Destined for Flames:

A Damn Shame [unfinished chapter] 

It's funny, when I think about it, how stupidly lucky this crew is. For all our recent and past misfortune, we get back on our feet just as quickly as we're swept off them, and that's something not everyone has the confidence to say.

We're also stupidly unlucky, which is perhaps why karma's deemed it necessary to give us a break every once in a while. But, you know, it wouldn't be my luck if that break didn't directly follow something disgustingly tragic.

Merry's gone.

Burned to ashes, sunken below the unforgiving waves of an ocean I hope to never visit again. She gave us everything, she risked everything for our sakes. Merry loved us in such a profound way... and we loved her, too. She wasn't a ship to us, as crazy as that sounds. She was a member of the crew, through and through, and anyone who tries to challenge me on that can eat flaming boot.

But that's over and done with, and hell if I haven't learned to let the past rest in peace (or pieces, in this case...). You don't go dredging up misery and pain unless you're a masochist, and I for one don't like having my insides torn to shreds willingly. So I'll let sleeping dogs lie and try... try to move on. The rest of the crew'll need someone steady, I imagine, judging by the hollow-eyed looks they've been wearing ever since we made it back to Water 7.

Rest has been hard to come by for some of us. Not Luffy, of course; he sleeps like a drunk rock no matter the circumstances. And right now, from what I saw on my way up to the roof, he's actually perfected the art of combining his two favorite pastimes - sleeping and eating. It's a disgusting display, his chipmunk cheeks paired with the ever-expanding snot-bubble leaking from his nose, but I must say I'm glad he's recovering. The CP9 adventure left me with a crippling idea of just how mortal my captain is.

Somehow, all this time, it's escaped me that my crew mates are flesh and blood humans, just like me (though I guess we all share some demonic qualities). Zoro, Luffy, Sanji, they've always been above the lowly standards of the mortal race in my eyes. Even beaten black-and-blue, I so rarely see them broken to the point of defeat that I just... I put them on some lofty pedestal without even thinking about it.

But they can die, just like anyone else. And more than anything, it's a thought that terrifies me to my very core.

Godammit, Raya, I internally groan, slapping my palms to my temples tiredly. I drag my hands down my face, shielding my eyes from the brunt of the sun's glare, though my grimace doesn't lessen all that much. Pull yourself together. They're alive right now. Focus on that. Being melodramatic ain't gonna help ya in the slightest.

It's good advice, even from me, but I'm having trouble following it.

With a sigh, I press my palms flat against the roof, shoving myself up into a sitting position so that I can overlook the streets that crisscross beyond our hotel. We've had visitors in and out all day, ranging from Franky to Kokoro to a few Galley-La workers who came bearing gifts (Nami was particularly ecstatic to find they purchased her a new grove of tangerine trees). Despite the mirthful atmosphere below, I've chosen to spend most of my time up here for the day. I've felt antsy since arriving back in Water 7, though I don't have any real reason for it, and I got a complaint from Nami early on that I was dampening everyone's spirits.

Maybe I'm just longing for the sea. It wouldn't be the first time I've been put in a mood because of it. It was honestly such a regular occurrence back on Maya that I was surprised at how easily I became cheerful the moment I stepped aboard Luffy's ship way back when. I went from melancholic bitch to someone who was always laughing, always smiling. Still a bitch, because that's just in my nature, but less so. That could just be the company I keep, but whatever it is, I'm supremely grateful for the shift in attitude. Life's no fun stuck in that kind of rut.

...Huh. Who's this?

Rocking forward on my knees, I brace my hands against the edge of the roof so that I can peer down the approaching threesome walking up the path to our hotel. I squint, trying to make out any distinguishing features, but their faces are drowned out in the shadows cast by the hotel's imposing walls. I drum my fingers in thought, brow furrowed. Like I said, we've had more than our fair share of guests recently, but no one that stood out this much to me, no one with this much presence.

I cast a look behind me at the door that leads back down into our suite, wondering if maybe I should give my friends a warning, but the chance is lost as I'm knocked back onto my ass in the wake of what I can only describe as an explosion; the building's foundation quivers, upsetting my already churning stomach, and I clamp a hand over my mouth as I scramble to my feet, shaky but standing. Ugh. Just what I needed.

I race down the stairs, nearly tripping over my feet in my haste, and slam into the main room of our suite, where everyone's gathered around--

"Oh, holy shit, Luffy!"

A towering figure - the same one I saw coming up the walkway, flanked on either side - stands over Luffy, who's just been sent rocketing into the wall by the most fearsome punch I've ever witnessed (and I've seen an enraged Luffy when he gets his damn machine-gun fists going). Luffy scowls as he sits up, his rubber body only startled from the blow, but his face goes slack as the man removes his hat, revealing a grizzled grin and bright black eyes.

"I heard you've been doing reckless things, Luffy."

"Grandpa?!"

...Eh?

Plot Bunnies: 

-Skip Thriller Bark - begin with the Straw Hats meeting Brook and then flash forward to the post-battle scene where Brook joins the crew, using flashbacks to tell the story of what happened (because I really can't be bothered to tell the whole story chronologically)

-IDEA- Katana and Raya (in the arc where they get shipwrecked without the Straw Hats in book 2) stumble upon a Devil Fruit - Bird-Bird Fruit: Model: Raven, which Raya goads Katana into eating. Tori Tori no Mi: Model:

-IDEA- In the second story, Raya is now working with Katana as pseudo-members of Whitebeard's crew; they're experts at infiltrating Marine Bases and tend to steal information regarding Blackbeard. Raya has also taken to wearing a wig (made of Katana's cut hair) and golden contacts to pass as Katana, as the WG believes her to be dead and it's advantageous for her to continue the rouse. Which is also the reason she never contacts the Straw Hats.

Raya considers forming her own crew when she meets Angelus Timor, who has a Devil Fruit that grants him the power to play on people's worst fears and potentially stun them and even stop their hearts (Tero-Tero Fruit/Terror-Terror Fruit). Katana confesses she'd follow Raya whatever her decision.

-IDEA- After the fight with Kuma, Raya and Katana end up with Mihawk, who's on his way to Ace's execution. While there, Katana steps in to save Ace and Raya goes after Blackbeard with Honoo in her tigress form; however his powers prove to be too strong and she falls, presumed dead, and Luffy arrives in time to witness it, which triggers his "episode".

Raya is saved by Marco's healing powers, though this isn't revealed until book two.

-IDEA- If Raya does indeed form her own crew, she meets a pirate (boy or girl not really sure yet) who has the Devil Fruit power to transform their arm into a perfect bow and fire arrows as their weapon. Her crew would be called the Hellfire Pirates.

-IDEA- Katana's blade, Kuro Kishi, also has an animalistic form, though it takes an encounter with Honoo in tigress form to coax him from his shell. Instead of a feline personage, Kishi takes on the appearance of a wiry, black fox, and conducts himself more timidly than either Honoo or Hyousa, though Katana herself remarks that instead of timidity it's simply cautiousness that directs her sword's spirit.

-IDEA- When Raya confronts Blackbeard in the War of the Best, she becomes so engulfed in her fury that she literally merges spirits with Honoo, her eyes turning a lovely burnt amber color - until Blackbeard mockingly shatters Honoo's blade, ripping the soul from Raya's body and sending her off to the aether (though I'd rather keep Honoo in, allowing her spirit to be reborn in the body of a child Raya will meet two years later)

Also, the story behind how souls are trapped in swords is rather morbid - the souls of dead swordsman who were slain before achieving their dreams. Or something along those lines.

Katana's Moveset:

Drops of Aether - a move in which Katana delivers a rapid cut to her opponent while moving at such incredible speed that they're unable to either counter or even witness the strike (modified from her Father's version of the attack to suit her smaller frame and comparatively lacking power)

Demon's Dance - a move in which Katana delivers a flurry of slashes to her opponent, taking advantage of her speed and agility to make the move difficult to both dodge and see

Aeolus' Chasm - a move in which Katana's blade whips up a cycle of vicious winds that swirl around the target in a tornado-like vortex, continually littering them with a barage of strikes that feel as sharp as her own blade

Nightingale - a move in which Katana strikes out with Kishi in two diagonal slashes, releasing twin gusts of wind capable of tearing through an enemy's defense

Raya's Moveset:

Hell's Descent - a move in which both Raya and tigress-form Honoo charge the opponent, veering off in opposite directions, though keeping parallel as they close in on the target, each pushing a wall of fire towards the (sometimes) helpless enemy

Fire Fist - stolen from Ace; self-explanatory

Mirrored Beast - a move in which Raya coats her hands and feet in fire to have them resemble the clawed paws of her beloved tigress; as the years pass and Raya copes with the loss of Honoo, the move evolves to encompass her entire body, giving her a fiery tigress-like form similar to a smaller version of Honoo's, complete with the tail and ears

_____________

Give Adriel an Irish accent. Because I can.

Shinsei takes the form of a maned wolf. His attribute still revolves around fire, but he has a more corporeal form than Honoo did, given the fact that Raya possesses better control over her powers, and he takes shape much like Kishi does.

_____________

Random Bits of Dialogue:

"You've lingered long enough in the shadow of your own death, Flynn." - Katana

Angels and Demons: 

My nails scrape harshly over the rough wooden floor as I draw my knees to my chest, my hands finding comfort curling into fists at my sides.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

The mantra repeats, over and over again, a constant loop, inside my head, the individual words rushing about and careening into the sides of my skull. I can't think of anything else - I don't want to. Thinking beyond this means letting in the past, acknowledging what I've left behind. What I've been trying to forget for the last two years.

The door creaks, and I flinch, instinctively burying my face in my knees, tucking my arms around myself.

Another creak, then soft footfalls, coming closer, closer. Stopping, just behind me. Another creak, this time from the floor, as someone sinks to the ground.

They don't speak, probably because there's nothing to say. They simply lean against my back, their soft hair tickling the bare skin of my neck.

We sit in silence.

I've come to hate silence in these last two years. And at the very least, unproductive silence. Without something to occupy my mind (a book, daily training), my thoughts ricochet like goddamn bullets, spearing memory after memory that threatens my year-long no-crying streak. I've never liked being morbid, but for years I accepted my pessimism as inevitable strife. This, however - this stupid, stupid heart-wrenching guilt that snags my attention and holds it hostage for hours - is too much.

They're better off without me.

"How wild are your thoughts that they translate into such violent mannerisms?"

I turn my head only slightly to eye Katana's profile from over my shoulder, trying to reign in my fidgeting. "Am I bothering you with my self-loathing?"

"Yes," she says, simply, without preamble or explanation, without even meeting my gaze. She fiddles a moment with the golden pendant nestled between her collarbone (a habit of hers I've picked up on during our extensive time together), then lightly presses it between her thumb and forefinger, her lashes shadowing her cheeks as her eyes narrow in that thoughtful way she has. "More specifically, Marco is bothered by it. He claims your dismal attitude affects crew morale." Her tone suggests she doesn't quite agree with his assumption, but she's much too polite say anything that degrading to me.

Damn Dracule.

There's no point to calling her out on it, so I sigh, twisting back around to face the empty wall of our shared cabin. Her shoulder bones grate against mine uncomfortably, digging into my spine when I shift a certain way, but I don't mind. The pseudo-skinship is more than enough to make up for the disagreeable means of delivery.

"Did Marco make ya come in here just to say that?" I ask, because that's what's required to continue this conversation, and if I can help it, I won't be going back into that loathsome quiet.

"No," she says, and as I'm about to snap out some retort about how one-word answers really aren't sufficient here, she adds, "He gives you far more credit than I do. Just now, he told me that he thinks you'll crawl out of this personal hell of yours by your own strength and blaze like some godforsaken phoenix."

I blink.

"It's not verbatim," she assures me, shrugging slightly. "His words were cruder, but more heart-felt, I'd say. Timor would never have stood for the phoenix reference."

Once upon a time, I would have laughed at that. The thought of Timor catching Marco's eye from across the deck and giving him a look of supreme disapproval might have even set me off on my infamous bouts of hysterical laughter, the likes of which could last up to ten minutes and leave me gasping painfully for cool air to soothe my starving lungs.

Not now, though. Not for a long while.

Katana wasn't expecting me to laugh; the joke was incidental on her part. She doesn't often try to be funny, apart from her "friendly jesting" which is almost always at my expense and is almost always played off as a part of our pretty much nonexistent rivalry. We hardly try to outdo one another anymore (not that I was ever really onboard with the rivalry thing in the first place - it's waaay too much work). She insists on the term because other than that, we don't know what to call each other. Dracules can't really claim to be besties with a daughter of Shanks; our credentials aren't up to snuff, obviously.

She denies this, of course, but I don't put too much stock in her rebuttal. That's just how things are. Can't help what's set in stone.

I swear, there probably is some fancy royal decree from a thousand years ago that explicitly declares that yellow-eyed, raven-haired children are to be kept as far away as possible from the offspring of loud-mouthed, redheaded drunkards

Another thing Katana would deny. Too farfetched, she'd say, too... weird. But that's why I'd keep pushing the point, to get her to lash out and lose her tempered composure for once, just to see how emotional she could get when the cage is unlatched. And she'd probably hand my ass to me in about three-seconds flat (and that's if she was having an off day).

I brush a hand over my mouth, wiping away the traces of an untimely smile, before nudging Katana's ribs with my elbow.

"Why're you here, then? 'Snot like you're the hugging type or anything."

"Is this you admitting that you'd like a hug?"

"...Not from you..."

I can hear the amusement coloring her voice when she says, "Honesty is lovely at times like this, Flynn. Remember that, would you, for the next time this happens?"

"Look," I sigh, my hands threading into my tangled hair, fitting through untamable knots without much force, "it's nice that you're here and all, but if all that's going to happen is us getting into a battle of sarcasm, then thanks but no thanks. 'Cause my tongue's not as sharp as usual at the moment and I don't feel like having you whip me for ten minutes."

"Your doubt wounds me so, Flynn" - What was that about honesty? - "but I'll overlook it, because that really wasn't my reason for entrenching upon your earnest sulking."

"Then why?" I'm not in the mood for this roundabout conversation she's stringing together, and I'd appreciate it immensely if she just got to the point. "Tell me or leave me the hell alone, Kay."

My characteristic rudeness rolls right off her, much to my chagrin.

"As always, you're a delight. Anyway, my reason for being here is simply this: You've lingered long enough in the shadow of your own death, Flynn."

In the next instant, I've whipped around, caught Kay by the shoulder, my mouth open to tell her just what a horribly horrendous idea that is. But I stop. My mouth closes, my tongue suddenly dry and listless, clinging to the roof of my mouth. My fingers uncurl from the crisp cotton of her shirt; the crescent-shaped indentations left behind gradually disappear, like nothing happened. And she just watches me. Head cocked, yellow eyes glossy with indisputable curiosity I find out of place for the situation. Like this is some experiment she's devised to test how much of the original Flynn D. Raya is left in this shallow husk she tried to vacate two years ago.

Seeing I've no intention of following up my ill-timed remark, Katana stands. She brushes tiny particles of dust from her pants, nonchalant as hell despite the damning statement she just threw at me, like it's nothing and I'm an idiot for treating it as anything but.

Anger - fresh and unsettling for its ferocity - roils suddenly in the pit of my stomach, flushing outwards through veins and arteries, until my entire body is boiling. Luminescent sparks fly from my fingertips, and I ball my hands into fists to keep from setting the whole damn compartment ablaze.

What right does she have, questioning me now, of all the damn times?

"Kay," I say, my voice clipped at a whisper, rough and thick with the effort of reigning in my flaring temper, "you know damn well why I chose not to say anything to them, to keep my mouth shut for as long as I have."

"Yes, yes," she sighs breezily, apparently blind to the flames now entwining my arms. "Something about wanting to keep them safe, and that you could do more good as a nameless Whitebeard pirate than as the Red-Haired Demon of the Straw Hats. Though you're using my name, so I do wonder how you still believe you've become some faceless entity in the eyes of the World Government. In any case," she continues, steamrolling over my sputtered attempts to contradict her, "you have to admit, Flynn D. Raya is ill-suited to the Whitebeard legacy. They've no real want to chase the title of Pirate King, now that their captain is dead and two years later they're still scrambling to deal with the looters who are after their territory. What's become of your dream, Flynn? Did it die with Yuragu Honoo?"

My no-crying streak's come under fire again. Dammit. That's twice in fifteen minutes.

"Shut. Up," I growl. "Don't you dare bring Honoo into this. She... I..."

"I know, Raya."

Her fingers encircle my limp wrists, squeezing gently, and she tugs me to my feet, placing her hands on my shoulders to steady me when it's clear I don't have it in me to stand all on my lonesome. Warmth bleeds through the thin straps of my tank, seeping past the frigid layer of frost that coats my skin, stamping out whatever budding flames had sprung up with my surge of fury. An internal sigh - soft and mollified - breezes through me.

My hands unclench.

"I know," she says again, maybe to make sure I've heard her, maybe because it just fits the mood. "I understand. Kishi's told me enough. But she isn't your reason for keeping in line with the Government's perception. That foolish captain of yours and that swordsman - they are your reasons. You're scared of facing their suspicions."

There isn't a shred of doubt in her voice, no incredulity in her eyes. And I'm not surprised. Katana's had an uncanny ability to read me perfectly for years now, almost since we met, to be precise. I hate it, I do, but something about knowing there's a person out there who gets every little quirk of yours... it's nice, this feeling. Makes the world a little less lonely. And I need a little less lonely these days.

"Scared... Funny, huh? Fearless Flynn D. Raya, scared of her own crew mates..."

"Fear is never a laughable matter, Raya. In this case especially. When it involves those close to your heart..."

I'm just about staring at her, unabashed and unwilling to look away. Katana - the epitome of cool and collected, the poster girl for snide comebacks - looks on the verge of cracking.

But it's gone just as quickly, dismissed with an impatient hand gesture and a frosty smile that I think is her attempting to pantomime Marco (to no avail). She flicks a rebellious strand of hair from her eyes, lashes fluttering.

"Is your home not still with the Straw Hats?"

Such a simple question. Yes or no.

Yes - I miss them so much there's a physical ache in my chest, real and ugly enough that I'm short of breath whenever any of them cross my mind, even for a millisecond.

No - I can't go back to them.

I'm not the same fiery girl they knew. I don't want them to know who's taken her place.

"It's not," I murmur, twisting my wrists out of Katana's grip, sliding my hands into my back pockets. "It's really, really not, Kay."

She only nods in return, turns on her heel, struts towards the door. Stops, just inside the doorway, fingers clenched around the frame. Over her shoulder, she says, "The world dearly misses you, Raya. It would be a shame if you were to remain removed from this grueling race for the crown."

And that's it. In the next breath, she's gone, the door thudding shut behind her. Leaving me to slump to my knees, thoughts writhing. Leaving me with the lingering decision, the one that's been imprinted in my thoughts, glaring at me day in and day out, outlined in ostentatious sunlight behind my closed eyes - for two years.

Is it really time for me to shake off this dead weight?

____________________________________

{Scene Where Raya Meets Her New Sword}

This is ridiculous.

More than ridiculous. It's stupid. As idiotic as that time I "sneakily" went in for a surprise attack on Timor, only to end up cracking my back against the deck with his dagger poised to draw a lethal line across my jugular. Thank Kami he didn't instantly follow up with his Devil Fruit powers. I'd have been laid up in sickbay for the rest of the damn day.

"Kay...!" I whine, struggling vainly to escape the Dracule's clutches and scamper off down the street, back to the docks where I belong. "I'm not doing this! I refuse and you can't make me!"

"I don't doubt it," she concedes, tossing me a condescending, tight-lipped smile over her shoulder, her grip on my arm never slackening. "And that's precisely why I've enlisted the help of Angelus here."

She nods to Timor, silent as any grave that's not on Thriller Bark, who's been walking alongside us at an even pace, spectacularly drawing no attention whatsoever from the bustling crowds we weave through the thick of. How a guy as tall and imposing as him can remain so inconspicuous is beyond me, though I suppose that fedora he pins his hair back with helps.

"Nightmare Assassin" Angelus Timor's known for his lovely pink locks, after all.

He's also known for his impeccable fashion sense, but I'm guessing that's only in certain circles, else he'd always be hounded by the authorities.

Deciding that Katana won't budge no matter how much I prod her, I edge closer to Timor, appraising eyes watching for any chink in his lackluster armor.

"Oi, Timor," I hiss. "Get me outta this, will ya? I'll put in a good word with Marco for ya!"

He looks at me strangely, like he can't possibly decipher why it is that I believe this will have any sort of effect on him. He's in Marco's good graces, and has been far longer than I've even been aboard the ship. My words are empty, but I'm absolutely desperate.

I have no desire to outfit myself with a new weapon. Katana has other ideas.

With much kicking and fighting and spewing of vague, inconceivable threats, Katana and Timor (mostly Timor) manage to wrestle me into a weapons shop - the rough housing action accompanied ironically by the sweet chiming of a bell above the door. The moment they release me, I'm throwing myself at the closed door, clawing at the handle to find purchase; but they're more than ready for me, and Timor only has to catch me around the waist and hold me against his side to keep me from running.

'Course, I pound for all I'm worth on him, driving my fists into his chest and abdomen, kneeing his back. He doesn't move an inch, like a goddamn brick wall. Ugh.

Admist my caterwauling, someone coughs.

I look up, paused mid-obscenity, scraggly red bangs obscuring my view until I irritably huff them away.

A woman grins at me from behind the polished countertop, leaning her forearms on the glass, toe tapping rhythmically at the counter's base. She's a little homely, nothing that would turn any heads but nothing that would turn up any noses, either. Her enigmatic green eyes are her most striking feature by far, but I envy the way her blonde hair catches the sunlight streaming in through the shopfront window, each strand like spun gold in the affectionate lighting.

She's got one hell of a dreamy smile, though.

"You seem lively. I like lively. Therefore, I already like you, kid."

Apprehensive (for reasons that really have nothing to do with this woman's amity), it takes Timor's manhandling to bring me to the counter. Unperturbed, the woman's amused smile only increases in wattage as I'm dragged closer, literally digging my heels in in hopeless protest.

"I take it you're not excited?" she asks slyly.

"What gave it away?" I grumble, all mandatory niceties forgotten.

Katana flicks my forehead.

"The sass helps," is all the woman has to say, and I like her all the better for it. Steepling her fingers and resting her chin against the tips, she studies us - our ragtag group of highly dangerous criminals, each with a bounty that speaks to our abilities. Though mine could use a bit of fine-turning. Being dead and all, it wasn't like they could get an accurate gauge of how far my battle prowess has progressed over the years. "What can I do for you three?"

"This one" - on Katana's cue, Timor jostles my bony frame, startling me into eliciting a sharp, disgraceful gasp, to which Katana's lips curl upwards cruelly - "would like to acquire a new blade."

"Sorry for the inconvenience..." I mumble.

The smithy only smiles again. "Be my pleasure, darling. What kind of sword were you hoping to find?"

I haven't given the thought much attention, despite how often Katana's shoved it in my face. Proverbially and literally. At one point, she actually deemed it necessary to write this exact venture down on a piece of paper and then proceed to forcefully hold it against my face. I almost suffocated, for Kami's sake. She later told me that she only went so far with it because she assumed idiots required a more hands-on approach.

Anyway.

I glare reproachfully at Katana, making another pathetic effort to have Timor unhand me by jamming my elbow into his sternum. Said elbow nearly shatters from the impact, and I hastily cradle it against my chest, my other hand gingerly probing the damage. Timor says nothing, does nothing, just stands there, apparently admiring the A-quality weaponry hung from the walls and displayed all festive-like in the glass cases dotting the small space.

He has a thing for weapons, and honestly it's worrying. I found a dagger dangling from a string around his neck a few weeks ago. A knife necklace. Katana sees nothing wrong with this.

The woman's still watching us, her lips turned up slightly at the corners, laughter lines crinkling around her eyes. She leans back after another minute or so passes without any headway being made (courtesy of an intense verbal assault that takes place between me and Kay) and eases around the counter. She disappears behind a set of mahogany shelves (brimming with polish and whetstones and whatnot), reemerging on the other side, this time toting a wicked-looking blade, the sight of which stuns me so greatly my mouth screws itself shut, mid-insult.

"It's a cutlass," she explains as Timor releases me from his death-grip and I scramble to find my footing before my face gets an unwanted make-out session with the floor. It's a nice floor, though; real clean. "Not that common 'round these parts. Most people prefer katanas or broadswords. Me, though, I'm pretty fond of 'em. They get the job done just as well, and they've got a nice look to 'em. Here."

I'm barely on my feet when she presses the blade into my hands, and I have to flip it quickly to avoid slicing my palms open and ruining this nice floor with my not-so-nice blood. Ignoring Katana's knowing gaze and Timor's... indifference, I grudgingly assess the cutlass, from tip to guard. The smithy's right about it being an uncommon choice; it's the first time I've seen such a distinctive shape for the guard, cupped around the hilt. Looks like it would provide a good grip and decent protection, if nothing else. But it also reminds me of something they'd dish out to newbie Marines. Something about the design...

"It's..." I hunt desperately for the words to let this woman down easy. She seems so eager for me to approve of this sword, like she made it specifically for me and it's been gathering dust around here for years, awaiting my arrival. But it's not Honoo. It's not my blade. "Beautiful," I say, "it's beautiful. The metal you used for this is... kinda unreal. Flexible and strong and it's got a hell of a shine to boot. And the detailing on the guard - is this a legit phoenix you carved into this?"

And she's laughing. She's laughing at me. Because through all this babbling I'm just clutching the hilt tighter, this pained look scrunching my features into a furrowing mess, while my so-called friends look on with detached amusement (in Katana's case, anyway; Timor doesn't look like even a facial muscle has shifted since we left the ship).

"Kid," she gasps, managing a few words past the insurmountable giggles collecting in her throat, "kid, stop, I don't need the flattery, promise. I'm happy enough knowing you like it even just a little. But I can tell where this is going so you can just--"

I stop listening. More precisely, the smithy's words are drowned out by a booming voice that really doesn't seem like it could possibly be beating against my eardrums alone.

"Oi! KID. Are ya gonna talk t' me or just let Bella tell ya everything?"

"Uh..." The word - the syllable, honestly - leaks from my mouth before I can bite it back, and I have to endure a round of heat licking at my cheeks, listening to both Katana and the damn smithy chuckling at the slip-up. Katana, of course, has probably already figured out that I've made some sort of insta-connection with the cutlass, but the smithy's reaction startles me a bit.

Bella? I question, casting my voice into a tremulous thought for the blade's benefit.

"Bella's the smithy," he says affirmatively. "Yer a lil' slow, ain't ya, kid?"

I pointedly disregard that assumption and allow him to continue with his train of thought.

"Anyway, I was sayin', ain't ya curious 'bout me?"

To be perfectly honest, I wasn't sure you were gonna say anything. My connection to swords has been... spotty lately. Kishi's been complaining to Kay that I don't talk to him anymore...

"Ooh, the lil' fox? Kishi, was it? Funny. Doesn't seem like the type t' complain much."

Which only makes me feel so much worse for my silence.

Look, you seem alright. Kinda nice, maybe a bit pushy, but friendly. I like that. But I'm not in the market for a new sword. I got dragged here against my will 'cause my "friend" decided I needed a weapon if I'm gonna rejoin the world of the living. So sorry to get your hopes up, but--

"Hey, call me Shinsei, 'kay kid?"

...What? Why? And aren't I supposed to name you?

"Nah, I choose my name based on my owner. They don't mind it usually. I'm accurate for the most part."

A cold weight settles in the pit of my stomach, leaching the flushing warmth from my body like a reaper's kiss steals life from unresponsive blue lips. I'm almost afraid to ask: Why Shinsei?

"'Course it's 'cause I'm gonna help ya along wit yer rebirth, kid."

And from there, my day proceeds to get worse.

______________________

PROLOGUE

The ship explodes.

A mushroom cloud of fire and obsidian ash erupts in its place, shrouding the skies with the terror of blooming thunderheads. Crimson flames devour the parched wood, leaping through the falling mourning veil at a breakneck pace that has the frantic crew scrambling for lifeboats that are already ablaze.

Outlined in the spiraling smoke is a slight figure, made black by the patch of night eclipsing the sun's rays. They stand, unperturbed, atop an untouched railing, narrowed eyes scouring the frothing water below. Something - someone - catches their attention; the ghost of a smile traces their lips as they sling an unmarked bag over their shoulder, fastening the clasp to keep the crinkled papers from fluttering away in the torrid winds.

The air is alive and screaming. No - the screams aren't figments of a tainted imagination. They're real, emanating from throats constricted with fear, from tongues thick and mouths gaping wide in their horror. The calls of the damned.

The figure spares those releasing their swan songs but a fleeting glance. All too soon, they've returned their flinty gaze to the water, to the contact they've been on advised to look out for.

And, having spotted them - they leap.

The fall is short, the panic only a heartbeat longer. They can make this maneuver a thousand times, and their heart will still jolt to a breathless stop each and every time. The feeling of a limitless freefall reminds them too much of moments spent in death's cold embrace.

"Late," is the greeting they receive from their contact, more of a grunt than an actual word. His voice is deep, which annoys them to an unreasonable extent. However well-built he is, this person's personality speaks more to a quiet, subservient tone - at least in their mind. No one else seems to find issue with his determinedly masculine voice.

"Hey, I did it," the figure snaps, disentangling their willowy frame from the supposed giant's arms, glad to have been caught but still bothered they'd had to rely on the support when their own power would have sufficed, if they'd been allowed to unleash it. They snag a fistful of the stolen papers from their knapsack and dramatically wave them before their companion's stoic features. "So what if I was a few seconds behind schedule? It's not like they caught me, and I'm pretty sure you weren't worried about me getting roasted--"

"Fifty-seven seconds."

"What?"

"Fifty-seven seconds late. Enough time to get killed."

"But that's what I'm saying. I didn't die, wasn't killed - seriously, I'm not pushing up daisies, and I'm not six feet under. I'll use whatever stupid euphemism you want. Point is, I'm fine."

The look they earn in return is nothing short of mocking, presented in a theatrical way that says nothing of his actual intentions. They've only recently become accustomed to reading between the lines, so to speak, and picking up on the subtle nuances that give away even an inkling of the giant's true thoughts. That expression was as bland as any other; it was the eyes that scoffed at them.

His eyes flicker, darting away from their flushing cheeks. "Hold on," he orders, and despite much grumbling and eye-rolling, the troublesome figure shuffles closer to him and wraps their arms securely around his waist. Having been through this countless times before, they don't waste time in waiting for his command; they strike out sharply with their foot, their heel connecting with a dial attached to the back of the narrow, unconventional craft (something of a surfboard, outfitted with Skypiean "technology"). A gust of aromatic wind billows out from the dial's mouth and the craft slices cleanly across the waves, even as the ocean's ferocity becomes more evident as it claims the decaying wreckage of a once-proud naval vessel.

His heartbeat's pretty steady, they note, somewhat disgruntled. With their cheek against his back, it's impossible to miss the constant, consistent rhythm. Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Whereas theirs is performing gymnastics worthy of a gold medal. And they're envious.

"Aren't you bothered?" they blurt out. Without thinking. Unable to reclaim the thought as merely that.

His silence is answer enough. By what?

"Those marines... they're... dead. Because of us."

It all comes rushing out. The fears they've chained to their heart for indefinite months. The worries that mangle their fading consciousness when sleep seems to be within reach. The things they've sworn never to reveal to another living soul, so long as they don't impede on their ability to complete a required task.

Everything. Laid bare to a man who most likely couldn't give a damn.

"No."

They start. He wasn't meant to answer. He's never answered personal questions before beyond a blank, unreadable change in his already blank countenance. This is new territory, territory they wonder if it's safe to tread.

"Guilt is meaningless."

He says nothing else on the subject, and they don't press. The singular sentence spoke volumes with hardly any need for interpretation. His past isn't a secret among their crew; they understand without asking.

Swallowing their regret, the figure closes the minimal distance between them, finished with their brief act of rebellion and now focused on simply surviving the trip home without an unnecessary - and fatal - dip in the white-water that trails them like a shadow.

Guilt is meaningless, he says. So why is it that I'm so torn up inside?

____________________________________

{In Which Timor Shows Off His Acting Skills}

"Hey, Timor! Mind helping me with something?"

The pink-haired assassin raised his head, effectively abandoning the young pirate he'd been tutoring in swordplay. The teen didn't protest as Timor left without a word of apology or explanation - possibly because he didn't have the breath in his lungs to form the necessary words.

____________________________________

{Opening Chapter: Infinite Sky}

It's raining.

Tiny droplets lash against the hull, pit-pattering along with the waves attacking the foolish vessel that dares to tread upon their territory. Yet the ship only rocks among the natural chaos, as unaffected as the stars trapped behind the blanketing layer of ashen clouds.

The sails are drawn and fastened to the mast for fear of having the shrieking wind riddle them with terminal holes. Any light or valuable belongings not secured in cabins are hastily but meticulously tied down; anything left is heavy enough to withstand Mother Nature's furious assault. Only phantoms roam the slick deck - save one expectant figure who braves the downpour, quietly leaning against the mast.

They're soaked to the bone, their clothing sticking to them as cleanly as a second skin. Oddly enough, though, they don't seem bothered; rather, the annoyance sparkling in their monochromatic eyes is better explained by the reason for their daring excursion into the storm's maw.

They're waiting.

And it's been hours now since the appointed time.

"Honestly," the figure sighs, irritably flicking a strand of drenched ebony hair from their eyes, "she enjoys causing me worry. Kami forbid she do as she's told for once in her manic life...I hope she hasn't caused Angelus too much trouble..."

"Jeez, Kay, you have absolutely no faith in me, do ya?"

Katana's lips curl upwards. "Of course not. That would go against my given character, no?"

Standing just opposite her is Katana's exact double - from the layers of oil-black hair plastered to her forehead, to the piercing yellow eyes (narrowed slightly in distaste), and the simply elegant attire she's donned for the occasion. But the mirror image is shattered as she snorts, crossing her thin arms beneath her chest - an action that prompts Katana to wonder if she's chilled rather than annoyed for a split second before recollecting her nature.

"If anything, Timor caused me grief, alright?" she snaps, glaring freshly-honed daggers at the towering man standing unperturbed at her side. He flicks her an indifferent glance, apparently content to take the brunt of her enthused glowering, as he doesn't show the slightest signs of being bothered or equally irritated, effectively only making her angrier. "Damn giant, taking his orders verbatim, sayin' I coulda died..."

Highly amused, Katana finds herself nodding along with the girl's grumbling, her smile taking up residence where only a few moments ago rested a studious frown. "Yes, yes - I understand. You overshot your rendezvous time, yes?"

The budding flush instilling itself within the doppelganger's cheeks is all the confirmation Katana requires, and it's the only answer she takes interest in, instantly disregarding the girl's adamant protests.

"Shall I assume you two had a successful mission?"

Timor - not one to speak his answers aloud - simply strips the doppelganger of her leather satchel and presents it to Katana, his dull blue gaze avoiding her molten irises as though he could really care less about her rising agitation. The Dracule accepts it with a slight smirk and rummages through its contents for a moment, her nimble fingers easily locating the stolen papers. She nods, resealing the sack and tucking it under her arm.

"Marco will be pleased," she says, then, with a pointed look at the black-haired girl, adds, "You're not to mention this to Ace."

"I. Know. Already," she seethes in response. Her fisted hands visible tremble with the effort of restraining her more volatile speak pattern, as she's not in the mood for an all-out war with Katana after such an exhausting venture, especially one where she had to endure Timor's grating company. Really, she'd have no problem with the man if he just smiled from time to time. His personality would be much more bearable if something of his inner thoughts was revealed on occasion through a simple upturning of his lips. "I'm not an idiot - and don't you dare try to contradict me on that, Kay! - I know Ace ain't happy with us doing this, not after..."

She doesn't finish, and she doesn't have a need to. Katana, for all her tempered steel and constant berating, would never ask to hear another rendition of the events of that day. The government-issued papers spun a number of tales just after the event's closure, and none of them were flattering for any party apart from the heroic naval officers who struggled to maintain the peace against a group of anarchists calling themselves simple pirates.

The deaths of Flynn D. Raya and Portgas D. Ace were particularly damning.

Even now, various circles of pirates whisper their laments for the two influential pirates, one the daughter of Shanks, the other the only son of Gol D. Roger. They say it was a shame, for two so young and so lively to be cut down in their prime, before they could truly make a mark on this stained world.

Katana pities them. They mourn what shouldn't be mourned, though she does find it amusing to think that people who have never had contact with either pirate have such charming things to say on their behalf. Raya was hardly a vivacious, sweet-tempered beauty worthy of such praise.

"Shouldn't you be stripping?" Katana asks absently, swatting again at the spider-web hairs that find it necessary to adhere themselves to her pallid forehead. She'll have to consider cutting her hair again, or at least taking to the idea of tying it up on occasion.

"Ugh, yeah, I guess," the doppelganger groans, peeling her own obsidian strands from her face, closing one eye in irritation. "I'll dry off first, though... Speaking of, what the hell are you doing out here? Timor and I don't need a babysitter to wait for us."

Timor gives her a look that clearly states he thinks quite differently about the matter, at least where it concerns her, but for once she's blissfully ignorant of his condemning countenance, and instead is only focused on escaping the wrathful elements. She doesn't wait for Katana's reply, most likely believing she can acquire it at a later time, and hastens to the nearest cabin door, yanking it open and flitting inside, her shivering form lost as the weathered door clatters shut in her wake.

"...She's changed."

Timor's eyes flit to the side, giving Katana a once-over that speaks more to instinct than curiosity. A woeful smile tugs at her lips; even drowned out by the suffocating darkness of the storm, her yellow eyes glow with a flickering concern.

"You won't notice it, of course; you've only known her after the fact. But this isn't her, not truly. She's... lost some of her vibrance."

The statement sounds despairing from the Dracule's tongue, and it is that noteworthy development alone that snares Timor's attention. They've been in one another's company for only two years now, and he is far from a social butterfly; the result is that he knows little about either of his latest partners, and he has no inclination to change that. However, an obvious trait of Katana is her constant composure.

Seeing her so vulnerable prickles the nerves lining the back of his neck.

"Still, there's nothing to be done about it," Katana says after a momentary pause, seeming to shake off her melancholy skin as she uncrosses her arms, taking the satchel into her pale hands. "She'll have to escape these emotional constraints herself. It's not my place to guide her through such hoops, leading her by the nose like a common pup. That swordsman of hers would serve as a far better guide, in any case..."

The howling wind utters another guttural cry as lightning streaks through the dense clouds. Katana spares the primordial heavens an indifferent glance; she's no care for nature's violent whims, any more than she has for the so-called bindings of Lady Fate.

Dracule Katana is servant to no one, neither time nor fate nor Mother Nature and all her fantasies.

Angelus Timor's come to realize that that is, in fact, a defining factor in her decision to brave the elements this night. While the rest of the crew huddles safely in their bunks, Katana stands here, unopposed and unafraid. She is dominant in her own little world. Yet that world is expanding, little by little, and she's come to embrace a few choice individuals as worthy of her consideration - himself and her doppelganger included.

Her other reason for suffering the onslaught of needle-like rain... is something she keeps close to her vest. Yet it's obvious. She frets over that girl as she would her own flesh and blood, as foolhardy and inconceivable as that might sound to anyone outside of her immediate circle.

"I suppose I should help her," the Dracule mutters, more to herself than her silent companion. "She always has difficulty with those contacts..."

And so, with little more than a nod of parting to Timor, she follows in her double's footsteps, surefooted even as the deck rolls beneath them with the flow of the furious sea.

Timor stands alone, hands slid into his pockets, hat knocked back slightly from a stray gust of wind. He doesn't bother clearing the hair from his forehead; it's a futile task, of which he's well aware.

Futile tasks should be left alone, after all.

There's no fighting Fate once she's ensnared you in her intricate web of misfortune.

{In Which Raya Reunites With a Childhood Friend}

McElroy Adriel, known to the pirating and naval worlds alike as "The Drifter" for his habit of island-hopping.