Nothing is Written

Hey-ho, Nassau
It had been a number of weeks since news of Glave's death and Veno's ascent had taken the world by surprise. While the rest of the world seemingly quivered in fear, Veno paid little mind to the sheer amount of attention he had been receiving as of late; as a matter of fact, he had yet to show his face after surviving the Buster Call incident on Karakuri Island.

Fame, popularity, notoriety, it was all so very grand. But Veno couldn't care less at the current moment. In reality, he didn't know what exactly to make of it just yet. All he knew was that he had a goal, a plan that he wanted, no, needed to achieve. He wasn't going to let anything get in the way of it.

It had been all hard work since then. By his lonesome, he had created an entire city on his own, marked with large scrapers and extraordinary architecture about every inch. In total, Nassau had taken him about four weeks of nonstop work, a praiseworthy feat in its own right, seeing as though Veno only had a single arm to work with now. On top of that, had he had enough supplies to work with from the start, things would have gone much more smoothly; the way it currently was, he was relying on his subordinates to deliver large sums of oil in exchange for money he could use for his construction.

Speaking of, where in the hell was that damn Luhr when Veno needed him? Standing in the center of town, Veno hollered out for his Third Mate. "Oi, where the fuck are ye at, Luhr?!"

The Public Enemy had gone through a wardrobe change in the meantime. He now sported a long black coat in place of his previous red, green trousers with a checkered design to go along with an orange sash that was tied around his waist, and perhaps his most prized ornament of all: a permanent scar upon his right pectoral, courtesy of the late Admiral Alfred Glave.