8. Atlas By His Lonesome

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TO CALL LAW'S MOOD TURBULENT was an understatement.

Worse, he had nothing to direct this anger, helplessness, and battered feeling of defeat to, besides himself. After his encounter with Vergo, when he arrived at his hotel room he was too conflicted to do anything but stand there, and coldly release his carry-on handle. When he had sorted through his light luggage, to his chagrin someone had tampered with its contents.

The two packs of camel cigarettes he had packed were nowhere to be found. What replaced their location in the mesh pouch was a small, white note. His gaze flickered away, as if the guilt was so potent he was stung just by looking at it. It could have been Corazon, it could have been Lammy. Regardless, he didn't dare open the note. As if the sight burned him, he violently tore his eyes away and let out a low curse.

Law marched to the reception. When he appeared before the young man with deep bags and brooding demeanor, the poor employee was startled.

"Store."

At the single word, laced with so much venom, the young man limply wondered if he had done something to offend the man earlier today. He still had the good sense to point a quivering hand in the direction of dining hall, and had told him, "Th-there's a convenience store right after you exit the—"

Law didn't wait for a reply and stalked to the convenience store in long, purposeful strides. It had classic knick-knacks and souvenirs, snacks and candy, neck cushions, magazines, and right at the counter he grabbed a pack of Camel cigarettes resting in a display shelf—then hesitated.

The cashier glanced at him, half-apprehensive, half-curious, as if to say, Well are you gonna buy it? Law's knuckles brushed the box, his gaze somewhere far away, then he made a ' tch' sound .

He removed the thin plastic packaging, pulled out a single cigarette from the box, tossed the rest onto the counter, then fished out ten bucks from his pocket as he muttered, "Keep the rest."

Law spent the next half an hour in his room, staring at the stick of death, lung cancer, and heart disease—a real 3 for 1. He furrowed his brows and went to sleep, but at minutes past 6, he had reached the last of his patience.

That was when Luffy heard shuffling.

Law stood out in the cold, dead of night, faithfully smoking that cigarette until it became half its original length. Besides the moment he felt like he was being watched, he stood there, alone.

As his eyes stared blankly out at the darkness, the sound of sea waves crashing against rocks was a distant white noise. Faintly, his mind wondered how he could hear the sea from this precarious terrace on the side of a mountain, but neither his joints nor his soul had the will to move.

Mechanically, he could only stuff his hand into his pocket, solemn as he reached for another fix, but his hand came up empty. Some part of him had managed to leave the rest of that box on the counter. His throat burned from the sting of the cigarettes—he always avoided menthols, as some sort of self-retribution.

He sighed, brought his hands to his face, and tried desperately to resist the urge to check his bank account. Instead, he walked to the edge of the terrace, towards the sound of the sea—all the way to the end of the 13th Garden. Snaking past 1307 , 1308 —Law glanced over the edge, and the sight before him cut through his self-destructive haze.

In a small pond, decorated with bushes, hedges, and spring flowers—at the centre of this pond, with inky black water that reflected the moon, a geyser shot skywards.

Sound returned to Law's ears, and the world around him came back to life again. He heard everything with clarity, as if his head was no longer underwater. He stared at the flurry of white foam, the relentless battle against gravity, unending, before him. Every bit of water that sluiced down the side, unable to reach its spot in the heavens, was not wasted. It merely pooled at the base of that stubborn column, gathered its strength, then was shot back up into the air once again.

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