Chapter 17: How to get information
The door to the bedroom clicked shut, sealing them in with the faint, citrus-heavy scent of D’s cologne and the low hum of the hotel’s climate control. Nami stood rigidly by the side of the large bed, clutching the plush robe tight around her. Tashi stood a few feet away, her posture just as stiff, her gaze fixed on the geometric pattern of the carpet.
“You heard him,” Tashi said, her voice flat. It wasn’t a question.
Nami’s jaw tightened. “I’m not doing this.”
“You are,” Tashi replied, still not looking at her. “The alternative is worse. He’ll make it a command, and then it… it feels worse. Like your own bones are betraying you. It’s easier to just… do the thing before he forces you.”
The clinical simplicity of the explanation was more frightening than any threat. Nami watched as Tashi, with a visible effort, walked to the far side of the bed. She slipped off her silk slippers and climbed under the duvet, lying on her side facing away from Nami, her body a tense line beneath the covers.
This was the instruction. A grotesque parody of a sleepover. Nami’s skin crawled. The memory of his hands on her shoulders, his vision of queens and new worlds, was a poison still swirling in her mind. This felt like the antidote of pure, petty humiliation, designed to remind her of her actual station.
With a shuddering breath, she untied the robe and let it fall to the floor. The cool air hit her skin, and she slid quickly under the covers, keeping her back to Tashi, putting as much distance as possible between them in the king-sized bed. The sheets were cold, high-thread-count linen that felt alien against her bare legs. She lay perfectly still, listening to the sound of Tashi’s breathing, which was too even to be natural.
The bedroom door opened. D walked in, having changed into dark lounging pants and a thin linen shirt. He looked at the two of them, lying as far apart as the bed would allow, their bodies radiating tension. A slow, amused smile spread across his face.
“That’s not how you keep warm,” he chided gently, as if speaking to children. He moved to Nami’s side of the bed first. His hands, surprisingly strong, gripped her shoulder and hip. “Relax,” he murmured, and a faint, undeniable pressure bloomed in her mind, not a shove but a strong suggestion, melting the resistance in her muscles. He rolled her onto her side, facing Tashi’s back. Then he went to the other side and did the same to Tashi, turning her so they were facing each other.
Tashi’s eyes were wide behind her glasses, a deep blush staining her cheeks. She smelled of the same hotel soap, a clean, neutral scent that did nothing to offset the intimacy of the situation. Her bare knee accidentally brushed against Nami’s under the duvet, and they both flinched.
“Better,” D said. He then, with a deliberate slowness that made heat flood Nami’s face, pulled the duvet up and over their shoulders, tucking it around them. His knuckles brushed against Nami’s arm, then Tashi’s neck. It was a grotesque pantomime of being tucked in, a nurturing gesture made predatory by his evident amusement. “Now, snuggle in.” He didn’t command it with the fruit’s power, but the expectation hung in the air, a threat wrapped in silk.
Hesitantly, mortifyingly, Tashi shifted closer. Her arm, stiff and unyielding, came to rest over Nami’s side. The contact was electric with awkwardness. Nami could feel the firm muscle of Tashi’s bicep, the warmth of her skin through the thin silk of her pajama top. Nami’s own hand was trapped between them, her fingers curled into a fist. She forced them to relax, letting her arm rest against Tashi’s back. The swell of Tashi’s breast pressed gently against her own, a soft, frightening intimacy. Tashi’s breath hitched, her glasses fogging slightly. She smelled clean, of soap and a faint, underlying scent of nervous sweat.
D watched for a long moment, his gaze traveling over the two women entangled in his bed. He reached out and smoothed the duvet over Nami’s hip, his hand lingering for a moment too long. “Good girls,” he whispered, the words a caress and a brand. Then he turned, switched off the main light, plunging the room into the soft glow of a single bedside lamp, and left, closing the door behind him.
Silence descended, thick and unbearable. They lay frozen in the forced embrace, the only sound their synchronized, shallow breathing. Nami could feel the frantic beat of Tashi’s heart against her own chest. After a minute that felt like an hour, the tension became too much. Slowly, mutually, they pulled back just enough to break the full-body contact, though Tashi’s arm remained draped over Nami’s side and their legs still touched beneath the sheets. It was a compromise forged in shared humiliation.
“This is insane,” Nami whispered into the dim light, her voice cracking.
Tashi didn’t answer immediately. She adjusted her glasses, her movement causing the silk of her sleeve to whisper against Nami’s bare skin. “It’s easier if you don’t fight the small things,” she finally said, her voice low. “Save your strength for what matters.”
“What matters?” Nami’s whisper was sharp. “What could possibly matter more than getting out of this?”
Tashi’s gaze met hers, and for the first time, Nami saw something beyond shame or submission: a glint of pragmatic survival. “Information,” Tashi said. “You asked him about the fruit. You want to know what it does.”
“And he said it would cost me.”
“It will.” Tashi’s arm tightened slightly on Nami’s side, not a affectionate gesture, but one of emphasis. “He likes trades. He likes it when you give something up willingly. It proves you’re… engaging.”
Nami’s mind raced, backtracking through the evening’s degradations. The loss of her shorts, the dinner in her underwear, this forced cuddling. They were all about stripping away layers, both literal and metaphorical. “What could I possibly offer him that he hasn’t already taken?”
Tashi was silent for a moment, her eyes searching Nami’s face in the near-darkness. The blush returned to her cheeks, a darker hue of pink. “Something symbolic. Something that shows you’re accepting the new rules.” She swallowed, her voice dropping even lower. “Offer… offer him your shorts.”
Nami stared at her, incredulous. “My shorts? They’re just sitting on the floor in the other room. He already has them.”
“Not those,” Tashi whispered, her embarrassment palpable. “The ones you’re wearing now. Under the robe. Tomorrow's… pair. The ones you’d put on tomorrow.”
The meaning dawned on Nami, cold and clear. It wasn’t about the clothing itself; it was about the act of surrender. It was about volunteering a piece of her dignity, offering up the very concept of being fully dressed for the next day. It was a language of control, and Tashi was fluent in it.
“You think he’d trade that?” Nami asked, her throat dry. “For information?”
Tashi nodded faintly, her glasses glinting in the lamplight. “For a little. He’ll give you a piece. Just enough to make you want to trade for more.” She finally pulled her arm back, turning onto her back to stare at the ceiling, granting them both a reprieve from the tense eye contact. “It’s how he works. He makes you barter pieces of yourself for answers.”
Nami lay still, the weight of the advice settling over her. She looked at Tashi’s profile—the strong jaw, the clumsy glasses, the lingering trace of Marine discipline in the set of her mouth. This woman, who had once fought for justice, was now advising her on how to strategically debase herself. And the most terrifying part was that it sounded like a solid plan. In the economy of this nightmare, her spare pair of cotton shorts might just be the currency she needed.
The silence in the bed felt heavier than the duvet, a thick blanket of unspoken questions and shared humiliation. Nami studied Tashi’s profile in the dim light, the neat bob of dark blue hair against the pillow, the stubborn set of her jaw that still hinted at the Marine she’d been. This proximity, this forced intimacy, was its own kind of trap, but it might also be her only source of intelligence.
“Why are you really with him, Tashi?” Nami whispered, the name feeling strange on her tongue. “You were a Marine. You had a sense of justice. What could he possibly have offered that was worth… all this?”
Tashi didn’t turn her head, her gaze fixed on the ceiling as if reading a map of her regrets. “It’s not my place to say,” she murmured, her voice taut. “And it’s not my place to tell you about the fruit, either.”
“But you know, don’t you?” Nami pressed, her voice low and urgent. “You could just tell me. What’s the harm?”
Finally, Tashi turned, her glasses catching the light and obscuring her eyes. “Only a naughty girl would tell secrets like that.” The term landed between them, oddly childish and deeply sinister. “Those naughty girls get punished.”
In the adjoining sitting room, D watched the subtle play of expressions on their faces through the tablet in his hand, a silent observer to the psychological terrain he’d engineered. A slow smile of approval touched his lips as he heard Tashi’s deflection, her adoption of his vocabulary. She was internalizing the rules, learning to enforce them without his direct command.
Nami didn’t miss the word choice. A hot, unexpected blush warmed her cheeks as her mind, against her will, conjured images of what Tashi might mean by ‘punished.’ The possibilities were vague and unsettling, layered over with the memory of Tashi’s sheer pajamas and her quiet, “Good girl.” The punishment wasn’t spelled out, and that ambiguity was its own precise weapon.
The punishment wasn’t spelled out, and that ambiguity was its own precise weapon. They lay in the silent dark for a long time, the space between them charged with everything unsaid. The forced intimacy of their positions felt less like a comfort and more like a shared cage.
Nami finally broke, her voice a strained whisper. "What did he give you, then? To make you... like this."
Tashi’s breath hitched. She turned her head, her glasses two opaque circles in the gloom. "He showed me the truth," she said, the words sounding rote, rehearsed. "That my justice was a narrow, brittle thing."
"It’s not an answer." Nami pressed, shifting slightly. The movement made her aware of the entire length of her body, bare and vulnerable under the sheets. "What truth?"
"That I was weak." The admission was so quiet Nami almost missed it. Tashi’s body was rigid, a statue of shame beside her. "On my own, I was just a woman with a sword too heavy for her, chasing a ghost I could never catch." She meant Zoro, and the memory of Kuina that hung between them all.
Nami pushed up on one elbow, staring down at her. "So he made you what his ... what, partner, enforcers you act like a pet not a person. That’s stronger?"
"It’s… simpler." Tashi’s voice cracked. "The collar sees to that."
The word hung in the air. Collar. It was the first concrete piece of the puzzle, and it made Nami’s skin crawl. "What collar?"
Tashi’s eyes widened in the dim light, the brief flash of confession replaced by sheer panic. She jerked back as if physically scalded, the duvet tangling around her legs. "No. Forget I said that."
"What do you mean, forget it?" Nami hissed, propping herself up higher. "You just said 'collar.' What collar?"
"Nothing. It’s nothing." Tashi’s voice was a frantic whisper, her hands fluttering nervously. "I shouldn't have... that was a mistake. I wasn't supposed to say anything."
She squeezed her eyes shut behind her glasses, her face pale. "I'll... I'll ask for my punishment in the morning. I was accidentally a bad girl." The words were uttered with a terrifying matter-of-factness, a script she knew by heart. "Just ignore me, Nami. Please."
She turned completely away, facing the far wall, her shoulders hunched in a posture of pure dread. The conversation was dead, killed by a fear more potent than any physical restraint. Nami stared at the line of Tashi’s back, the sheer silk of the pajama jacket stretched taut over her spine.
The silence that fell was different now, fractured by Tashi’s slip. Collar. The word echoed in the dark, a single, horrifying clue to the nature of the PET-pet fruit’s power. It wasn't just mental persuasion; it was something tangible, a binding. Nami lay back down, her mind racing, assembling the pieces.
She saw the invisible leash in her mind’s eye, felt its phantom weight. The obedience, the inability to strike him—it all clicked into a chilling new configuration. This wasn’t just control; it was ownership. Tashi’s promise to request punishment hung in the air, a dark lesson in the cost of even accidental disobedience. The system was self-policing, and Nami had just witnessed its enforcement firsthand.
The system was self-policing, and Nami had just witnessed its enforcement firsthand. She fell into a fitful sleep haunted by the word ‘collar’, only to wake in the grey morning light to a disorienting warmth. Sometime in the night, they had shifted. Her head was now nestled in the crook of Tashi’s neck, one leg thrown over Tashi’s thighs in a loose, possessive clutch. Tashi’s arm was wrapped around her back, hand splayed between her shoulder blades.
They stirred at the same time, blinking in confusion. A deep, mortified blush spread from Tashi’s neck to her cheeks as she registered their entangled state. Nami jerked her leg back as if burned, her own face heating with a flush that had nothing to do with sleep. They scrambled apart, the duvet tearing between them like a truce flag.
The bedroom door opened before they could speak. D entered holding a small tray with three steaming mugs of coffee. The rich, bitter scent cut through the lingering sleep in the room. He looked utterly pleased, his eyes cataloging the space between them that had so recently been filled. "Morning," he said, his voice smooth and cheerful. "You two look cozy."
Tashi practically vaulted from the bed, her silk pajamas rumpled. She couldn’t meet his eyes, her gaze fixed somewhere near his feet. She shuffled closer, her voice a hushed, ashamed whisper. "I need a quick punishment. Sir." The title was tacked on, a formality that couldn't mask her raw discomfort.
D set the tray down on the bedside table. "Oh? What for?"
"I... I spoke out of turn last night," Tashi murmured, her shoulders rounding. "I mentioned something I shouldn't have. It was an accident."
"I see," D said, his tone light. He reached out and hooked a finger under the strap of her silk pajama top. With a sharp, precise tug, he pulled it down her arm, baring her shoulder and the top curve of her breast. "A reminder, then. For the rest of the morning, this stays down. Let everyone see your carelessness."
Tashi’s breath hitched, but she nodded silently, making no move to readjust the fabric. The deliberate exposure was a calculated counterpoint to the accidental intimacy of their sleep. The blush on her skin deepened to a scorching red.
Nami watched, her stomach tight. This was the machinery of control, oiled and humming. She saw the stark relief on Tashi’s face that the punishment wasn't worse. It was a transaction, and the price had been set low for her compliance.
"Actually," Nami said, her voice cutting through the quiet. She sat up, keeping the duvet clutched to her chest. "I want to make a trade."
D turned his amused gaze to her, one eyebrow raised in interest. "Is that so?"
"My shorts," Nami said, forcing her words to be clear and steady. "The ones I was going to wear today. You can have them." The words felt absurd leaving her mouth. "In exchange, you tell me something about the fruit. Something real."
D looked from Tashi, standing with her shoulder bared and her eyes downcast, to Nami, who was trying to barter with the clothes off her back. He smiled, a genuine expression of delight. "Now we're getting somewhere. A voluntary offering for a sliver of truth. That seems fair."
He picked up a mug and handed it to Tashi, then another to Nami. The coffee was hot and strong. "The PET-pet fruit," he began, his eyes locked on Nami. "It doesn't just influence minds. It imposes a physical law."
He paused, letting the anticipation build. Nami’s knuckles were white where she gripped the mug. The warmth seeped into her hands, a small comfort that felt like a betrayal.
"The 'collar' Tashi mentioned isn't a metaphor." He took a slow sip from his own mug, his gaze unwavering. "It's a binding. An unbreakable rule woven into reality itself around the recipient. The first and most absolute rule is that a collared individual cannot inflict harm upon the fruit's owner. Their body simply won't obey the command."
Nami absorbed this, the puzzle piece slotting into place with a cold, final click. That was why her punch in the casino had faltered, why Tashi, a trained swordswoman, now served the man who had—her mind stuttered on the implication—watcher her superior die in the surf. It wasn't just fear or persuasion. It was a fundamental rewrite of their capabilities.
"That's all for now," D said, his tone dismissing the subject. "That one piece of information cost you one day's dignity. A fair price." He gestured to Tashi’s still-exposed shoulder. "See? Everything has a value here."
He turned to leave, then glanced back. "Oh, and Nami? Your shorts. On the floor, before you leave this room." The command was soft but left no room for debate. He paused at the door, a final thought. "It's a fascinating bit of cosmic engineering, really. I wonder about the first user. What were they so afraid of that they needed this?"
The door clicked shut, and the room seemed to contract around them, the air thick with the lingering shame of their transaction. Nami swung her legs out of bed, the plush carpet doing nothing to soften the chill of her reality. She walked to the small pile of her belongings, the movements feeling both alien and inevitable.
She picked up her spare pair of shorts, the simple blue cotton soft and familiar in her hands. She held them for a long moment, feeling the weight of the choice, not the fabric. Then, with a final, lingering look, she set them down on the foot of the bed, a small, sad monument to her surrendered autonomy.
Tashi, meanwhile, moved to a dresser and pulled out fresh clothes for herself. She kept her back slightly turned, but the small room offered no true privacy. She slipped out of the sheer, punishing silk pajamas, her skin pebbling in the cool air.
Her body was a map of disciplined muscle, honed by years of swordsmanship, yet now it seemed to betray her with every flutter of her hands. A deep blush spread from her chest up her neck as she quickly pulled on plain black panties and a simple, snug-fitting tank top. The mundane act of dressing became a performance of profound embarrassment, her fingers fumbling slightly as she tugged the soft fabric over her hips, the dim light catching the subtle flex of her thighs. She was acutely aware of Nami’s presence, of being observed in this vulnerable ritual.
Nami watched, not with envy but with a hollow ache, as Tashi then stepped into a pair of practical, dark shorts and fastened the button. The simple act of attaining a state of full dress felt like watching someone scale a wall she herself could not reach. Tashi’s shyness was palpable, a quiet storm of humiliation that filled the space between them.
“He’ll test you today,” Tashi said softly, not looking at her as she straightened her top. “The island, the pose… it’s never just about the mission. It’s always a lesson.”
“What kind of lesson?” Nami asked, her voice low.
Tashi just shook her head, adjusting her glasses. “Just don’t give him a reason to make it a command. "
Nami’s own spare clothes—the soft cotton shorts and a thin, striped tank top—felt like a costume for a role she never auditioned for. She dressed quickly, the feeling of the fabric on her skin a fleeting, false comfort. She had just willingly traded away tomorrow’s version of this feeling for a sliver of dangerous knowledge.
D re-entered the room, now dressed in dark, tailored trousers and a light shirt, the picture of casual control. His eyes swept over them, noting their state of dress with apparent approval. He walked to the bed and picked up Nami’s folded shorts, tucking them into his back pocket with a casualness that was itself a violation. “Good. You’re both presentable.” His gaze lingered on the empty space where the shorts had been. “The deal is sealed.”
He turned his attention fully to Nami, his expression shifting to one of business-like intensity. “Silhara’s Grasp. The magnetic field is supposed to be a spiral, a vortex that twists navigation tools into uselessness.” A sharp, eager grin touched his lips. “They say only a fool or a genius would even attempt it.”
“Which are you?” Nami asked, the question slipping out before she could filter it.
“I’m the one with the genius navigator,” he replied without missing a beat. “Your old crew would have called it impossible and sailed the other way. But you… you look at an impossible current and you see a challenge. I saw that in you the moment I laid eyes on your charts.”
He moved past her toward the suite’s door. “Let’s go find out what the fuss is about.”
Nami followed, Tashi a half-step behind her. As they moved into the hallway, Nami caught her own reflection in a mirrored wall: a young woman in casual clothes no shorts panties on display, following a man who held her future in his back pocket. The thrill of the navigational puzzle was a hook set deep in her gut, and he was expertly reeling her in. The collar was a physical law, but this… this appeal to her deepest instinct… was far more insidious.