Disclaimer: I don't own One Piece. It rightfully belongs to Oda Eiichiro.

Drowning

Even before she had fallen right into the heart of a crisis she'd worked almost her whole life to avoid, Xena had the premonition of a day screwed up to max.

That morning, she'd woken up feeling queasy and highly irritable. Her stomach was oddly churning and just as she was coming full well to her senses from a frustrating, sleepless night, she found herself on her knees in the tiny washroom retching last night's dinner out of her system. After her stomach was satisfactorily hollowed out, she washed some med without half a notice down her throat with fruit juice that tasted as stale as the molding bread on her little kitchen slab—satisfied, however, that it was only because of the aftertaste of the vomit. As she lay face down in her messed up bed, she made mental notes of tasks that lay ahead of her for the day. This was something of a daily ritual—making up a task list for the day every morning before getting on with it—only, normally, she preferred doing that with a fresh mind, sitting down at the little table which substituted for both dining table and study table—pretty much any kind of table one might need in the house. Structuring the day was, for the most part, the most soothing task of her day so she felt in control of every little detail and in turn, a kind of stability that had been the mantra that had guided her life for eighteen whole years—or more like the thirteen years that she'd been living on her own after her mother had smiled her last.

Her mother, she'd been a complete opposite—spontaneous and unpredictable and the five fleeting years that she remembered the most vividly were full of bittersweet memories—frustrated moments when she swore to live a more predictable and stable life, joyous moments when she looked up to the strong, sweet woman that was her mother, and moments of childish confusion when she was riddled with questions about her origin, her existence and her life.

She cursed under her breath as a tear rolled down the bridge of her nose and disappeared in the creases of her pillow. Breathing deep, she decided it was only a reaction of her stinging eyes, thanks to the morning's (un)pleasantries. And then she jerked out of the bed, running to the sink throwing up more junk out of her apparently empty stomach. The day, no doubt, was off to a bad start, she confirmed as she collapsed on the floor, curling in on herself, right cheek pressed against the cool tiles to provide some comfort.

She ticked off the morning shift job at the town's only bookstore where she earned half her living. She'd have to apologize and explain her absence, even though the owners were too considerate to reprimand her. On her way to the later shift at the bar she worked at, she would drop by and return the borrowed books too. Till she lost all her energy and closed her eyes for a short nap, she kept adding and ticking off tasks on her mental list.

It wasn't until the sun was completing its journey for the day in the western half when she woke up and, cursing the sudden sickness and sleep, started rushing around, getting ready for the job. She felt rejuvenated and despite the lapse in her day's schedule, thanked the long hours of sleep that soothed away all the morning's queasiness and finally returned her stomach to a healthy hunger. She'd grab something to eat on the way to the bar and hoping nothing major happened—which almost never did, considering it was a small, sleepy town, tucked unnoticed, far away from the mainland—she would be able to get back to her bed in time and the stable cycle of life would be back on track from the next day on. That thought comforted her as she passed the bookstore, deciding to do the apology-explaining stuff later on her way back as she glanced at the clock on the tower in the main square and picked up her pace, backpack bouncing, bracing for another stinking late evening.

The bell jingled as she slid apologetically into the dingy little shack and put on an apron and tied her hair back in a bandanna to start serving food and drinks. The owner of the bar sighed through the smoke of his pipe as she took up two loaded trays in her hands and looked into the direction he pointed.

As loud and lively as the place always was, a fight was not welcome. Which was exactly what seemed to have broken out in one corner occupied by a few bandits she recognized by those dusty little posters stuck in the back alleys. The belligerent lot were apparently yelling and shaking their fists at a man who seemed to have fallen asleep in the middle of eating and wasn't even twitching at the loud crashes.

Xena sighed, knowing exactly what the frustrated puffs of smoke from the owner meant. Even though he was the owner, he never tried doing anything for the bar on his own. Well, he paid her well so she was no one to complain. But she was especially supposed to take care of most of the crazy business. Managing—at least minimizing the damage—to the bar was a tough job to do when they had all kinds of rogues landing up in the bar and getting drunk and creating a ruckus. She personally felt people came looking just for fights at the bar to release their frustrations.

"I got this," she grumbled as she made her way to the tables.

Counting three bandits against one sleeping, almost-boy-but-not-quite man, she put on a murderous scowl and spoke in a loud voice, "Three ganging up on one seems kinda unfair, don't it?" she walked up to the group and stood between the bandits and the young man.

"Get the hell away, kid," the bandit with a very sour face—she presumed to be the leader—growled. "This ain't none of yer shitty business."

"Oh but it is," she glowered. "You'd better take this little scuffle of yours out or I'll have you pay ten times over for every glass you break here."

"Heh," he grinned contemptuously, crashing a bear mug to the floor just to prove a point as his sidekicks sniggered. "Y'see, brat, I'm kinda pissed here and ye'd do good to get lost unless ya wan' me ta send yeh flying. Now, scram."

"That'd be five hundred belli," she said firmly, glancing at the owner who was now shaking his head incredulously. If she didn't have the moron pay for the damage, she realized, it'd get cut from her paycheck.

"Wench," sour-face growled, raising his huge fist. But before she could prepare to dodge, the young man who'd probably slept off in the middle of the original scuffle yawned loudly and blinked before getting back to feasting as if nothing in his world was out of the ordinary. Shortly, he looked up at the bandits and regarded them with an amused kind of smirk before getting back to stuffing his mouth with food. He had a rather good-looking freckled face, she noted as the bandits turned back on him. He wore a long coat open on the front and a hat that looked rather classy and amusing at the same time. In the back of her head, she registered knowing him from somewhere but couldn't quite place his face in recent memory.

"You scum," the bandit snarled.

So much for the job, she stepped in between again and before the bandit could land a punch to the nonchalant man's face, Xena dodged and smashed her elbow hard into his chin. One good thing about being swift and tiny—the surprise element always worked for her. The bandit stumbled back into his two pets, knocking over a table, tipping it and sending all the glasses down in a loud crash. From the corner of her eye, she saw the owner scowl and decided it was getting rather out of hand.

"Bitch," he roared, standing back up and rubbing his chin. Blood trickled down from his mouth. "I'm getting' ya back fer this."

She shook her head mentally knowing she'd gone ahead and done it now. For the most part of her calculation, though, she knew mad bandits were far easier to handle. So she did what she knew would be the last straw—she smirked.

"Sure," she said smoothly, though her stomach was in knots inside her.

Raising her hands up, she started walking to the doorway. She could not afford to have the bar damaged any more than it already was. Deciding it was high time she took it out of there, she glanced at the owner and he nodded. If she could get rid of the rogues, she'd have her paycheck. So much for the job of the day. She was almost to the door when she heard a familiar click.

"Yer so gunna regret gettin' cocky with a bandit, brat," she heard him grin through his words as he pressed the cool metallic point of the gun to her temple.

"Right," she said, gulping as she successfully covered the last few steps out of the bar and heard the door shut them out. Her paycheck, for one, was safe. About herself, she was going to have to do some recalculations quick and cool.

"Now that I see…" the bandit barked, pinching her face in his hand and turning it his way to have a better look. "You don't got a face half-bad."

"Yeah," she twisted away, holding her breath to get away from the reek of the booze. "Thanks!" she said in a mock-cheer as she smiled a sarcastically sweet smile.

"Tie her up," the bandit snarled at his lackeys, holding back from slapping her across the face. "I got better idea to get profit outta chicks as this one."

As they tied her up and prodded her to walk, holding the gun to her back, she breathed quick, deep breaths, working out how to get out of the rather self-created mess. As she assessed, they only had one gun at hand. Her hands, thanks to a little deceptive trick, were tied loosely and with a little struggle and squeezing, she could free herself. Before she could work up the courage and the right spot to make a break for it, she realized they'd walked up to the shore. A bit of the earlier churning returned to her stomach as she watched the waves wash up and down the sandy beach. Taking three deep breaths, each one a countdown, she closed her eyes. At three, with all the volunteered courage, she swerved to her left and swiftly kicked the gun out of the bandit's hand. Another kick and the gun was out of reach. Next came the wriggling and struggling as she ran towards the only direction unguarded by the three bandits—the sea.

On her part, the grave miscalculation was the errors drunkenness could create. As she tugged hard at her hand, she realized the disorderly fashion in which the rope had been tied around her hands was stuck good and tight and she couldn't after all free herself. The brief hesitation that followed this destructive discovery and the aversion to the billowing sea was enough for the sour-faced bandit—growing sourer by the second—to catch her by the back of her neck, twirl her around and slap her across the face with the back of his hand. She landed in the sand breathing raggedly, her lip cut and bleeding.

"Dun get cocky, y'bitch," the bandit said, kicking her in the back before his lackeys picked her up and tossed her into their little boat like some plundered commodity. She wriggled and kicked as they pushed off the shore. Once in the sea, she knew she'd lose any chances of fighting back. Sea was synonymous to terror.

As she lay there, shuddering and coughing, she realized the food she'd shoved down on her way was about to come back up right then. Her case of seasickness was rather extreme in that way… the undulating rocking of the hard board and the lapping, gurgling sound of water against the wood was enough to bring all stuff back from the stomach through her throat and out. In all this, she failed to notice a hard bump and consequent violent rocking of the boat. As she prepared to retch, she heard the shouts of the bandits over the deafening roar of the sea and her own heartbeats thudding in her eardrums. The next moment she realized she was hauled up and tossed into water after the rope binding her was cut loose.

Fear overpowered her as she saw water wash over, going down—maybe up or sideways—the whole world twirled until she lost all sense of direction. There was no gravity. She broke out to the surface once—probably twice—but her body and mind were so paralyzed, she could not draw breath. She was just drowning—the way of death she'd feared most. Her hands clutched at nothing, trying to hold onto something to pull her out but she kept going down. She heard deafening splashes as if something heavy breaking the surface of the sea which seemed rather calm now that it was devouring her. As she closed her eyes, in one futile attempt she kicked weakly and her hand partly came up. If only, she could breathe through it. Now she was going down again, never to come back up.

But before her will resigned to the overpowering waves, her hand closed in around something—something warm and pleasant. And she was being saved as her body went limp. Whatever her hand had held onto for help was now clutching it. And then, everything went black—not in the unknown frightening way, but with the warmth of surety.

A/N: My babble space! This isn't my first OC fanfic, much less a first fanfic in general. I just really wanted to post it somewhere other than my current ff-dot-net account. Anyway, much as OC fanfics are scarcely appreciated, I wasn't even thinking of writing one for One Piece. But this one just kind of stuck in my head considering (and this is just my viewpoint) the injustice that's been done to Ace's death. RIP, Ace-sama.

Next chapter will be posted soon. In the meantime, let me know how bad this one is. Yeah, so review?