Chapter Text
Sabo’s senses are flooded with the wind tangling in his hair, the sharp scent of salt filling his lungs as the ocean stretches out around him. The contrast to High Town is so stark it almost feels unreal—this is the freedom he has always dreamed of.
He has never felt closer to it.
Once Dawn Island shrinks to nothing more than a blimp on the horizon, he tells himself, he’ll finally be free. For now, he doesn’t dare look back, keeping his eyes fixed on the open sea ahead.
Or it would be open—if not for the fucking ginormous ship looming to his left.
Sabo yanks the wheel hard to the right. Crashing his ‘borrowed’ ship immediately after setting sail would be a terrible way to begin his escape.
And it is his escape. After years of endlessly, hopelessly running away from the life of a noble, this time, nobody will be able to catch him. He won’t let them. The chains that used to weigh heavy, knotted on every limb of his are rusting away with the salt water.
Sabo has never felt so light.
(The clinking of sake cups resounding through the trees, feet and elbows digging into soft flesh in the dark of night, pure, genuine laughter free of the artificial tone he had grown used to hearing in High Town.)
Sabo has never felt so light, still, he clings to the memories where his shackles had lessened to the point he could almost forget their entire existence.
Goodbye Ace, Luffy.
Sabo steadied the wheel once the larger ship drifted safely past. The sea opened up again, wide and empty, and he let himself breathe. The wind tugged at his sleeves like it was urging him onward, and for the first time he allowed his shoulders to relax.
He wondered how long it would take before the island disappeared completely. An hour, maybe less. By then, no one would be able to find him—not the nobles, not his parents, not anyone who thought they had a claim on his life. The thought sparked something warm and buoyant in his chest. Tomorrow, he’d wake up somewhere new. Tomorrow, he’d decide what came next.
The sound came without warning.
Fire engulfed the small fishing boat, violating rocking back and forth. Sabo used his tailcoat, futilely trying to extinguish the flames.
The same sound again.
A thunderous crack split the air, too loud, too close, swallowing the rush of the wind whole. Pain exploded through him—white-hot and all-consuming—and the world lurched violently sideways. Sabo barely had time to blink before the deck vanished beneath his feet, the sky and sea twisting into a blur.
Cold water slammed into him, stealing the air from his lungs as he sank. Noise roared in his ears, then dulled, then faded altogether.
And then there was nothing.
The pain is terrible.
It’s everywhere, inescapable. Fire roars through him, searing his blood, burning away everything impure.
Help, Sabo thinks, dimly. There’s nothing pure left to save.
He’s going to die.
Sabo doesn’t want to die.
That thought jolts him, sharp and sudden, cutting through the panic. No one is coming to save him—and that’s fine. No one ever has. He refuses to rely on someone now.
(Ace, help—Ace, AceAceAceaceaceace—)
Sabo forces his limbs to move, to swim upward, toward the surface. He ignores the flaring agony in his left side. It’s excruciating, white-hot, impossible to think past. He can’t focus on how his body should move—he just trusts muscle memory to carry him, the same instincts that kept him alive in the forest. Quick reflexes. Move or die.
His vision is already fading when he breaks the surface, sucking in several greedy breaths before his head dips under again as his strength falters.
The pain dulls, retreating into a spreading numbness that creeps through his body.
Oh, Sabo thinks hazily. That’s bad.
He drags his head above the water once more, gulps down air, and dives again.
Sabo was a strong swimmer. He had to be—Luffy couldn’t swim, and somehow still managed to fall into every river and pond in the forest. Someone had to pull him out.
He swims as fast as his failing limbs will allow, surfacing for air more often than he wants to. His left arm is useless now, so numb it barely feels like his own—if not for the sight of the shoulder it’s attached to. The shoulder is burned badly, skin raw and angry, nerves likely ruined. He doesn’t know if it can be saved.
He refuses to think about it.
It feels like both forever and no time at all before he reaches the dock he stole the fishing boat from. Black spots swarm his vision. His left eye won’t open.
Slowly, painstakingly, he makes his way to the ladder and latches on, grateful for the brief relief from fighting the water. He nearly passes out right there, his frozen grip the only thing keeping him from sinking. His body is completely numb now; moving feels impossible. Sabo scrapes together what little strength he has left and tries to pull himself up.
He fails.
He’s already pushed far past his limits.
His grip slips. His vision collapses into darkness. His eyes roll back as the water drags him under, and Sabo begins to lose consciousness.
He’s going to die.
The last thing he feels, as he finally gives in to the dark, is a hand clamping around his forearm—strong, unyielding, and agonizing as it squeezes his burned left arm.
He can’t hang on anymore.
Sabo is dead to the world.
Yesterday, Officer Cole’s assignment had changed from border patrol in Edge Town to noble babysitter.
He wasn’t a bodyguard—no. Both he and his partner, Officer Harris, had been hired not to protect a household, but to make sure a single brat didn’t run away again.
At least the pay was good. Better than good. Enough to make him ignore the way the boy looked at them—sharp-eyed, defiant, already planning his next escape. Cole pitied the kid, he did, but money was money. Harris had drawn the short straw today, stuck on duty in High Town while Cole had the day off. He’d laughed about it that morning. Poor bastard. Cole had been looking forward to the arrival of the Celestial Dragon; it was a once-in-a-lifetime spectacle, after all.
Then he saw the blue coat sailing away in a small fishing boat.
Shit. You had one job, Harris.
Cole sighed. Hopefully his partner would take the full fall for this. It wasn’t his job to watch the brat today.
He scanned the crowd, and sure enough, spotted the Outlooks. They wore matching expressions of bemused outrage. Cole wasn’t familiar with many noble families, but he could guess that getting in the way of a Celestial Dragon’s ship ranked pretty high on the list of unforgivable offenses.
When the kid was eventually dragged back—because no father who openly blackmailed his child into obedience would ever let him go that easily—there would be hell to pay. Cole was sure of it.
He turned back toward the ocean. At least the brat had been smart enough to steer away from the larger ship—
The explosion cut the thought short. Wood, fire, smoke—gone in an instant. The small fishing boat shattered into splinters. Then a second shot rang out.
The crowd didn’t scream. Instead, an uneasy silence spread as realization set in. A kid—gunned down, reduced to debris sinking beneath the waves.
Some faces reflected terror. Others showed pity or indifference.
The nobles watched in awe.
Their eyes were fixed on the Celestial Dragon, who looked almost giddy, reveling in the certainty that shooting a child was well within his rights. It was power, raw and unquestionable—the kind that made their own status seem laughable by comparison.
Officer Cole felt only irritation.
There went his fancy new paycheck.
Fuck you, Harris. Just cost us countless berries. Can’t even keep an eye on a ten-year-old boy.
He turns back to the Outlooks. Their eyes are wide in disbelief and faces red from embarrassment, thinly veiled fury beneath all of it. Any hint of grief is noticeably absent. Another noble couple comes up to them, their expressions full of restrained joy.
“Oh my,” the woman said, stepping up beside them, her gloved hand pressed lightly to her mouth. Her eyes glittered—not with horror, but something closer to relief. “That was your boy, wasn’t it?”
The Outlooks stiffened, afraid to be openly associated with the dead boy when the Celestial Dragon’s ship had just begun to dock.
“That was an… incident,” the man beside her continued smoothly. He inclined his head, polite as ever. “Tragic, of course. Children can be so reckless when they aren’t properly managed.”
The woman sighed, though the sound lacked any real sorrow. “You remember what he did to our son, don’t you? Pushed him into the fountain at the gala. Ruined his coat.” She shook her head. “Such an unruly child. We always said it would end badly.”
“But,” the man added gently, “perhaps this is a mercy. For all of you.”
There was a pause.
Outlook exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging just a fraction. “Yes,” he said at last. “Yes, I suppose it is.”
The woman smiled, warm and satisfied. “Think of it this way—no more scandals. No more chasing him down. No more wondering what he’ll embarrass you with next.”
Mrs. Outlook closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again. When she spoke, her voice was steady, indifferent.
“A shame,” she said. “But… a gift.”
The couple nodded in agreement, already turning away, their attention drifting back toward the Celestial Dragon and the spectacle he commanded, away from the child who had never belonged to their world anyway.
Cole turns his gaze to the small wreckage again. He really did pity the kid.
Time moved on, as it always did.
Servants and guards poured onto the docks first, clearing paths, barking orders in low, urgent tones. The scattered crowd reshaped itself with practiced ease—nobles drifting forward, commoners shrinking back, all of them careful to look properly awed. The wreckage out at sea was already being ignored. Tragedy, once acknowledged, was inconvenient.
Trumpets sounded.
A ripple of excitement passed through the nobles as the gangplank was lowered, silk-draped and spotless. The Celestial Dragon emerged slowly, surrounded by attendants who hovered like shadows, careful not to brush against anyone unworthy. Laughter bubbled from somewhere in his retinue, light and indulgent, as though the harbor were his personal stage.
The nobles leaned in, eager, eyes bright with reverence and envy.
The commoners bowed low, some out of fear, some out of habit. A few stared despite themselves, faces pale, the echo of gunfire still ringing in their ears. Awe and terror tangled together until they were impossible to separate.
Officer Cole stood where he was told to stand and watched the performance. The incident was already over. The brat was dead. The paperwork would be minimal, if any. Annoying, but finished.
He exhaled and surveyed the ocean one last time, preparing to leave. He wasn't quite in the mood to bend over backwards for the Celestial Dragon at the moment-
Something moved, near the empty dock that used to hold the destroyed fishing boat.
Cole frowned, more annoyed than curious, and focused on the ladder where seawater lapped lazily against the wood. For a moment, he thought it was just debris—another reminder of the mess that would need clearing once the Celestial Dragon left.
Then it moved again.
Not drifting. Clinging.
Cole’s breath hitched, his irritation sharpening into disbelief as he made out the shape of a small body slumped against the ladder, fingers locked tight around the wood like it was the only thing keeping him from slipping under. Blond hair, darkened and matted. Blue fabric plastered to skin.
Alive.
Cole stared for a second too long. The kid shouldn’t have been alive. The explosion had been clean. Final. And yet—
“There!” he said, loud enough to carry. “There’s someone in the water.”
Heads turned. The murmurs started immediately—quiet, restrained, careful not to rise above the ceremonial hush. Attention rippled outward, pulled from silk and gold and redirected toward the small wooden dock.
Cole moved before anyone else could.
He crossed the dock in long strides and roughly grabbed the boy’s arm, hauling him out of the water. The kid made a weak, broken sound, his body sagging instantly, unconscious. One side of his face was burned raw, his left shoulder a mess of blistered skin and torn fabric. His left eye was swollen shut.
The whispers sharpened as more people took notice of the scene.
Somewhere behind him, the Celestial Dragon’s entourage stilled, irritation and fear prickling at the sudden shift in attention.
The attendant closest to the Celestial Dragon, dressed in an expensive black suit, stiffened, then turned sharply, gaze locking onto the soaked, half-conscious boy in Cole’s grip.
The Celestial Dragon, Saint Jalmack, stopped.
The world seemed to freeze with his movement.
Slowly, deliberately, he turned his helmeted head toward them. The glass reflected the dock in warped fragments—Cole, the boy, the water still dripping from him. Jalmack tilted his head, curious, but made no move to step closer.
“What is that?” he asked, voice bored, faintly irritated.
“A survivor, my lord,” the attendant in black said. “The one from the boat."
Murmurs stirred again, sharper now. A few nobles leaned forward despite themselves. Someone had survived the dragon’s wrath. A child, no less.
Jalmack’s interest seemed to sharpen.
“Survived?” he echoed, as though tasting the word. He laughed softly. “How vulgar.”
The attendant continued, “He was found clinging to the dock, my lord.”
Jalmack’s gaze lingered on the kid, taking in the burns, the slack posture, the way he didn’t even stir. Something like approval crept into his tone.
“Resilient,” he said. “Disrespectful enough to live.”
Cole felt the tone shift immediately.
“Bring it closer,” Jalmack ordered. “Closer so I can see.”
The attendant obeyed, reaching for the boy without hesitation. Cole loosened his grip and stepped back, already forgotten. The handoff was quick, efficient. Like passing off a crate.
Jalmack watched, pleased.
“A child who survives my brand new canon," he mused. “Yes. This one will do.”
No one asked what for, though all were thinking it, Cole included.
Cole blended back into the crowd as the attendants moved in, already preparing chains, already deciding the boy’s future. He felt sick.
He didn’t look at the kid again.
He didn’t look at the Outlooks doing their best to pretend to have never seen the boy before.
He turned his attention back to the ceremony, to the dock, to whatever came next.
The world, after all, always moved on.
Sabo wakes to breathing that isn’t his own.
It’s loud, mechanical, and uneven. Like the world itself is inhaling beside his ear. For a few disoriented seconds, he thinks he’s still underwater, that the ocean followed him down into whatever comes after dying.
Then the pain hits.
It crashes over him in a wave so intense his mind blanks, every thought obliterated by white-hot agony. His body jerks reflexively, and iron bites into his wrists.
Chains.
The realization drags him fully awake.
Sabo sucks in a sharp breath, immediately choking as something clamps over his mouth and nose. The mechanical breathing grows louder, syncing with his own ragged gasps. Panic flares, wild and animal, and he thrashes. Only for the chains to rattle and hold firm.
“Easy.”
The voice is distant, distorted slightly, as if filtered through fabric.
“Don’t move too much. You’ll reopen the burns.”
Burns.
Memory slams back into him in jagged fragments—fire, the deafening crack, the boat exploding beneath his feet. The water. The pain.
Sabo freezes.
He’s alive.
The thought doesn’t bring the relief he thought it would.
He forces his eyes open. One responds sluggishly; the other refuses entirely, sealed shut by swelling and pain. What he can see is a blur of white and gold. It’s too clean, too bright. The air smells sterile, sharp with chemicals layered over something faintly floral. A masked face looms into view, glassy-eyed and inhuman behind a clear dome. The figure tilts their head, studying him with detached interest.
“He’s awake,” the attendant says.
Something cold presses against Sabo’s shoulder, and he screams.
The sound rips out of him raw and broken as fire detonates along his left side. His back arches instinctively, chains cutting into his skin as he fights against them. The pressure doesn’t stop.
“Hold him still,” another voice says, irritated. “If he dies now, it’ll be annoying.”
Strong hands pin him down. Sabo sobs, the sound muffled by whatever is strapped to his face. He can’t breathe right, can’t think. Can’t do anything, but exist inside the pain.
Ace, his mind supplies helplessly. Luffy—
“Stop,” someone snaps. “You’re wasting supplies. Just seal it.”
The pressure eases, replaced by a spreading numbness that crawls outward from his shoulder like frost. Sabo gasps, shaking violently, tears leaking from his one open eye.
“There,” the first attendant says. “He’ll live.”
Sabo still does not feel relieved.
They step back. The ceiling swims above him; arched, gilded, inlaid with designs too elaborate for him to comprehend at the moment. Sabo’s heartbeat roars in his ears, uneven and weak.
He tries to move his left arm.
Nothing happens.
Fear coils tight in his chest.
“Where…?” he croaks, throat shredded.
The attendant pauses, then laughs softly.
“You’re aboard Saint Jalmack’s vessel,” they say. “You should be honored.”
Sabo has never heard of this guy before, but he already doesn’t like him if he’s the reason Sabo is in chains. Idly, he wonders if his father gave him to a random noble to punish him for his latest escape attempt.
“No,” he whispers, the word barely audible even to himself. His gaze darts frantically, searching for escape, for anything familiar. All he sees is white walls, gold trim, and masked figures who look at him the way nobles look at insects.
Sabo is all too familiar with that gaze.
He pulls weakly at the chains again. They don’t budge.
“Please,” he says, hating how small his voice sounds. “I didn’t— I won’t do it again—”
The attendant tilts their head.
“Oh, you misunderstand,” they say. “This isn’t a punishment.”
They step closer, and Sabo flinches despite himself.
“This,” the attendant continues mildly as if disinterested, “is ownership.”
The word settles over him, heavy and suffocating.
Something inside Sabo fractures.
He thinks of the sea, of wind in his hair and salt on his tongue. Of laughter in the woods and shared cups of sake. Of a promise whispered into the dark. That someday, they’d all be free.
Tears spill down his temple, soaking into the pristine cushion beneath his head.
He survived.
He knows better than to feel relieved.
Belatedly, he realizes his body is shaking.
The attendants don’t acknowledge it. They move around him with practiced efficiency, unbothered by the way his breath stutters or how his good hand clenches weakly against the restraints. One of them reaches up and unclips the thing from his face. Cool air hits his mouth and nose all at once, sharp enough to make him cough.
It hurts.
Everything hurts.
“Careful,” someone mutters, annoyed—not at his pain, but at the interruption. “If he aspirates, that’s on you.”
Sabo sucks in a shallow breath and tries to steady it. His throat burns raw, each inhale scraping like sandpaper. He swallows and tastes salt and blood.
Hands slide beneath him.
For a brief, stupid moment, he thinks they’re going to help him sit up.
Instead, they lift him.
The motion sends a jolt of agony through his left side, and a choked sound escapes him before he can stop it. His vision whites out at the edges. He feels himself sag, dead weight, barely aware of the way his body is shifted onto something hard and narrow.
A gurney.
Cold metal presses through the thin fabric beneath him. His head lolls to the side, cheek resting against something smooth and faintly warm—someone’s sleeve, maybe. He blinks, trying to focus.
The masked faces blur together as they wheel him forward.
The room recedes, gold and white giving way to narrower corridors. The air changes as they move—less sterile, heavier, tinged with oil and something faintly rotten underneath. The ceiling lowers. The walls lose their ornamentation, polished surfaces replaced with dull metal panels scarred by use.
Sabo watches it all pass with detached horror.
He knows ships. Not like this one specifically, but he knows the usual lay out. Where the important parts are. Where the storage goes. Where the crew sleeps.
And where they keep things they don’t want seen.
“Where are you taking me?” he asks.
His voice comes out hoarse, barely more than a rasp.
One of the attendants glances down at him, eyes unreadable behind the glass of their mask.
“Below,” they say simply.
The word sits wrong in his chest.
They don’t explain further. The gurney rattles softly as it rolls over a seam in the floor, then another. Sabo feels the slight, unmistakable tilt as they begin descending a ramp.
Down.
Down.
Each level they pass grows darker, narrower. The hum of the ship’s upper decks fades, replaced by the constant, oppressive thrum of machinery. Pipes run along the walls, some leaking slow, rhythmic drips onto the floor. The lights overhead flicker, dimmer than before, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow.
Sabo’s stomach twists.
He’s been in basements before (usually not by voluntary means). Wine cellars. Storage rooms. Locked spaces meant to hide things away. This feels worse. Purpose-built.
He hears it before he sees it.
Voices.
Low, hoarse murmurs. A cough that sounds wet and painful. The unmistakable scrape of chains shifting against metal.
His heart stutters.
The corridor opens into a wider passageway, and Sabo turns his head just enough to see through the bars lining the walls.
Cells.
Rows of them, stacked with brutal efficiency. Iron bars instead of walls, thick and unyielding. Inside, shapes huddle in the shadows. Some sitting, some lying still enough that Sabo can’t immediately tell if they’re breathing.
People.
Slaves, the part of his brain that’s not frozen in terror supplies.
His breath catches painfully in his chest.
No, he tells himself. No, no, no—
The gurney slows.
A door at the far end of the corridor hisses open, revealing a small chamber lit brighter than the rest. A crate sits open on the floor, filled with large metal rings.
Collars.
Sabo’s blood runs even colder.
They stop the gurney beside the crate.
“Wait,” he says, panic finally clawing its way into his voice. “Wait! Please stop—”
No one answers him.
One of the attendants reaches into the crate and lifts a collar free. It’s heavier than it looks, metal broken only by a small, embedded dial on one side and a blinking red light on the other.
Sabo stares at it, dread pooling thick and heavy in his gut.
“What is that?” he whispers, even though he already knows.
The attendant holding it hums softly, as if considering the question.
“Compliance device,” they say. “Standard issue.”
Another attendant steps closer to Sabo’s head, fingers brushing his chin.
“Hold still.”
He shakes his head weakly, terror overriding pain. “No, please—don’t—”
They don’t listen.
He tries to fight. The moment he tries to lift his arms to push the offending collar away, pain explodes through him fast. He grits his teeth to not make a sound.
Strong hands grip his jaw, tilting his head back. The movement pulls at his burned shoulder, and he cries out, the sound echoing ugly and broken in the narrow chamber.
The collar slides around his neck.
It’s cold.
The metal kisses his skin, snug but not tight, resting against his throat like a promise. There’s a soft click as it locks into place, followed by a sharp beep. The red light blinks once. Then it turns solid.
“There,” the attendant says, satisfied. “Active.”
Sabo’s breathing comes fast and shallow. He can feel it. He can feel the weight of it, the way it presses just enough to remind him it’s there. His pulse thrums wildly beneath it. “What does it do?” he asks, voice shaking despite his effort to steady it.
The attendant looks down at him. “If you attempt to escape,” they say calmly, “attack a master, remove the collar, or disobey a direct order—”
They reach out and tap the side of the device with one gloved finger. “It detonates.”
The word hits harder than any blow.
Sabo goes still. “…Detonates?” he repeats faintly.
“Yes.”
Another attendant chimes in, almost cheerfully. “Instantaneous. Very efficient.”
Sabo’s stomach lurches violently. He swallows, throat tight, acutely aware of how exposed it feels with the collar resting there.
“Don’t worry,” the first attendant adds, as if finally seeing his distress. “You’ll learn what constitutes disobedience quickly. Most do.”
Most.
The implication hangs in the air, thick and suffocating. They start pushing the gurney again.
Past the chamber. Past more cells. Past more people who look up at him with dull, hollow eyes, or don’t look at all. He looks back at them, examining. Some of them wear the same collars. Some of them have scorch marks around their necks. Some don’t have a neck.
Sabo turns his head away, bile burning his throat.
The gurney finally stops in front of an empty cell. The gate screeches open. They lift him again, rougher this time, and dump him unceremoniously onto the cold stone floor. Pain flares through him as his side hits first, a sharp, breath-stealing jolt that leaves him gasping.
The chains on his wrists are removed. The collar remains. The cell gate slams shut. The sound reverberates through the corridor, final and absolute.
Sabo lies there for a long moment, trembling, staring at the darkened floor inches from his face. The stone smells damp and old. Something scuttles nearby. Rats, maybe.
He draws his knees in slightly, instinctive, protective. Abruptly, he remembers all the times he ended up curled into the fetal position due to his parents' treatment. Sabo thinks that he would much rather be back with them than anywhere here.
More than that though, he wants to be back home with his brothers. Dadan and the bandits too. Hell, Sabo would do anything if it meant that the old man would barge in through the gate and drag him back for training.
He curls further into himself. Gramps isn’t coming, and the gate is still annoyingly intact.
Around him, the murmurs resume.
A presence shifts closer. “You new, kid?”
The voice is quiet, roughened by exhaustion. Sabo flinches but forces himself to turn his head.
A man sits against the far wall in the cell next to him. His clothes are torn and filthy, a matching collar gleaming faintly at his throat.
Sabo swallows. “…Yeah,” he manages.
The man studies him for a long second, gaze flicking to the collar, the burns, the way Sabo still shakes.
“I’m sorry,” he says finally.
Sabo doesn’t know what to say to that. Above them, somewhere far beyond metal and stone and gold, the sea stretches endlessly on.
Sabo doesn’t reply and closes his eyes. He tries to calm down his shaking. It doesn’t work.
He has never felt farther from freedom.