Chapter 5

Standard disclaimer applies

Soon, the nightmares came.

Marco could only watch in horror as familiar faces were killed before his very eyes. He didn't know how he recognized these men, but he felt a strong connection to them. Many bore the symbol he had tattooed onto his chest. Were they his friends? They were being slaughtered by men in uniform, the Marines. 

He heard a woman scream, harsh sobs sounding as though they would be racking her body. Marco turned around and saw another familiar face as he was slaughtered. The man was young, maybe Crista's age, with black hair and strong features. There was a hole burned through his chest. Standing before this man in shock was a lanky kid, smeared with the dead man's blood. The crying woman was familiar as well, bearing the same odd tattoo on her shoulder. Marco wasn't sure why, but seeing her cry angered him almost as much as the young man's death. Why? He didn't know these people. Why did he care?

He wanted to scream. Maybe he did. He couldn't be sure anymore. Marco felt his body move on its own accord, flying towards the Marine that had killed the young man.

"Marco!" a feminine voice yelled, but it wasn't that of the sobbing woman. "Marco!" Crista?

His eyes snapped open and he took a gasping breath, feeling as though he couldn't get enough oxygen. He was drenched in a cold sweat, glancing wildly around his dark room. There was nothing to be seen. No mysteriously familiar faces, no bloodshed before him, and no anguished screams. He let out a long sigh as his heart rate slowly returned to normal. Marco sat up in bed, placing his hand on his head.

"Damn," he muttered, his mind reeling from the hellish nightmare.

Who were all those people? Why had he felt so strongly about them? What the hell was the tattoo inked into his chest for? Marco shook his head, knowing such questions couldn't be answered easily. Hell, he didn't even know if those people and his tattoo had any significance. Pushing the questions away, Marco closed his eyes and waited for sleep to return.

The next night was worse.

This time, the star was an old man who, while well out of his prime, was far from feeble. He was a giant of a man, a hulking figure that towered over nearly all opposition. The giant's white moustache arced upward and reminded Marco very much of the tattoo he had on his chest. Did that mean anything? Or was it simply his mind trying to rationalize what he didn't understand?

Whatever the case, Marco felt immeasurable rage directed at a man with a black beard who was facing the old man. Fear then clenched around Marco's heart, somehow knowing that old b*****d was taking his last breaths. He had bullet holes in him, as well as marks from swords and cannons. Hell, half his face had been f*****g melted off! How he was still standing was beyond Marco, but he could still feel the tears falling from his own eyes.

"One Piece is out there!" the old man yelled before taking his last breath.

The tears poured down Marco's cheeks, as they did with all the men around him. He didn't understand. Why did this old man's death bring him such pain? What did that b*****d have to do with him? Marco watched as the jacked fell from the shoulders of the old man, who still stood in death. On his back was ink that resembled a more elaborate version of Marco's tattoo.

Marco figured Crista had noticed his sleeping troubles. She often looked as tired as he felt. Yet she would always give him her usual grin every morning when he awoke. Marco could always see through her smile to the other emotions on her face. Crista was so easy to read; he knew she was worried about him. Today was no different.

"What's wrong?" he asked, though he already knew what her answer would be.

"Nothing's wrong. Why do you ask?" Damn, she was a bad liar. But what she lacked in ability, she made up for in persistence. Marco had learned to stop pushing the matter because she would only deny her concern. He shrugged and decided to help her make breakfast.

Then, there were those other dreams. They weren't as horrific, but just as explicit. In those dreams, he could feel every contour of the soft feminine body beneath his. Terribly scarred fingertips grazed his skin, but he never minded the rough feeling. Shoulder-length blond hair was always matted to the tanned beauty's face, her eyes closed in ecstasy. The dream made him uncomfortable. It wasn't like he'd never lain with a woman, but this was different. He didn't know the woman. He felt like an intruder of an intimate moment. But he could never stop the feeling of his heart swelling when she cried his name.

… God, he was a sick b*****d, wasn't he?

Author's Note

I want to say that the two women mentioned in these dreams are OCs I have created. They will get a little 'screen time' but this is, obviously, focused on Marco and what he is doing.

The black-haired woman is supposed to be a member of Whitebeard's crew and, thus, a younger-sister to Marco.

The blond woman was a previous lover I've created for Marco.

Both of these characters will be mentioned quite a few times, but they do not take center-stage.