| rdfs:comment | - A new day rises on Branchetown, best shipyard in the South Blue and last stop before the Grand Line. As we fly over the already bustling streets, our attention is drawn to Dock 3, and the shed that lies tucked away in a small gully in the corner of the dock, surrounded by a tall stone wall. A lone guard sits on a chair outside, head drooping and not a minute goes by without a tremendous yawn emanating from his fat lips. A newspaper lies next to him, with headlines in bold, "Straw Hat Pirates attack Enies Lobby!". But his vigil is at an end for another day, as the lead foreman, Johnson, comes to relieve him.
|
| abstract | - A new day rises on Branchetown, best shipyard in the South Blue and last stop before the Grand Line. As we fly over the already bustling streets, our attention is drawn to Dock 3, and the shed that lies tucked away in a small gully in the corner of the dock, surrounded by a tall stone wall. A lone guard sits on a chair outside, head drooping and not a minute goes by without a tremendous yawn emanating from his fat lips. A newspaper lies next to him, with headlines in bold, "Straw Hat Pirates attack Enies Lobby!". But his vigil is at an end for another day, as the lead foreman, Johnson, comes to relieve him. Johnson: Wake up Sam! New day's here and our monster friend needs to take another chip at his debt to society! Sam: *Snork* Whu? Ouuuh, I fell ashleep again. Shorry about that Johnshun… Johnshun *cough*, I mean Johnson laughs. Johnson: Ah, no worries Sam. Even that freak isn't escaping wrapped in Sea Prism Stone. Hell, it can't even move. Just last month it pissed itself in the night. Thank Gov it's not my job to clean that up. Anyway, it's escort's here. Several armed men march into view, armed with Sea Prism Stone rifles. Johnson opens the door of the shed and pokes his head in. Johnson: Hey Fishbreath! Wake up, time for work! Inside the shed lies a massive form, which recoils at the sight of the sun. As his chains are removed he stands, towering over Johnson at 3 metres in height, revealing a ripped physique, squinted eyes and the scaly skin shared by so many of his fishman brethren. This creature is Cher No Bill. And it's time for another day of work. Worker: Hey Fishbreath, we need these logs moved over to Zone B, move it! Cher complies, lifting up the logs effortlessly, and trudging towards the designated area, shadowed by his escort. In the early days, his escorts would be constantly on edge, fingers brushing the trigger every time Cher stumbled or stopped. But vigilance always gives way to time, so these days the men laugh and joke, and every so often sneer in Cher's direction. Not that they had any need to worry. Cher had accepted his role here, and any thoughts of escape or rebellion had faded long before today. He woke up, he worked, he was fed, he slept. Nothing more to it. And yet, every night, he still looks out his barred window, as if deep down, he is still hoping for help. Hoping for escape. Hoping, for a miracle. Whistle: *Pseeeeeet* The whistle's blowing signifies breaktime. Cher waits for his escort to finish chattering, and remember that they have a job to do. Escort Member: Alright, back to your shed. And hurry up! I got a lunch that needs eatin' and many ladies that need hootin' at. His fellows laugh, jabbing Cher with their guns until he trundles back down the path to his shed. He walks inside, and is hit on the head by two loafs of bread and a water bottle. Escort Member: Try not to piss in that bottle fishbreath! The escort leaves, laughing. The escort is technically supposed to watch Cher while he eats, but once again a lack of excitement from him has loosened their tight schedule, and only one stands outside while the rest go eat their sandwiches and hoot at passing women. Cher sits down and starts eating, taking his time, knowing that it will be a while until the next whistle. ???: That's the meal you get? Really? Cher whirls around, instinctual movement grinding against tired muscles. He sees a figure standing in the corner, dressed in a leather jacket with torn sleeves over an orange shirt, one jean-clad leg leaning against the walls of the shed, face hidden in the shadows. ???: I've been eating scraps for the last two weeks, and even I've gotten better feeding than you. Cher found his voice, which he hadn't needed to use for quite some time. Cher: Who...who are you? The figure smiled the widest grin Cher had ever seen on a human. Jack: Me? I'm Jack Breaker Jr. And I'm the one who's gonna break you out of here.
|
