as what it was, not until he was halfway there.

The docks were a lost cause, wood splintered and smashed apart, the few planks not floating on the water engulfed in flames. The dockmaster's office was a pile of rubble, several warehouses meeting the same fate as the black-sailed ship offshore continued it's bombardment. The dock area suffered the worst damage, but there were at least four houses and stores being consumed by flames. The air was swiftly filling with smoke. And then he heard the screams, both with his ears and Observation.

Fear and anger and pain beat at his mind, warring with determination as the townspeople rallied, starting bucket-chains to help fight the fires and digging through rubble in search of survivors. That was when the cannonballs ceased and the real attack began.

He'd reached the town and was helping the baker lift a piece of roof off her husband when he suddenly felt some of the lives he was sensing with Observation just...disappear.

His breath caught, and he nearly dropped the roof he was supporting. He felt sick. He realized what happened seconds later, and he urged the baker and her husband to hurry. The woman had her husband halfway clear, but even from his position Marshall could see the man's leg was broken. His heart sank and he urged, "Get a move on! The pirates are here! Move move move!"

That seemed to give the baker a surge of strength, and then her husband was clear. He dropped the roof with no small amount of relief, the smoke stinging his eyes and causing them to water. It wasn't because the couple was now hobbling down the street, battered and bruised but alive. It wasn't!

Without wasting another moment, he spun on his heel and took off, searching for anyone else who needed help. Some of the townspeople were fighting back, mostly those from the streets, but even some shop-owners had grabbed makeshift weapons and were resisting. He lent a hand where he could, a punch here or a kick there, never staying long enough to see what happened after he knocked them down. They disappeared from his Observation. He knew.

Before he knew it, he'd reached the docks. It was a sea of fire and smoke, and he had to pull his shirt over his nose to keep from inhaling even more of the toxic fumes. One glance told him there was nothing he could do. Turning away to head back through town, he froze when a presence brushed his haki, bigger and somehow more substantial than the townspeople or the weaker pirates attacking the town. A shiver clawed down his spine, and he bolted, not wanting to stay long enough to find out who that presence belonged to.

It turned out he didn't have a choice.

He was running between two mostly intact buildings when he heard a loud voice rumble, "Alright men, that's enough fun, time to get down to business! Grab everything of value and get your arses back to the ship!" That voice then laughed, like destroying the town was some kind of joke.

His hands curled into fists, blunt nails biting into his palms. He knew he couldn't risk attacking, but he needed to know what this bastard looked like.

(For future reference, he thought darkly.)

The first thing he noticed was the sheer amount of orange the man was wearing. That the whole crew was wearing, in fact. Then he got a look at the guy-in-charge's face and his mind blanked. He had never seen a guy with a more rat-like face in either of his lives, not that Marine Captain Nezumi or the snitch who hung around the bar with the unfortunate name of Ricky the Rat.

(The bar was near the docks...)

Well, on the plus side he would be easy to recognize, he thought distantly. He held still, waiting for the bulk of the pirates to move on before he slipped back down the alley and took off sprinting. He used a more circuitous route, sticking to the ground in case the rooftops were no longer passable. That was when he saw the bodies. Bodies that didn't belong to pirates.

Iris the weaver...Nathan the carpenter...Bobby the blacksmith...

Not just them, but dozens of people that he'd grown up knowing. The town was small, so everyone knew everyone. That was more a curse than a blessing in this case, he thought distantly, passing more bodies, many of them next to the corpse of one or more pirates. They went down fighting.

He got back to his house without being seen, his haki tuned to keeping an eye on the pirates. None of them were close by, and his house hadn't been touched, probably due to the distance from town. He sensed some people hiding in the forest, including the baker and her husband, but they weren't nearby.

He couldn't stay on the island. He knew that, but that didn't make packing his few belongings into the lone bag he had any easier. It was just a few changes in clothes that he'd already outgrown and a couple of trinkets that were more sentimental than anything. The box that had contained Rebecca's Devil Fruit, a carved wooden wolf that the carpenter gave him, an ornamental hand-mirror and brush, one of the Wolf Lord's fangs...nothing particularly valuable but his nonetheless.

He had a decent amount of Beri saved up from his jobs at the docks and the occasional fight. Not a lot of people would fight him since his latest growth spurt, but there was the occasional drunk dock-hand or fisherman, so it added up to a decent chunk of change. Around 500,000 Beri in total, he counted.

Shoving it into a waterproof wallet (taken from an aforementioned drunk fisherman), he put that into his bag and slung it over his shoulder. The pirates were moving through the town, and he knew some of the townsfolk kept small boats hidden away from the docks along the coastline. He would grab one and make for the nearest island. After a lot of effort, he'd gotten his hands on a Log Pose, currently strapped to his wrist. He would be fine.

Or at least, that's what he told himself.

There wasn't a single undamaged boat.

Staring in disbelief at the splintered remains of Old Man Hodge's sailboat, he felt his last hope crumble. It'd been hit by a stray cannonball, he saw, the heavy iron culprit sitting in the sand a few feet away.

How was he supposed to escape now?! He mentally howled, looking around wildly, his haki running at full power as he tried to find a solution. Maybe he could tie some boards together? No, in the New World that would be suicide. He was a pretty good swimmer; he'd been practicing by doing laps around the island, but he wasn't banking on being that good. He wasn't Rayleigh, for crying out loud!

So concerned with the immediate problem, he let his concentration slip and it was only his instincts that let him dive forward and avoid the knife thrust that would have caught him in the middle of the back. Kicking up a cloud of sand, he rolled back to his feet and faced the lone pirate behind him.

There was no dramatic monologue or long, tense moment. He only had enough time to see the bright orange outfit and gleaming knife before his focus was consumed with staying alive.

Though not quite eleven, he was still almost six foot tall and his time working the docks and fighting the beasts of the jungle had honed his muscles. He was strong, stronger than the pirate expected, and before it really registered, he had the knife buried in its owner's chest. The pirate fell, a look of shock on his face and blood spilling from his mouth.

Marshall knew he should feel something. Shock or horror or even guilt over taking another person's life, but he didn't. He had more important things to worry about.

Some blood splashed on his hands, and he idly wiped it off on the dead pirate's clothes, rifling through his pockets on autopilot. He came up with a handful of Beri and a pearl the size of a quarter which he then slipped into his bag. He thought briefly about taking the knife - clean the blood off the blade and it could probably be sold for a good Beri - but even as numb as he was he just...couldn't do it.

Leaving the knife to rust, he turned back to the sea and tried to think of a solution to his current problem. It was the middle of the day, but the smoke filling the sky made it seem darker, hazier. Through the haze, he could faintly make out a small shape bobbing in the waves a little away from the shore.

Squinting, his breath caught in surprise as the shape solidified into that of a small rowboat.

Hope rose in his chest, and without hesitation he charged into the surf, diving headlong into the water and surfacing with a gasp. He swam towards the bobbing boat, long, sure strokes of his arms propelling him forward. The salt of the sea spray stung his face, rougher than how it usually was when he practiced, but he kept going.

He reached the boat and hauled himself aboard, falling over the side and landing hard on the bottom. There was no one else on the boat, which made sense. It must have been knocked loose from where it was docked by the impact of the cannonballs before anyone could get to it and it had floated far enough away that most people wouldn't chance the swim.

There were oars in the boat; he could feel the handles poking him in the back. Good, he sighed in relief, closing his eyes and letting out a long breath before sitting up. The boat was pretty cramped, but there was a small chest of supplies, including dried food and a blanket, which was more than he'd hoped for.

He pulled his legs up, consulted his Log Pose, put the oars in the water, and started rowing.