Hello~~

This story sort of came out of nowhere, and I decided to write it even though, I must admit, I don't usually write much angst. I wasn't expecting to ever attempt a story where Marco was a slave, but it seems we can't know anything for sure.

I've tried to keep things believable, at least as much as I could manage. I hope you like it. Reviews are greatly loved and constructive criticism is appreciated.

This story has been beta-read and the plot revised by the lovely Anjelle :D Thank you so much for the help :)

Being Human

Heavy, low gasps are the loudest sound he allows to escape his parted, dry and chapped lips. He clings to consciousness with the same desperate will with which he has been clinging to his sanity and sense of self for this long time of which he lost count a long time ago.

"Truly impressive!" He hears the unnamed, bejeweled middle aged man exclaim, just like so many others did when his 'master' displayed the unique attributes of one of his most pricey possessions. The man goes on and on about how he has healed from all the wounds inflicted upon his body, how he is alive despite the fact that the amount of blood splattered both on the expensive rug and the tools used on him is more than a body has. "And you were right," the man says as an ending note to the compliments he is lavishing upon his acquaintance, "I must admit I didn't believe you when you said it didn't scream. I expected it would when-"

He doesn't pay attention anymore; he can feel how they are done 'playing' with him and can allow himself to ignore their gushing voices.

'It'. That's what he has been called since the first time he arrived here. He hates it just as much as he did that first day, but has long since stopped showing that hatred. Not only does it not make a difference, but his 'master' enjoys showing him that it doesn't matter what he thinks, because he has no power over his person.

He is not a person. That's what they've tried to beat into him from the beginning. But they can't. It doesn't matter that they believe they have accomplished it. His mind is his and, no matter what they try, that's something they won't take away like they did everything else.

His 'master' thinks he doesn't scream because he is so broken he can't do it; the man has never realized that is his form of defiance, his way to show him he that can't control every aspect of him as he so clearly wants.

"Take it away and replace the rug," he hears the house master's voice, and soon enough the guard of six men that carry to and from his cell surround him, one of them taking the chain connected to his collar and pulls to drag him across the floor. It's so common an occurrence that it doesn't even hurt anymore, much less in comparison to everything else that has just happened.

He doesn't move, and he knows the men think he has lost consciousness, his eyes half-lidded as they are every time they think he is. It has been a long time since he actually lost consciousness, but he stays still every time and lets them believe it because that way they leave him alone. The men moving him are as incapable to realize he is human as all the guests that come to the house, and they have no issue attacking him when he is not shackled with kairoseki, because the damage will disappear and no one will never know.

But it is no fun hitting someone unconscious —though they call him 'something', not 'someone'—, as they have complained of in various occasions, and it is hard, very hard, to wake them if they passed out from pain. Or so they think. They don't know he is awake, that he simply doesn't react to their attempts to wake him because they are nothing in comparison to what he has just gone through. They have to be careful; it is their lives in risk if he does die in their care, after all.

He isn't panting, not even a bead of sweat has broken from his body when the last guard falls, unconscious and quite possibly on his way to being dead, to the ground.

He hears all the frightened, frantic whispers around. The people who were watching the fight in horror are wondering what will happen to them now that the tax collectors have been attacked, their guards going down with them. They are terrified of what the lord will do now, if he will blame them and slaughter them all, or if he will take any other form of retribution. Perhaps steal all their young girls, as he did once a decade ago.

Someone says to capture the assailant, in hopes that it will pacify the lord to know that they are loyal to him and didn't take any part on the attack. No one tries, however, all of them wary of the huge man who has singlehandedly defeated twenty people, the same people that none of them has ever dared to look at the wrong way.

Edward Newgate doesn't care what they think, he has seen and learned all he needed during his few hours here. The villagers have been nice people to him, they have been willing to give him shelter and sell him some provisions despite being so obviously poor themselves. The malnourishment is apparent through the loose, ripped clothes they wear —clothes that in most cases haven't even been patched up—, the poverty and sadness of the village reflected in every dirty corner, every broken board seen in the houses.

He has wondered the reason for this since he arrived, because the land that can be seen as far as sight goes is green. There are plenty of fields surrounding the village. Although not necessarily rich, the people should have been able to live well enough, and certainly be well feed.

The answer presented itself half an hour ago. Two fat men dressed in expensive-looking suits came surrounded by a contingent of armed and muscular soldiers. The villagers ran as they saw them, presumably to enter their homes, and Newgate was the only one left where he had been —the sole patron in the only tavern-restaurant in the whole place— but no one closed their doors. As the men advanced on the street, people came out with offerings to the lord, be it crates of fruit, boxes full of fish or livestock. The two men in suits nodded at every offering, one of them writing something on a notepad, and the guards lifted them up into a cart they dragged among four of them.

Then, when no one came out of from one of the houses, the group stopped. The nervousness and fear could be seen on all the faces peering from their own doors even before ten of the guards marched in and came back moments later dragging an emaciated woman along with two little boys who barely looked better than her. The boys kicked and screamed. The woman just cried, her eyes not moving from who were clearly her two sons.

The three had been thrown to the middle of the dirt path that was the village's main street, and no one reacted when the guards charged their weapons and aimed at them. The woman kept crying and sobbing, hugging the two boys to her body, also preventing them from charging at the men as they were trying to do, and they would have been shot right there if Newgate hadn't intervened, slamming the three men aiming their weapons at them to the ground with his bisento.

That was when the panicked screams broke amongst the citizens, turning to fearful whispers as Newgate took down all the guards present along with the two men who tried to flee when they realized the opponent was too strong for their soldiers.

With all the men down, and the furious whispers he can hear all around from people too scared to step out of their homes —the woman is still crying and embracing her children and hasn't looked up at him once— that pretty much confirm what he has already guessed, Newgate knows what to do next.

That the mansion standing at the top of the hill most likely contains a good amount of treasure is only an added reason to attack it.

A series of tremors shake the whole building.

The men around him, still halfway through the hallways, stop and look around worriedly. Earthquake, someone says. Then screams come from the opposite direction they are headed to, from the main house.

"The lord!" All six of them exclaim, and there are some rapid looks and nods exchanged.

"We can take care of it," one of the men state, gesturing to himself and the one to his left.

The others nod and, without a glance at their burden, take off running to the main part of the mansion.

The two men in charge of him exchange a worried look, no doubt concerned about the constant screams and crashes now coming from that direction, but he doesn't pay the two of them any mind. The voices coming from there are angry, scared and furious, but there is another. A voice he has never felt before, one that is also angry and furious, one that is so much more powerful than all the others put together that he can barely feel anything else. Whoever it is, they are attracting all the others in the house, and he somehow doubts even that will be enough.

Suddenly, it becomes clear to him. He has been waiting for a chance like this for what feels like his whole life, and he will take it. Death will be an acceptable price if he doesn't succeed because, if he fails now, it means he doesn't have a way out, and death will always be better than anything here.

Slowly moving his hands as to not draw attention from the two guards talking worriedly to one another, he places them flat on the stone floor and concentrates on gathering all the strange strength that came with the ability to hear the voices. He was too weakened already when it came, and has always been aware that he couldn't take his six usual guards with it, but two he can risk.

Gritting his teeth, he lashes a foot out and hits one of the men on the back of the calf, sending him down with a surprised yell on top of his companion, surprise making him release the chain.

Before they can react, in what is pure desperation coursing through his veins, he jumps to his feet, chain held in one hand to prevent them from taking it, and lunges at them, bony fingers going straight for the second man's eyes.

Newgate looks on with distaste at the body impaled on his bisento. He is a short, overweight man with a curly black beard, hands full of expensive rings. He had been waiting in this room —which appears to be some sort of oversized sitting room full of paintings— surrounded by a small army of fifty men waiting for him. The man, this disgusting parody of a human being, had congratulated Newgate for defeating so many of his soldiers before reaching the very well protected room, and in what he must have believed a magnanimous proposal he had offered him to join his personal guard.

The tremor Edward created as an answer was nowhere near strong enough to kill or destroy the building, but it did throw the whole group to the floor. Then, the so called lord, after staring fixedly at him for all of two seconds, ordered all of his men to capture him as a new addition to his collection.

Collection.

The man has —had— a collection. Somewhere in this building, and Newgate somehow doubts that the whole thing is made up of objects. He wanted to add a human being to it, which can only mean one thing.

Slaves.

He looks around, to see if there is someone still conscious, but no one moves the slightest bit nor groan, and he realizes he has killed them all in his rage.

It doesn't matter. He just has to think. Where would you keep slaves, to have them both out of the way and prevent an easy escape? The basement, of course.

Now he just has to find the entrance.

A string of all the curses he has ever heard runs as a mantra in his head as he tries to stand up, arms barely holding his upper body upright after his legs have given way under him. It's been so long since he walked, the chains tied to his wrists and ankles in his cell too short to allow him to stand properly, that he hasn't managed to move long.

It doesn't matter that he has killed the two guards; if he can't move anymore, he can't escape either way, and the fast disappearance of voices in the house tells him the attacker is moving fast, and it is a matter of time before they begin to search the house —because why else would somebody attack this place if not for the money, gold and other valuables?—and find him.

He has to go, and now it seems he won't even be able to reach the kitchens first and steal some food beforehand. They aren't far from here, he knows because he has been taken there enough times to be tortured with the sight of more food than he could even imagine, but it doesn't matter if his legs won't move.

He freezes. The attacker is coming closer now, he can hear the voice more clearly with each passing moment.

He curses and bites down on his the inside of his dry mouth. He was so close.

Gathering all of his forces, he manages to push himself into a sitting position against the wall, the cold stone helping to hold up his body as he can't do on his own.

If he is going to die, he refuses to do so sprawled on the ground and unable to see his killer. And he refuses to cry, too.

It doesn't matter how much the few tears his eyes are capable to create want to go down, he won't let them.

He can hear the faint sound of heavy steps, now.

He was so close.

Edward Newgate freezes in his tracks. It seems he has found the collection. Or a piece of it, at least.

There, sitting on the floor and leaning against the wall, is a naked man. Or perhaps a boy, it's hard to tell. He is young, Newgate can tell that much, but whether he is fifteen or twenty five is impossible to guess. His body is so thin that the man can tell apart all his ribs, as well as many other bones he doesn't know the names of. The tuft of hair on his head is matted with blood and dirt to the point where it is impossible to tell what color it really is. There is a slave collar around his neck, the bloodied chain connected to it pooling on the ground, and he also has also blood on his hands and splattered over his paper-white skin in a way that suggests at least not all of it is his, just as the apparent lack of wounds does.

He has sunken cheeks, and there's no hair on his chin —or anywhere else in his body besides his head for that matter— and lips so parched it's a wonder part of them hasn't fallen off.

Newgate avoids looking at the boy's eyes for his whole scrutiny that can't have taken up more than a couple of seconds, but he braces himself and finally does so.

He has to refrain from taking a step back.

The boy's blue eyes are burning with defiance. There is no fear, no tears, no emptiness, nothing resembling the eyes of the few slaves he has seen before. There is no trace in those eyes of a broken soul, a soul that should, that would be expected, to mimic the body housing them.

The boy can't stand, that much is obvious from the way his arms hang limply at his sides, how he is no longer really holding the chain and it is instead just resting on his half-open hand. All his strength seems centered on holding his head high —because his head is held high despite the notorious difference of height with Newgate's own head— and his eyes focused.

"Are you going to kill me?"

The question takes him back. Not the words, they aren't so different from what he has heard —what he has been asked for— from other slaves, but the voice in which it is spoken is unexpected. It is raspy from disuse, but that doesn't interfere with the calm, almost indifferent tone the boy has used. He isn't asking to be killed, he isn't begging for it as Newgate has been begged on a couple of occasions.

He doesn't care.

No, that's not true. He cares. And that is the most surprising of it all.

The boy wants to live.

"What's your name, son?"

He sees the boy's eyes widen to almost the size of saucers, and wonders how long it has been since anybody asked that of him. How long it has been since anybody used his name.

The boy hesitates, and for a moment Newgate wonders if he even has a name and, if he does, if he remembers it. Before he can express those thoughts, however, that calm voice that doesn't fit the situation at all answers:

"Marco."

The older man grins.

"I'm Edward Newgate, a pirate," he sees Marco's eyes widen and grins when he notices the boy still isn't afraid, "what do you say, Marco? Do you want to join my crew and become my son?"

Marco feels his jaw going slack, and he is sure the man, Edward Newgate, can see it.

He had expected many possible developments for this meeting, and all of them ended, invariably, in his own death —because he isn't going to become a slave again, and he knows there are many people out there who would feel entitled to own him because he has been one once already— but this hadn't crossed his mind.

And he isn't sure he can fully understand it.

'Join my crew'. Something inside Marco stirs at these words, a fragment of a life, of a child's innocence, that he thought destroyed. Or perhaps it's a memory of a long dead dream. An image of a wooden tree house and a crate serving as a table to draw maps comes to mind.

'Become my son'. Son? What is a son? He knows the meaning of the word, of course, but not beyond a textbook definition. What does a son do? What does being a son mean? He has never been a son, not even before. And it's such a strange question.

The man before him is strange. Why hasn't he attacked? He is strong, Marco knows that, so strong he has killed all the guards Marco couldn't dream to defeat without getting more than a few scratches for his trouble. Why is he here, then? Why is he wasting time with someone no one has ever bothered beyond using to obtain their twisted pleasure, someone no one has even acknowledged as human for so long? The collar around his neck marks him as someone —because he is not a thing or a property, he has always refused to accept that and never will— that no one should consider as an equal.

But he doesn't ask about that, only a word comes out of his sorely unused throat.

"Son?"

The smile that stretches Newgate's lips is an expression that has never been directed at Marco before, not even when he was considered human by the world. It is a caring gesture, one filled with pride and deep longing. He knows those emotions, has seen them before, but never before all together, and never in such a soft expression, no smugness to accompany the pride and no envy or anger to join the longing. And it brings a heavy weight to Marco's dry throat.

"It's my dream. To have a family."

He sees the surprise on Marco's gaunt face. It's such a common, yet unique reaction. Marco is surprised, yes, most people are after hearing his dream, but he isn't amused, he isn't mocking him. It's almost as if the boy can't understand his dream and, in all honesty, Newgate wouldn't be surprised if he discovered he really can't.

Marco's jaw, that had fallen at hearing his offer, trembles, and the man expect him to cry. Tears do gather in his eyes —not many, because he doubts the boy's body has the necessary energy to produce them—, but they don't fall. Somehow, Marco manages to hold them back, and the impressive willpower Newgate has seen in these few minutes amazes him.

"Why would you want… me?"

He sees the expression that crosses Marco's face as soon as those words are out and realizes the boy hadn't meant to ask that question. The man can almost tell, just by looking at the boy before him —and now his first idea that he could be even twenty five seems absurd, he is just a child—, that he is struggling to understand. Newgate doesn't know what he has been told or for how long, but he knows what is thought of slaves by those who trade and buy them, and those notions are obviously fighting with whatever has kept Marco sane.

He walks closer, there had still been some ten feet separating them, and stoops down on one knee. He still towers over the boy, who is tall for the life he has led —he absently wonders how tall Marco would have grown if he hadn't been forced into slavery—, but he hopes this position isn't as intimidating as the previous one. Marco might have not shown it, but the pirate doubts he hadn't felt intimidated at all by him.

"I like you, Marco," he says. In any other circumstance, with someone who hadn't lived through what Marco has, he would have used 'brat', not as an insult, but as a way to show they were worrying over nothing. Now, however, he is sure any word like that would have the wrong effect on Marco. Mentioning his name, however, seemed to go well before.

Marco's lower lip trembles again, and this time he bites it. A tear falls down all the same, and when Marco parts his lips he pulls with his teeth a strip of dry skin.

'Marco'.

Not 'it', not 'you', not 'that' or 'this'. 'Son', when the man didn't know his name, but nothing else.

Is this too good to be true? Is he dreaming again? Maybe one of those hallucinations that sometimes come to him after an especially bad day. Today hasn't been one of these days, but perhaps his mind had decided to bring them more often.

A beeping sound fills his ears.

He freezes, and the part of his mind that used to think there might be a higher entity desperately wishes that this is a hallucination.

But it doesn't matter. The collar around his neck is beeping, for some reason activated. Whether it did because his 'master' is dead, because of something about Marco himself or because someone pressed the button on the remote it doesn't matter, it is about to explode and he has to get away.

Because this man cares, or at least is the closest to caring that anybody has ever been, and Marco doesn't want to see him dead because of it.

"Go away," he asks, his voice cracking slightly for the first time. This is unknown territory and he doesn't know how to react.

The man doesn't move, instead leaning closer, and Marco puts the little strength he has gathered into crawling away. He has to get as far from the man as possible. The beeping is coming out faster, and it must be a matter of moments now.

A huge hand stops him, easily wrapping around most of his body, and it brings him closer to Newgate.

In the panic that's rapidly taking over him —Panic! He hasn't felt that in what must be years!—he does something he hadn't done in so long he thought himself incapable of doing anymore.

He struggles.

"Let go! Do you want to die?!" Yelling is almost a new experience to him, and he is so intent on freeing himself that his head doesn't register what his action could result into.

"Stay still, I'm trying to get these off," Newgate says, and this time he sounds annoyed. Marco freezes, taking that for one of the orders he has long since learned to obey in order to avoid consequences.

He is still now, and can hear the keys jingling in the man's hand. He doesn't see them, because the lock is at the back of his neck, but the pirate is grumbling and it doesn't feel like any of the keys he is trying fits. The beeping is coming so fast now he can't differentiate between each individual sound.

Marco doesn't realize, later won't be able to remember when it happened exactly, but blue flames burst from his body and they envelop everything, wrapping themselves around the collar in a way that, though not completely containing the blast, when it explodes only minor burnt marcs are left on Newgate's hands.

He transforms back into his human form without really thinking of it, too. He doesn't move. He doesn't even breathe. He's done it now, he showed his power.

Now, whatever pity or curiosity the man felt for him is gone, and he only hopes Newgate doesn't feel to angry at him —he has saved him from at least very serious burns, and no normal human, even stronger than usual, would have come out of that unscathed—, and Marco hopes that will be enough for the man to simply leave him there, not kill him or decide to use him too.

There is only one thing that didn't change when he became a slave, and it is what other think of his power. He is a monster, he has heard it for as long as he can remember, he knows normal people can't do these things. That eating one of those cursed fruits turns someone into a monster.

Marco turns, if only because his blood is pounding so loud in his head that he can barely feel anything, and he wants to know when the first strike will come.

Newgate is smiling. He isn't smirking, he isn't staring at him with disgust or condescension. He is smiling at him.

"So you're a Devil Fruit user,"

Marco nods. He knows answering questions prevents people from getting angrier in most cases.

Newgate laughs. It's a loud sound, but it's not high-pitched, nor is it cold. It's a strange sound, Marco doesn't know when the last time he heard a good-natured laugh was. He doesn't even know how he knows that what he is hearing is that, but he somehow does.

Then the man raises a fist and Marco fights back a flinch —a punch from that must hurt way more than the ones he is used to receive from time to time— but it's not aimed at him, it is pointed to the side and in an angle that would be awkward to punch him, and Marco observes, confused, as Edward Newgate just punches the air.

And the air trembles.

A crack appears across the opposite wall. It's shallow, but it is there, and a stronger tremor might have made the building crumble.

"I ate one, too," and, at Marco's dumbfounded expression, he laughs again.

And something he never really believed to happen —even if he wanted it to— happens: far beyond the impossible dreams he entertains himself with during the long hours of solitude, far beyond anything he ever allowed himself to wish for, for the first time in forever Marco feels hope.

He is a monster to the world, but so is Edward Newgate. The man isn't angry, he isn't disgusted; he is laughing, and he still hasn't let go of Marco. It's not a painful hold, either, and it is the only reason why Marco hasn't crumbled to the ground at this point. The man keeping him up has not only offered to take him away, he has saved him. Because that tremor wasn't unlike the one that shook the manor earlier, the one that had those four guards dash away and allowed Marco to escape.

And that is why Marco allows himself to hope, just this once, that something might go well.

He doesn't wait, he might change his mind, second-guess himself, and so he raises his head to look the man in the eye.

"I want to join your crew."

He grins. He just can't help it.

He stands up, lifting Marco in both hands as he does. The boy yelps, that is more of a reaction than he had expected, but doesn't voice any complaints. Any other boy his age would be yelling at the indignity of being carried that way and demanding to be put down immediately, even if they were in a state as bad as Marco's and obviously couldn't walk on their own.

He decides to take a small risk and act as if Marco had reacted that way. He raises an eyebrow.

"Can you walk?" He doesn't use an overly teasing tone, he doesn't know if it has ever been used with Marco for something that it shouldn't, and is relieved when the boy doesn't react adversely.

"No," he answers, and lets himself be shuffled into a more comfortable position on one of the captain's arms, not sitting up because Newgate doubts he can keep that stance on his own.

"We should get you some food and clothes. A shower, too." Raising the now charred keys, he fumbles with them until he finds the right one for the equally charred collar still lodged around Marco's neck and finally opens it, the object falling uselessly to the floor.

Marco answers his question about where the kitchen is, he hasn't passed it before, and he begins walking in a much better mood than when he had entered the mansion. He now has his first crewmember —who hasn't really agreed to become his son as well but Newgate is determined to earn his trust enough for that with time— and they will soon set sail away from this cursed island.

He doesn't delude himself, he knows Marco is far from alright. There is a long way ahead before the boy can get past what he has lived for who knows how long, and it won't be an easy path most of the time.

Newgate is determined to help him in every step of the way. He won't let his first son fall apart when he is there to prevent it from happening.

This story appears as complete BUT I will update it from time to time. It's not going to be a fanfic in the sense of it showing the whole story, but we will see bits and pieces of what happens from this point onward. There's no update schedule, though.

Leave a review before you go? :)