Chapter 4

Two days later, he was trying to figure out how to filter seawater into drinkable water when it hit that he was homeless now. He was literally carrying everything he owned, and he had to take a moment to just breathe.

He was out in the middle of the ocean, in the New World, in a rowboat, with only a single-needle Log Pose to guide him to the nearest island and he'd long since draped a spare shirt over his head to keep from getting heat stroke or sunburned. But he wasn't a sailor, he was probably doing a million things wrong and he wouldn't know it and he might not make it to the next island before the food ran out-! White noise filled his ears, black spots danced across his vision, the Observation he'd been using to avoid sea kings was rendered useless and oh, was this what a panic attack was like? He didn't like it.

He put his head between his knees and took deep breaths, trying to calm down. His heart was pounding like it was trying to jump out of his chest, and his throat was tight. He saw some drops of water on his pants, and at first he thought it was raining. Then he touched his face and felt the wetness. He wiped his face with a numb hand and looked at the moisture left behind. Oh. He was crying.

He didn't know how long it took before he snapped out of it, but he caught a glimpse of his Log Pose and it was pointing in the opposite direction of where he was going, which admittedly helped him get a grip. Grabbing the oars and working on turning his boat around, he told himself that there'd be time for mourning later, right now he had to focus on surviving.

(He felt better after his brief breakdown though, like poison had been drained from a wound he didn't know he had.)

His food ran out on day five, but he figured out the water purification trick and had a decent pile of salt to prove it. He managed to rig up a kind of fishing pole with some rope and one of the oars that worked moderately well, but there was still no sign of land.

The trip between islands probably took longer with no sail, but he was strong and spent almost the whole day rowing, so surely he'd made some progress? He tried to remember what the dockmaster said about travel times between them and the closest islands, but all he recalled was the old man ranting about idiot rookies who didn't have the sense Davy Jones gave a goose. Funny, but not helpful.

He looked contemplatively at the boat, wondering if he could rig up some kind of sail with the blanket he found in the supply box and one of the oars...? Move his bag there and slide the box over to hold it in place and yeah, this was doable.

Before he could put his plan into action, the previously sunny sky abruptly turned dark, and it was with a sinking feeling that Marshall looked up.

He'd thought the weather was being too nice for the New World.

And on that note, the storm brewing over his head broke loose and he didn't have time to think.

All things considered, he made it through his first New World storm surprisingly well. He was still alive, for one thing, which was more than most people could say. His boat was intact, and the only real damage was some bruising and the loss of his improvised hat.

Even with the crashing waves and non-stop lightning strikes, that storm had been rather mild by New World standards, he could acknowledge once he made it through the 'oh my God I'm still alive' phase. Looking around at the now-tranquil sea, he let out a long, slow breath and took a moment to process the sheer insanity he'd just experienced.

He remembered some of the crazy weather shown in the series and, sprawled out in the bottom of his boat, groaned in dismay as he realized what he had to look forward to. Once his bruises stopped throbbing and he caught his breath, he sat back up and brushed sea-wet hair out of his eyes as he looked around. His Log Pose was pointing off to the side, but as he squinted towards the horizon, he could faintly make out a black dot through the glare of sunlight on water.

A strangled sound escaped him as he lunged for the oars and started rowing. Land! Actual land! It wasn't the island he was aiming for, but land!

If a few tears slipped out, there was no one around to know.

The island was called Orango, and he'd actually been at sea ten days instead of the five he thought. Oh, and he'd been hopelessly lost, since Orango was in the opposite direction of the island he'd been aiming for. The storm had actually saved him by blowing him off course; if he'd continued on his latest heading he wouldn't have hit land for weeks.

Apparently, the news that his island had been attacked by the Sun Rat Pirates had already reached Orango, a woman sympathetically informed him when he told her of what island he was from. There were few if any survivors.

(The Sun Rats. Such an appropriate name, he snarled, briefly clenching his fists.)

The woman kindly offered to let him stay at her shop in exchange for some work when he said how old he was, and what other choice did he have? He wouldn't be able to live long on just his savings and food was included, so he agreed.

He spent the next week familiarizing himself with Orango, which wasn't that different from his home island in that there was a town and most of the island was a jungle. That was where the similarities ended, however.

(He never did defeat the Wolf Lord...)

There was also a mountain near the south side of the island, and since you had to trek through the jungle to get to it most people left it alone. He made it a personal goal to climb it.

The woman, whose name was Annie, owned a glassblowing shop and needed help with moving a few of her tools around, which was easy enough.

("Some of those weigh almost three hundred pounds," Annie gasped, watching the boy, Marshall, shift around equipment it had taken a dozen workers to install as easily as if he was lifting a stack of paper.

Her sister Mary patted her on the shoulder, saying optimistically, "Well, at least with him around you won't have to worry about that jerk showing up."

"Uh huh." Annie agreed, from the corner of her eye seeing a certain nuisance who'd been pestering her about marriage gaping in shock at the casual display of strength. He left rather quickly after Marshall picked up the furnace and turned to ask where she wanted it. The kid wasn't even breaking a sweat. She mutely pointed to the spot.)

He recovered from his first voyage remarkably fast (the D constitution at work), all it took was a good meal and some sleep and he was fine. It also turned out that the salt he had from making his own drinking water could be sold, so he got a bit of Beri from that (because what would he use it for?).

When he woke up from the first morning after landing on Orango, he borrowed a toothbrush and thoroughly cleaned his teeth, even scrubbing his tongue for good measure. Then he went in search of a shower and change of clothes, since all of his were both wet and encrusted with salt. Hygiene taken care of, he'd buckled down and gotten to work.

In that way a week passed, and it was on a slow day that Annie told him to go exploring, so he promptly headed straight for the jungle. Unlike his home island, this one was populated mostly by giant bobcat and some rather aggressive deer. He didn't manage to make it to the mountain, but he brought back three bobcat carcasses and four deer.

He had to hurriedly drop his prizes to catch a fainting Annie before she hit the floor.

He didn't get what the problem was but whatever, when she came to she helped him sell them and he got some clothes that actually fit out of the deal.

(And he got to keep the meat! Lucky!)

Three weeks in, he reached the mountain.

Standing at the base, he looked up and hummed thoughtfully. It was no Red Line, but it would be good for training, and a little over two weeks in a rowboat (which he was keeping dry-docked behind Annie's shop - that boat had helped him too much for him to abandon it) meant that he was sadly out of practice. His Observation was in top shape, but the only time he'd used Armament was during the storm, which was why he'd gotten away with only bruises.

His fingers gleaming black and sinking into the rock like a knife through butter, he started climbing.

The route he chose was a sheer drop if he slipped, but he welcomed the challenge. Sweat dotted his brow by the time he was halfway up, his blood pumping with excitement as he kept his eyes locked on the summit. Suddenly his Armament faltered, black fading from his fingers just as he reached for a handhold. From there it was like watching dominoes fall: his hands slipped, fingers scrambling for purchase only to grasp air as he began to fall.

Almost as if in slow motion, the ground got closer and closer and his mind raced. He had to slow his descent, pause his fall somehow so the impact wouldn't be as great - Moonwalk! The Marine technique that let people fly! It was a long shot, but what did he have to lose?

Righting himself as much as possible, he began to kick at the air, heart in his throat as the ground got closer and closer. Oh shit, this was gonna hurt-!

He hit the ground rolling, breath knocked out of him and head ringing. His right side ached, so he was alive, that was good. Didn't feel like anything was broken, also good. Grunting as he sat up, he cradled his head in one hand as he waited for the world to stop spinning. "Ouch..." He muttered, cautiously prodding at his aching side and gratified to only feel bruises and throbbing muscles, maybe a cracked rib or two. Nothing a meal and night's sleep wouldn't fix.

It was only after he stood up and dusted himself off that he realized that he was at least a dozen yards away from where he should have fallen, not to mention the way he was positioned in the air meant he should have hit feet-first, but he'd landed on his side...

He blinked in surprise. "Huh."

Apparently his act of desperation had done something after all.