To explain what had brought Mikhail to this particular island would take a story well beyond the one that follows the Going Merry.
It’s a story easily buried beneath easily-told half-truths and half-lies. No one bats an eye at a young man looking for work. He’s just one of thousands who’d gone through some vague misfortunes involving hunger, pirates, bandits, or all of the above. He’s nobody special, was nobody special, and that’s all anyone would and should know. He tells no one of the Torna Pirates, or how they were utterly wiped out in the Grand Line, or that his former crewmmates are nothing more than fish food now. He tells no one about how they… probably deserved their grisly deaths, for all the atrocities they’d committed against innocent civilians and not-so-innocent Marines. He doesn’t let himself grieve the people he thought were his family, instead focusing on the fact that he made it out alive and that that must mean something. Mikhail might have taken part in the cruelty, but he’s not like that anymore.
Or so he tells himself.
It’s easy to lie, and it’s also easy to throw himself into his work. The shipwrights in the yard demand exorbitant payment and are unwilling to work pro bono, and that's none of Mik's business. This, unfortunately, means the cute little caravel with the sheep figurehead sits untouched at the docks, her hull so poorly patched that it’s a wonder she’s even afloat.
Mikhail stands before it, admiring the shoddy patchwork.
“What fool thought using pine would be a good idea?” he remarks aloud.
no subject
It’s a story easily buried beneath easily-told half-truths and half-lies. No one bats an eye at a young man looking for work. He’s just one of thousands who’d gone through some vague misfortunes involving hunger, pirates, bandits, or all of the above. He’s nobody special, was nobody special, and that’s all anyone would and should know. He tells no one of the Torna Pirates, or how they were utterly wiped out in the Grand Line, or that his former crewmmates are nothing more than fish food now. He tells no one about how they… probably deserved their grisly deaths, for all the atrocities they’d committed against innocent civilians and not-so-innocent Marines. He doesn’t let himself grieve the people he thought were his family, instead focusing on the fact that he made it out alive and that that must mean something. Mikhail might have taken part in the cruelty, but he’s not like that anymore.
Or so he tells himself.
It’s easy to lie, and it’s also easy to throw himself into his work. The shipwrights in the yard demand exorbitant payment and are unwilling to work pro bono, and that's none of Mik's business. This, unfortunately, means the cute little caravel with the sheep figurehead sits untouched at the docks, her hull so poorly patched that it’s a wonder she’s even afloat.
Mikhail stands before it, admiring the shoddy patchwork.
“What fool thought using pine would be a good idea?” he remarks aloud.