Zoro lands on top of a bright yellow container. He hates to admit even to himself that his breathing is ragged, but it's loud and it's obvious. Bare chest heaving, chest damp with sweat.
A tickle starts in his throat, somewhere behind the prominent bump at the center. The thyroid cartilage, a voice suspiciously like Chopper's says in his mind.
He clears his throat in an attempt to get rid of the itch, wild gray eye counting each Straw Hat currently locked in battle. He's satisfied when he counts nine and wills himself to return his attention to himself and the clumsy third rate pirates they're fighting.
The problem isn't the pirates, so much as it's the sheer amount of them. They're never ending, spilling out of the galleon like pesky rats.
Zoro clears his throat again, the itch persistent.
He'd heard a port-worker say the Marines are on their way. At least they'll bring more of a challenge.
Zoro pretends he isn't wheezing when he hops to another container, this time colored a dumb blue. Not the shade of blue like the cook's eyes, mixed with greens and yellows and oranges to look like the sea at sunrise. No, this dumb container is a kind of blue that's more of an eyesore — definitely why a hot pulse thrums in his temple at that very moment.
Not because of this insistent itch in his throat, becoming more pressuring as time continues to move. Swallowing is now a little painful, and Zoro furrows his brow.
Had some bastard slipped something...? Airborne, maybe?
He pauses and mentally catalogues his limbs and any aches or stings. There's a shallow cut on his jaw, probably nothing to do with this dumb fight, but otherwise he's fine.
Zoro clears his throat again. He hates the little wince he makes when he swallows.