.

-Bo-

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How did aging work? Was it a purely physical thing? A product of hormones and shortening telomeres? How about mental, emotional? Or perhaps a loss of innocence, a disillusionment of ideals…?

She'd been told before that she thought too much. It had stopped being antagonistic and become an affectionate teasing around the time she and Ino had reconciled. Ruefully, Sakura thought that this much hadn't changed in her character.

"What's with the long face, dear?"

Wondering how my perception of age has been distorted by a reality shift I don't remember, an extra life and body than I was prepared for, and a bloodline limit-equivalent of biological temporal manipulation. Questioning if I feel older than I was when I first woke up on that beach, or just more experienced. Contemplating if I'll forever think like a teenager, or am already thinking like an adult and haven't noticed, or will simply take more years than are neatly linear to feel a difference. Accepting that I was previously in denial about the depth of my 'true' form dysphoria, until practice—born partly of it being too much of a hassle to keep up a separate identity, on an island where too many knew her as a prepubescent, just to satisfy her own vanity—acclimatized me to a healthier perspective. Realizing that three more years have passed in this world without fanfare. Noticing that I barely even think of it as the 'new' world anymore.

"Oh, nothing. Just feeling a bit hungry. This the last of them, Miss Vellik!" Sakura cheerfully—and truthfully—reported, dismissing the rest of her thoughts as irrelevant. In conclusion with her last line, she carefully set down a stamped crate in an empty space of the bookshop's backroom.

The old woman smiled, wrinkling her facial tapestry of lines even further. A boney hand reached out to pat her on the shoulder, and then drop a pouch of coins. "You work too hard. Eat more! Enjoy your youth! Thank you for helping with the stock today. I'll let you know when my next shipment comes in. Or when your journal subscription comes in! Oh, and thank you again for that miracle salve and the circulation advice; I've said it before and I'll say it again, dear, but you're simply wasted on all that violent nonsense."

"So you've said," she observed politely. Sakura caught her mover's payment with one hand and smiled back in thanks, dipping her head briefly in a shallow bow. This world's people seemed much more casual with societal conventions in general; she'd gradually loosened up her manners in response, but some forms of respect were too ingrained into her conscience.

After a few more goodbye exchanges, a detour to the marketplace, Sakura was soon on her way to Killer's dorm with groceries-laden arms.

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She had moved out of the Grasshopper school half a year after she'd entered, almost as abruptly both ways. Convincing a second dojo to accept her after her 'quitting' had been difficult, but she was stubborn and smart. As her school-hopping continued and became almost an infamous tradition, she found it easier and easier to run through the cycle of acceptance-train-familiarized-transfer.

Oh, there were definitely still those dojo masters who disliked her because of her clear disinclination to permanently return any investment by becoming an instructor through the senior disciple track. But even they grew to like, or at least tolerate, her presence; on a short-term basis she was almost the best student they could ask for, which was rewarding in its own way. There was also always the temptation to 'win' by being school who managed to convince her to stay. (The levels of pettiness that interschool rivalry reached was inspiring.) It didn't hurt that she was also a fairly hefty advantage in the annual multi-school bragging-rights ego competition— ah, student skill display tournament. Widely acknowledged was that she and Killer shared the informal top strength ranks.

Killer, who had stayed on. By now, he'd progressed quite highly through the advanced Grasshopper Style techniques. As a more senior disciple, he still resided on his school's property, but had been promoted a few months ago to his own private living quarters. Which in practice simply meant no roommates to complain about his intense training or terrible drums-playing, as well as a larger room.

The upgraded apartment came with a small kitchenette, however. And as soon as she'd discovered that Killer cooked for a hobby, she'd happily harassed him into cooking for her whenever she dropped by to visit… provided she brought the ingredients as stipulated. He wasn't a very good cook, just an amateur; but he was more interested in actively improving than she was, and it both saved money on food and encouraged his interests outside of pure fighting, a win-win for her. (Also, her—now normalized sensation of—a never-ending appetite wasn't too picky.)

Sakura preferred to not have a single-minded battle-maniac as her only accessible friend. There was only so limited of a conversation or activity pool one could take. It had been fine for in-school sparring partners, but it made things too dull as friends. Thankfully, it hadn't been too hard to change from 'mutually-respectful sparring partners' to 'socializing classmates close in age and skill' to 'friends-with-violent-benefits who met up outside of school (a necessity when one of them changed schools like the weather)'. She'd learned since her mistakes in approach with Ino and Sasuke, alright? And it turned out that Killer was quite easy to talk to; he was hiding a sea of snark under that mop of hair. He never batted an eye at the intelligence she decided against attempting to hide—though honestly, who could tell if he did, buried under those bangs—and they shared a comfortable mutual appreciation of each others' martial ability and adaptive wit.

As she climbed the hilly path to the Grasshopper dojo, she passed by a scenic view of the docks.

She'd picked up the crates there for her bookstore errand today. Though her room and board were usually covered by her current training affiliation, Sakura had begun planning ahead for the future. Well, somewhat. The only thing she was really sure of on her agenda was to revisit Torino Island with gratitude gifts after she decided to move on from Karate Island. And perhaps after that, to see for herself some of the sights she'd read about. Sakura wasn't someone who had a strong impetus to explore, but she did have a compulsion to learn, and a sudden flood of free time.

But to do any of that, she either needed money to buy supplies, or a reckless soul and expert thievery skills. So Sakura had started picking up odd jobs around town—mostly heavy-lifting and running messages and 'hometown remedy' medical aid, all able to productively double as training. Funding an active snack budget also helped satiate her worst hunger cravings when she was too lazy to make a return trip or too unwilling to trouble the tiny dojo cooking staff.

(She was still undecided on whether to buy a ship legitimately or simply steal one off the docks on her way out to fence when convenient. The former would take a painful chunk out of her savings. The latter would maybe risk a record… but she was beginning to think that pink hair wasn't so uncommon that she couldn't simply rely on aged-up looks to distract from any connection to 'Jewelry Bonney', whose pursuers she had found no sign of either.)

Occasionally, she did some unloading work down by the docks, but job competition proved fierce enough that she didn't bother to go for the slim pickings anymore. There were more lucrative opportunities originating in town. Sakura still visited frequently for other purposes; when wheedling lessons on sailing out of the seasoned sea dogs was done for the day, she enjoyed eavesdropping in bars. The town library and bookstore were still better for educating her on the state of the basic and basic geography and sciences and the like, but the bars were where she heard accents to trace and mimic, embellished rumors and prejudices to analyze, and tall tales about legendary devil fruits to hold in a dismayed sigh at.

'Legend' was at least somewhat of an upgrade in credibility from mere 'mythical'. But the only eyewitness accounts of existing wielders were all the same ol' 'friend of a relative of a convoluted chain of relation back to me'.

Passing the scenic view swiftly traded it in for a view of the school—unchanged in appearance since the day she'd first dragged her boat of belongings onto its grounds. Sakura called greetings to the faces she recognized as she confidently wound her way around the internal corridors. Finally coming to a stop in front of a particular set of doors, she simply called out another greeting through the thin wood, rather than set down any of the bags in her hands.

Killer opened the door. "Well, come in then. Good, you brought lunch. What's on sale?"

"Not peperoncino," Sakura informed him in as equally and purposefully bland of a tone. She stepped over the threshold.

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"I'll be leaving this place behind in a few more years, I think," he told her over lunch.

Sakura blinked and smiled, happy for him. "Wanting independence? Let me know when you have a set date in mind; we can go apartment-hunting together, I think I can get you a discount on a few places if you don't mind nosy landladies."

"No," the blond clarified, "I mean I'm leaving the dojo."

At this, she was slightly more curious, but still not really surprised.

"Well, we both already knew that you're close to mastering all that the Grasshopper Style has to teach," she mused philosophically. "I always thought you meant to stay on as a permanent disciple and eventually take over the place, though—Caeli-sensei favors you enough that you're prime choice to inherit. So what do you plan to do instead then? Start your own school? Become a chef? Join the Marines?"

The last one was a joke. Killer had never thought well of the local law-keeping forces, and after witnessing their incompetence for her own, Sakura had to agree. Sure enough, at her airy suggestion, he wrinkled his nose in mock offense.

She just laughed. Her mouth closed on another forkful of pasta. Killer had a passion for noodles in general that warranted comparison to a certain other blond's passion for ramen in specific. When it came his choice to pick a restaurant after a spar—which all their hang-outs inevitably involved, in ninja-style bonding—it always featured at least one such specialty. He'd suggested a new place a few days ago that they hadn't had occasion to go to yet, raving (in a more subdued, Killer-esque fashion) over their highly recommended curry udon with sharply controlled arm gestures—

"Piracy," Killer stated calmly. Killer, who had never before expressed interest in crime, even if he'd seemed plenty disinterested in the opposite.

Sakura swallowed her spaghetti before speaking. She took the time to gather her thoughts. Mind racing to mull over his sudden change of heart, she asked mildly, "What brought this on?"

"I met a guy."

Of all the cliches she didn't think she'd ever hear from him. Of course, given context, he likely didn't mean it that way… but then again, he was in the early throes of puberty now. She knew it was wishful thinking, but it would be nice to have a puppy crush or something to hold over his head. Killer was too level-headed to really rise to any bait outside of battle, and even then it was 50/50 if she'd lose her temper first. Which was a pity, since he was her only friend, not just friendly acquaintance, on Karate. Though she thought about her past life less and less as she lived longer and longer in this one, sometimes some little detail snuck up on her. Sakura sort of missed having comrades to swap breakroom gossip about and mercilessly tease about their interests.

Well, there was always his painful drums-playing…

Nevertheless, it was fine for a joke.

"Oh did you," she leered meaningfully, swirling more strands around the tines of her fork with one hand, and propping up her chin with a fist made of the other.

Killer snorted. He started tasting his own work, mirroring her strand-swirling.

"I'm rolling my eyes right now," he informed her candidly. "You know that's not what I meant. Also, the kid's a baby—I think he might even be a little younger than you. Ten, eleven-ish." He paused. "A really angry baby who could kick my ass."

Now it was her turn to assume a look of mock offense. "Hey, you calling me a child then? This child can kick your ass too, y'know. Want a reminder?"

Sakura didn't really mean it—there was food to take the edge off the gnawing hunger right now—but she had nothing much planned for the afternoon anyway, apart from more training. It was a rest day for her currently enrolled school—a style focused on using superior endurance to turn one's opponent's strength against them. She rather liked it, and thought she might stay a bit longer than usual to refine her understanding before 'graduating' to another.

Killer, on the other hand, did look a little tempted. There had been less and less competition for him to find on the island as they both aged and her generalization (and superior stats) began winning more often than not over his specialization (and advantage of bladed weaponry). Which was part of why she was honestly happy for him to have found an apparent additional sparring partner. Variety in opponents would help him improve faster than he was right now, very close to stagnating. Even if another, larger part was… concerned about who could be charismatic enough to influence the life goals of a person she knew to be as stubbornly independent as he was slyly sarcastic and deceptively reasonable. (Killer's deceptiveness was unintentional; people simply didn't expect someone who first considered alternative conflict resolution to be so completely ruthless when moved to violence.

"Well, you're a growing girl after well, I'd hate to be the one to pull you away from important meals. I can wait the minute it'll take you to finish off the food," he drawled.

Sakura simultaneously beamed sunnily and performed a rude hand gesture she'd picked up from the dockworkers. Rude hand gestures had apparently evolved into entirely different branches of vulgarity through her two worlds, giving her the joy of learning them twice. She would've done it double-handed for extra effect, but she was still making her way through the veritable tub of spaghetti. The easy-to-make-in-bulk quality of most noodle dishes was, she had to admit, a point in their favor for this life's physique.

Intending a prompt, she trailed off, "This kid who converted you to apparent piracy…?"

Killer complied without resistance. As he spoke, he reached for a bottle of dried chili flakes and seasoned his pasta. "I met him by the scrapyard. He must have arrived on the island pretty recently, maybe with that merchant ship that came a week ago; I didn't recognize him from off the street anywhere. So I'm just minding my own business, thinking about how I'm supposed to lead hand-scythe practice the next morning, when this kid just marches straight up to me—all scowls and attitude—plants himself in front of me, waves a wrench in my face and demands a fight.

"'Why?' I ask the punk. Kid glares up at me under these giant goggles and a thornbush of hair—literally a bloodied porcupine, you'll see—and says, completely serious, 'The next pirate king needs a strong crew and you're the second-strongest fighter on an island known for it. I'm recruiting. You got a problem with that?' And there was this look in his eyes… like he was just daring me to answer yes…"

Killer fell silent. Sakura kept eating while she watched him visibly chew over a memory—even with only half his face truly visible, and the other half preoccupied in physically chewing over spaghetti. He finally concluded, "…I can't explain it. But I really thought for a moment that this kid—he was going to reach the top or wreck the world trying."

"You were intimidated by an eleven-year-old?" she queried in light disbelief.

"A goddamn eleven-year-old intimidated me for a second," he agreed easily, before correcting, "and then I was just impressed with his guts.

"After that I asked a few questions of course, like 'what the hell' and 'where's your parents' and, you know, 'excuse me what do you mean second-strongest' and he just pretty much waved it all off to say that I seemed more dedicated and therefore more suitable for first mate. And then we fought and he won—barely—and I thought this kid was interesting enough that I wanted to see where he went. There was a 'blood and glory' speech thrown in there somewhere.

"So then I basically promised to be his first mate if he never lost to me for the time until we leave Karate Island. I think he intends to hop around the South Blue for a while to gather a better crew and train up some before moving on to something bigger. Do pirates need to practice piracy? Anyway, so yeah. I met a guy."

She didn't discount the probability that his casual summary had just been to annoy her. Still: "You're terrible at storytelling," Sakura muttered, distracted. All that was quite interesting, but her attention had remained snagged on— "'You'll see'? You're planning on introducing us?"

"Tomorrow at that new udon place," he confirmed matter-of-factly.

"What if I'm busy?" she tested idly.

"You're not. We were going to meet up tomorrow anyway. Hey, fair warning—if he thinks I'm only second-strongest—" He sounded slightly miffed, but not resentful. "—there's no question he'll challenge you tomorrow, too."

Sakura raised an eyebrow, amused. She broke away from steadily refilling her bowl to take a sip of water. "Thanks for the heads-up. Can I get a name to go with just 'kid'?"

"Sure." His chin tilted up, lips quirking. "Kid's called 'Kid'."

"…"

"No, I'm serious. Well, he did tell me to just call him 'Captain' if I wanted, but that's not happening until we set sail seriously or he hits a growth spurt. And, oh yeah, I knew you'd be interested in this part, you've always been so nerdy over anything related—"

Killer pretended to muse thoughtfully. He was just dragging out a silence for dramatic effect now, the asshole. Sakura stared at him dead-eyed while she kept eating without needing to look, trusting her hand-eye coordination to pull it off.

"—he has a Devil Fruit power," he relented. The capitalized emphasis was audible. There was an expectant sort of air around him. She likely disappointed with her reaction, then.

"…You're sure?"

"He made his toy robot trip me and then assembled a 'fuck off'-big robot from spare scrapmetal to distract me from the disembodied metal arms all reaching for me. It was great agility training. Yeah, I'm pretty fucking sure it wasn't anything natural."

"You never know. And no need to brag. I'll arm-wrestle you any day, see how agility helps you then."

"It would in actual wrestling if you didn't fight dirty."

"As if you actually know 'actual wrestling' anyway, Mr. 'Epitome-of-a-Fair-Fight-I'm-certain'."

"True. Okay, just—" Killer sobered. "—Give the kid a chance, you'll understand what I mean."

She hummed neutrally. This was clearly, in inexplicably, of some importance to him. Her fork clanged against porcelain. "I'll reserve judgement for now. So, spar? I want to see if that countermove works if I interrupt it before finalized."

"You need an after-meal workout to help that black hole you call 'digestion'?" he shot back dryly.

Sakura smiled sweetly, eyes slipping shut. "One day you're going to comment on the wrong person's diet, who won't be as forgiving and kindly-tempered as I obviously am, and 'Killer' be 'killed'."

Killer just went still in a way that implied he was rolling his eyes again, and stood up from the table. "Whatever," he said casually. "Same rules as usual: biggest eater brings groceries and washes the dishes. Catch you in the training yard in ten."

"Have fun molesting your blades!" she called after him tauntingly, knowing that he'd undoubtedly be attending to weapons maintenance in the meantime.

"Thanks, I will!" he called back, unruffled. "I'll think of you as I do!"

Sakura performed an eye-roll of her own, fond as it was. Perhaps this 'Kid' would be more fun to get a rise out of.

Well, she thought as she scraped the huge bowl clean of its last scraps, licking sauce stains off the serving spoon, like I said. I'll reserve judgement. For now. Who knows, maybe I'll see whatever it is Killer sees in an eleven-year-old scrappy little shit…

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Less than twenty-four hours later, Sakura was sure that if she ever set sail with one Eustass Kid, they would either kill each other or she'd kill him trying. (No, not herself. What was the point in that? Him.) Even with Killer hypothetically on-board to moderate.

Okay, that was an exaggeration. This was still just a literal kid, half bravado and half bitterness plastered over an obviously sensitive ego. The brat had years left to grow up and change his ways into a decent human being who valued human life and all that.

So just give it a few years before she saw herself really ready to kill him, then.

'Scrappy little shit' was right.

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Sakura!Bonney: Part 4

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