KALAKI VILLAGE… MORE LIKE A GHOST TOWN

Echo had learned many things over his six years at sea, experience a better if not rougher teacher than any of the hundreds of books he'd read, and if there was one thing the past two years with Cleo had taught him, it was that observation haki had many uses when parenting a disaster-child. A lesson that was reaffirmed not a second after they reached the outskirts of Kalaki's Oasis and Cleo's alarming excitement hit him harder than a pissed off rhino. It was the only warning he got before the seven years old leaped toward the aquatic expanse.

Heart hammering against his ribcage, he reflexively latched onto her scruff. His fingers curled around soft creamy tufts before he lifted the sheepish-looking zoan to eye level. Cleo's large ears flattened on her head, dark brown eyes growing big, glossy and round in answer to his raised brow. In these moments, he always had a thought for his father. Echo could never entirely forgive the man for all the terrible things he'd done, but a part of him understood now how love could lead to unforgivable extremes. Still, even after all these years, he never regretted leaving Mary Geoice. Not when his first vessel crashed into a treacherous rock bank. Not when he ran out of money. And not even when a lonely night at a dingy bar led to shameful levels of intoxication from which he woke up chained to the hull of a slaver's ship. In fact, he was grateful for the latter. Because it was in that hull (pasty-mouthed and nauseous both from the vessel's sway and an unprecedented headache) that he'd basked in the other prisoner's desolation and realized Ilsa's training could serve more than his own survival. The desert wolf (minus the ridiculous moniker that would appear on his first bounty) was born, and when the slaver's ship docked, he was no longer alone.

With a fond head-shake and the quiet promise to make his daughter write down the entire definition of 'anchor' back on the sub, he lowered her down to the sandbank and slid his goggles on.

His dark surroundings reemerged in greenish tones, and with the press of a thin lever, he slid his zoom lenses on top of the night-vision glasses.

The oasis sat at the center of a parabolic dune, with the water pond at its heart and thick fields of sorghum as its walls. The village, erected on the right side of the pond and shaded by tall date palm trees, was exposed on all sides like lava in a crater. It put them at a disadvantage against long ranged attacks, but it was also impossible for the bandits to slide down the surrounding sandbanks unnoticed. Thoughts spun through his head, and he mentally sketched the beginning of a plan before he pulled his goggles off and followed Sharif down an invisible path.

Sharif's village counted fifteen huts, an empty plaza and a noisy sheepfold, and yet, if it weren't for the small group of lively children being ushered indoors by a stiff young woman, Echo would have called it a ghost town.

"You'll have to excuse us, Mister desert wolf. We're not used to friendly visits."

Sharif's words barely registered as Echo extended his observation haki and narrowed his eyes on the gray scaled shadows.

This wasn't the first fishy situation he found himself in (and fishy it was, what with the bitter tang of shame stinking up the area), but ever since Cleo had joined his exploratory expedition, these uncertain adventures filled him with guilt. Part of him wanted nothing more than to grab her and make a run for it. He should. It was what a responsible parent would do. Unfortunately, a responsible parent wasn't something he could claim to be. He refused to turn his back on these people, not when beneath their guilt, all he could sense was a fear so strong his right hand automatically strayed to his disk bracelet.

Echo took a deep inhale and relaxed his stance.

Guilt, shame and fear ruled over the oasis, but it lacked the glee and aggression often associated with violent intent. Still, just because no one here wanted them dead didn't mean they could lower their defenses. While they crossed the village, Echo hummed the tune of a South blue chantey and tapped his left thigh in a seemingly nonsensical rhythm until Cleo flickered her wide ears back and forth. If any threat went unnoticed by his haki, it would be caught by the fennec zoan's extraordinary hearing. On this reassuring thought, he entered Sharif's hut.

"Make yourselves at ease," Sharif said before he disappeared through a nearby archway.

With a furtive glance around the entry, Echo dropped his rucksack near the door and offered a small bow to the plump middle-aged woman standing under the living room's threshold.

"Good evening," he said. "Thank you for having us."

Two curious faces popped up behind her back. At the feel of the children's agitation, Echo's guarded expression melted into a non-threatening smile.

"It is I who should thank you," the woman said while the boys turned their curious gazes on Cleo. "My name's Cara, and these are my sons, Atia and Imani."

"I'm... the desert wolf," Echo mumbled, "and this is my traveling companion, Cleo," he said with a nod at the vibrating fennec. Pleading brown met tired amber, and he'd barely dipped his head that the girl dashed forth, her tiny paws scratching the hard floor as she chased after her temporary playmates.

So much for keeping guard, he thought with a private smile.

Cara led him to the kitchen. "Do you not have a name, desert wolf?"

"I'm afraid not," he answered absentmindedly, his attention absorbed by the crammed space's survey.

There was a small window on his left, large enough for Cleo to squeeze through. The archway leading back to the living-room was at his back, eight steps right from the hut's front-door. The multi-purpose kitchen had no other exit, but a well-placed punch and a prayer for his armament haki's cooperation might just get him through the mud-compacted walls.

Pots and pans sat at the back of the square room, a fire-pit to their right, and a couple of cabinets to their left through which Sharif was noisily rummaging. A low-table completed the décor. It was surrounded by discolored cushions of varying shapes and sizes with a censer swaying over-head. The relaxing fumes of desert sage and a familiar earthy undertone he failed to place hovered over the compact space.

"Please, take a seat," Cara said with a polite smile. One he'd have called warm if not for the unmistakable combination of anxiety and guilt rolling off of her. "You must be thirsty. Would you like some water? Or perhaps some tea?"

Sharif placed a small plate of dry biscuits on the table and took a seat across from Echo. "My wife makes the best tea on the island."

Echo's taste-buds tingled, but his survival instincts kicked his thirst away. Rule number one: never accept food or drinks (closely followed by rule number two: never accept gifts (unless said gift is money)).

"Maybe later," he said, and continued before his hosts could chime in any more time-wasting propriety. "We have much to plan, so I suggest we get started."

"Ah, yes, of course, of course," Sharif said.

"So, to summarize, there are six bandits, including two devil fruit users: choke-man and hippo-lady. Are you absolutely sure there's only these two?"

"Y-Yes."

"Good. Their leader is the greatest threat, so I'll take care of him first, but while I do that, I'll need you and the other villagers to distract the rest of the bandits. Don't worry, I shouldn't be long."

Sharif and his wife gaped at him.

"W-What? But... But how will you do it?" Sharif asked.

"Rather well, I hope," Echo said with a secretive smile. (Rule number 3: intrusive questions are like well-aimed punches: harmless when you Thai-chi your way around them). "Moving on. What can you tell me about their weapons? Do they use swords or pistols? Do they have a sharp-shooter?"

He hoped not. Considering the village's configuration, things could turn ugly if a competent sharp-shooter got involved.

"Most carry swords around their belts, but the leader's right-hand woman has pistols..."

But hippo-lady was a devil fruit user, and most devil fruit users relayed on their power, so...

"What kind of swords?"

"I don't know; they're wide and curvy at the end..."

"Scimitar," Echo said under his breath, what little he knew about the weapon enough to birth a frown. "Do they mount camels or horses?"

"... Horses."

And Sharif hadn't thought to tell him? A part of him, the one basking in the room's relaxing fumes, wanted to put this on the back of sheer dumbassery, but the other part, the one even sage's appeasing aroma couldn't lull, had him straighten his back. He was missing something, and Sharif's lack of forthcomingness was an important clue to the puzzle.

"Scimitars are designed for mounted use; if we look prepared, they'll come charging at us. We'll need to lure them into the oasis and lower their defenses. Ideally, we'll want them to dismount before we start our assault..."

Cara sent a side glance at her husband. A spike of doubt colored her emotional palette, and despite Sharif's tired head-shake, she asked, "Do you really think you can take them?"

"Yes," Echo said. He'd gone for an assured tone, one he'd hoped would set her mind at ease, but the word came out slurred. "But there's... no time... to waste..."

Why were there suddenly two Caras?... And why did his brain feel like cotton?... Fuck! His heart rate spiked. He knew this sensation. It was one he'd experienced many times in his teenage years with no other subject to test his sleeping-powder on.

His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, and it took all of his focus to tell Cleo to run.

The room was spinning, or he was spinning... Shit, it didn't matter, not when he was so dangerously close to blacking out. If he didn't reverse the effect of the sleeping powder within the next ten seconds, it'd be too late.

A spike of lucidity ripped a thin hole through his fog-addled brain, and with shaky fingers, he tore off his necklace. It was a sea-monster fang he'd hollowed and filled with a dose of antidote in case he accidentally scratched Cleo or himself with his claws. Fuck, his claws! If he had any energy left, he'd let them pop out of his gloves and take a swing at Sharif's contrite face. In another life, maybe, for in this one he had barely enough control over his members left to uncork the vial. Unfortunately, his muscles gave way and he landed like a limp noodle on his side. His unfocused eyes blinked at the spilled liquid.

"I'm sorry." Fucking sweaty-man kneeled by his side. "... no choice... kill us... AHHH!"

Despite the direness of their situation, Echo's lips stretched when Cleo buried her sharp fangs deep inside the man's shoulder. Then came the guilt, the fear, and the regrets.

"Please, run," he tried to say, but his body was lax and his mind soon followed.