I'll tell you straight-out, without preamble: This is not a work of fiction.

This is not a tale spun solely for the purpose of putting rowdy children to sleep. I am not taking the time to write this down for your amusement; I'm putting pen to paper because I was asked to chronicle my journey, and that's it. Kitt would do it, if not for his hatred of writing; I wouldn't ask Zeo, it'd be too much of a bother for him.

That leaves me.

I'll tell this story in my own way, at my own pace, with as much detail and truth as I can remember; not every little thing will be accurate, and you can blame my foggy mind for that.

Everything is foggy these days, but I suppose that's beside the point.

I should mention that this is not for the faint of heart. Hell, half the time, I can't even handle what happened to us. Be warned, that's all. I won't repeat myself whenever I start a new installment.

Well... all that's left is to begin, then.

00 | Reigning Insanity

Kitt's hand hadn't left my shoulder. How long we'd stood like that, I wasn't sure; I was only conscious that he'd yet to move, and for that, I was grateful. The warmth of his palm bled through the thin material of my jacket, reminding me there existed a world outside myself in this finite moment.

Gol D. Roger was about to be executed.

We - Kitt and I - huddled just south of the execution platform, as close as we could press with the congregation of giddy marines bordering the growing crowd. They suspected we might riot at any time, though it wasn't pirates they feared - it was the civilians, high on the ecstasy of a madman's demise.

A madman by design, really; Roger had been sculpted into parasitic villain by the government, made a household name through his infamy, twisted and ground into a bloodthirsty tyrannical king.

Kitt and I knew better; we stood here today in defiance of Roger's defiled name. But two rookie pirates held no sway over these spellbound onlookers, and even though combined we had a fair bit of proverbial firepower, faced against such a heavy clustering of marines, we'd undoubtedly be mowed down within minutes.

We could do nothing but wait with bated breaths as a list of Roger's crimes was read in monotone for the whole of Loguetown to hear, each damning charge falling on ears already obstructed by the palpable buzz of anticipation permeating the square.

Feeling anxious, I tapped the back of Kitt's hand, to which he responded by threading his fingers through mine. It wasn't the exact reaction I'd wanted, but it worked for my purposes. I kept a steel grip on his hand as I nudged through to the front line of spectators, wanting to lessen the distance between us and the platform, even if only by a few centimeters.

I needed to see this, as much as it would break my heart.

The list was drawing to a close, rounding off the worst of Roger's numerous offenses. My heart skipped every other word, nausea roiled violently in my gut, I could hardly breathe without ribbons of pain lancing through my chest, my throat tight to the point of suffocation.

Kitt was resolute, graced with every ounce of composure I currently lacked. Looking at him in profile, with his chin tilted up, the slender curve of his throat fully visible beyond the ridge of his crimson collar - he betrayed nothing of his thoughts, apart from the bitterness that worked a muscle along his jaw long into overtime.

As if sensing my stare, Kitt met my eyes with a steely smile touching his thin lips. He squeezed my hand, pressed into my shoulder, offering me comfort and solace the only way he was capable. I savored the momentary respite, though I failed to return his grin; my lips felt as though they'd been carved into an immortal frown, frozen forever in a mask of agonized worry and fear.

What would happen to a world without Gol D. Roger?

The Pirate King's absence would be felt throughout the globe, in ripples massive and insignificant, in echoes both booming and whisper-soft. Everyone would notice the change, few would be able to put a name to, even less would comprehend it. But this was a death that would shake the world to its core, and no one could escape the oncoming shock wave.

Why would he turn himself in? I asked myself, not for the first time, not for the last, as I trembled in Kitt's shadow, staring helplessly up at the man who had inspired me to take to the seas. What benefit does he get from dying? Is he... is he tired of the life? Does he regret everything he's accomplished...?

That seemed unlikely. Even among those of us who'd just recently set out under the common black flag, Roger's love for his lofty position was legendary, something that kindled within us a responding spark, that made us believe we could obtain the sort of notoriety that accompanied vast riches and the like.

If Roger had decided the life of a pirate was not to his liking any longer, there was no point to my being here - here in Loguetown, here on the open seas. Kitt was the same way.

I wanted to know, I was desperate for his reasoning, but as soon as those swords - those damnable blades currently biting into Roger's exposed throat - fell, I was disturbingly certain the answer would be lost to me for the rest of my days.

The reigning marine, who'd since finished his delivery of a pirate's feats, paused, looking to Roger expectantly.

The king did not disappoint his dissenting subjects.

It was a short monologue, directed to everyone and anyone who bothered listening to his final words - but it was the catalyst.

"You want my treasure? You can have it! I left everything I gathered together in one place. Now you'll just have to find it!"

Kitt tells me the crowd erupted into a frenzy; a handful of crazed pirates who'd been present rushed to the docks, satisfied Roger had served his final purpose in revealing that his amassed treasure was indeed up for grabs; some outspoken civilians made another attempt to breach the human barricade that separated them from the execution platform, for what reason Kitt isn't sure, though he still holds to this day that they were so blind in their rage against the man that they'd felt insulted that he'd dared to speak for before his death.

In any case, I heard none of it, saw none of it.

Again, there was only myself, a vague, distant warmth I attributed to Kitt, and the platform before us. I was jostled, nearly thrown to the ground and subject to Kitt's intervention, but it very well could have been happening to a completely different individual, for all the recollection I have of it.

There was me, a hairbreadth from shattering, and Roger, smiling as the swords were heaved upwards.

Then blackness overtook my world as Kitt yanked my hat down over my eyes, muffling my ears; he brought me to his chest just as the world exploded with revived sound when it should have fallen into mournful reticence.

I had never cried as much as when I realized that Gol D. Roger was dead and gone.