In the end, this is what I'm good at, isn't it?

There's an incredibly satisfying crunch as I feel the fine cartilage of some unfortunate Marine's nose collapse beneath the damning heel of my boot. He's thrown backwards from the staggering blow, flailing arms managing to grapple another two of his comrades to the ground along with him. Reasonably assured he won't be getting back up (the thud of his head cracking against the floor was audible even amongst the chaos beating in my ears), I scuff my foot over the wood, leaving gritty crimson deposits behind, and roll my shoulders before jumping back into the fray, a flighty smile pulling at my recently-morose lips.

I've delivered long-winded rants about how Zoro's element is when he's perfectly engulfed in the ferocity and lawlessness of battle, where all that conceivably matters is the enemy directly in front of you and the certainty of a yet-unknown death.

But I'm like that too.

Well, not to the degree that Zoro is; I'm still rather fond of leaving my opponent breathing when I've finished with them. But this - the adrenaline surging through too-small veins, how the world mutes around me until my senses only register the sights and sounds that are deemed as threatening, the explicit and uncalled for joy of felling a man twice your size with tenacity and fury alone - this is where I feel the most like myself.

That freaking epithet may grate my nerves whenever I hear mention of it, but whoever came up with it really did capture this violent demoness in human clothing flawlessly.

Not that I still don't want to reduce his house to a cluster of charred foundations, but hey, I'm giving credit where credit is due. Flynn D. Raya is nothing if not fair (occasionally, anyway).

I'm exhausted, feel shitty, can barely imagine how hellishly sore I'll be tomorrow (if there even is such a thing at this point), and yet I don't care - I'm more than willing to stretch my body past its human limits if it means we can secure even an abysmally tiny window of escape. And, of course, hold off the veritable armada of warships bearing down on us until Luffy cleans up with Lucci, the bastard. Which he'll inevitably do, coming through in the last moment like the faux-hero-of-legend he is. So we'll wait and we'll fight and believe in our captain.

Raya?

In the midst of administering a flaming kick launched from a hand-spring, I blink, then flip upright, spreading my arms for balance on the unsteady ground. We've been slowly forcing the brigade of persistant Marines away from the ship, and I've become less certain of my footing as the rubble's increased, both in size and distribution. Shaking off my surprise, I wheel around, one leg kicked out as an arc of flames shoots off from the sole of my boot.

What's up, Honoo? Need something? 'Cause I'm a little busy here...

I know what you're trying to do.

The comment could be - should be - harmless. But Honoo knows me too well for that to be the case, and I feel the blood drain away from my face as I drop to a crouch, allowing a charging behemoth to sail clean over my head and make a swan dive into a cluster of his buddies. Shooting up, I make use of the sudden clenching of my fists and throw an uppercut into another Marine's chin, clamping his jaw shut with an audible clack - which, evidently, is the sound one's jaw makes when their teeth forcefully collide and possibly shatter, littering their gums with bloody, pearalescent fragments.

Ah, what're you talking about Honoo? I'm not--

You'll kill yourself, Raya, if you continue to try and forcefully expel me from this sword.

Dammit. I hadn't thought she'd figure me out this early on.

"Well, whaddya want me to do, Honoo?" I demand tiredly, the dissatisfied bitterness forcing the words off my tongue, which - like it did so long ago in Alabasta - turns quite a few heads. I adamantly ignore them, returning to my internal dialogue while I survey the remaining Marines and the scattered islands my friends have become in the short time since the brawl began.

A rumble ripples up Honoo's hilt, and I can imagine her flicking her tail impatiently, her feline mouth split in a fanged grimace. Think of your beloved companions, is all she says despite the clear indication that she has much more to say on the subject.

I say nothing for a long moment, my body making the smooth transition into autopilot - kick, punch, the occasional highly-explosive fireball that may or may not have me instinctively grinning when one sets a man's ass ablaze.

It's Honoo who breaks the encroaching silence, a low purr trembling beneath the hand I've unconsciously wrapped around her hilt. Alright, she says, I'll bite. Rather than pushing yourself towards an early grave, though, simply rely on me, dear.

And it's then that I feel that now-familiar warmth coursing through my body again, molten fire trickling through my veins, heat licking from fingers to toes. It recedes, just as it did before, but the flames linger about my hands and feet.

A feral grin quirks at my lips as I raise my hands above me, inspecting the crackling fire wrapped around them like gloves. Honoo's done an ace job of it, too, coercing the flames to have them resemble her own humongous paws - complete with claws tipped with prismatic white tongues of flame.

"Oh this is bad in a very good way."

The whole situation's become pretty screwy, really, especially considering the fact that Honoo - despite housing her fiery soul in a weapon as finely honed as my sword - has never been one for violence. I'd guess she picked it up from my step-father; Jonah never liked getting into the thick of it, either. But with me, being so connected, it's understandable that she'd adapt to accommodate my traits as well; she's certainly been willing enough to kill since I've begun my death-defying campaign with the Straw Hats. 

I suppose I should be wondering if that's some grave mistake on my part, but hey, not like I can control my own sadistic tendencies when it gets right down to it, can I? 

I revel in Honoo's encouraging warmth as I bash my way through a line of Marines, flame-trailing claws slashing wildly as chests, arms, legs - really anything within reach. Smoky aromas curl against my nostrils, drifting up into the back of my throat when I'm not careful enough to huff them back out; the smell's godawful, tinged with the scent of charred flesh that reminds me grossly over my run through the courtroom earlier. 

Ducking under an outstretched hand (and the blade swinging wildly in its flimsy grip), I breathlessly emerge from the condensed crowd, stumbling a bit as I right myself, twisting around to face whatever pest has followed me out. But my exit seems to have gone unnoticed for the moment, everyone too preoccupied with the whole deadly demon pirates from the fiery pits of hell thing they've got going on back there. Damn. This trip just keeps reminding me that I might as well love being small; the lack of presence can be useful in the most dire of situations.

A triumphant grin flickers over my lips, and I carefully make my way around the outskirts of the fight, trying to catch a glimpse of where Luffy and Lucci are still duking it out in that semi-demolished building. Through the acrid smoke and the flagrant debris hanging in the air, it's difficult to make out exactly what's going on, but from the sinewy silhouettes outlined against the gray, I can see that--

"Luffy!"

The shout makes me jump, heart thumping erratically (he sounded so desperate) and I climb atop a toppled chunk of stone to get a view into the depths of the crowd.

Usopp?

He's taken off that ostentatious (re: stupid) carnival mask, allowing me to see the wild look in his usually placid eyes. My head whips around to follow his gaze and I realize he's been just as focused on Luffy's fight as I've been, only he managed to figure out what was going on long before I did:

My worst nightmare. An absolute horror.

Luffy, my beloved captain, the unsung hero who's done more good than harm in his days on the high seas, one of my best friends - lying prostrate on the ground, bloodied and motionless, with a smug kitty-cat looming over him, claws glinting crimson in the hazy light. Dripping with my captain's blood.

I stand frozen admist the turmoil blanketed over the scene, transfixed by the sight of Luffy sprawled out as he is, looking to be on both his literal and figurative last legs. I can't tear my eyes away, because this is something I never imagined I'd bear witness to, something I never wanted to see. Who would, anyway? The very idea that my captain - the man I've entrusted with my faith and future - could fall prey to the mercy of a man who probably does his business in a litter box... it's ridiculous. And he promised. Luffy promised, goddammit. He swore that we'd swoop in, rescue our very own damsel in distress, and sail off into the sunset.

He basically promised we'd be the heroes of our very own epic tale of adventure. When was the last time the hero bit it before the curtains drew to a close?

Actually, don't answer that. I'm getting flashbacks to some not-so sleepy bedtime stories my mom tried to coax me under the covers with.

I'm thrust back into the moment as Usopp's shouting (which appears to have been going on for quite some time) draws to a close, and - breathing heavily, brow dotted with sweat - he sweeps back into the crowd, his supped-up slingshot making quick work of Marine attempting to bar his way. Unusually impressed, I switch my attention back to Luffy, only to see him rising painfully to his feet, face shadowed with an emotion I can only interpret as overwhelming gratitude.

A smile snares my lips. So the cowardly sniper has his moments as well, hm? 

Feeling renewed, I throw out my hands and, per my pleading, Honoo's flames make a lovely reappearance, encasing hands and feet in ethereal claws fit to tear into the throats of my enemies like a hot knife through butter. Honestly, though, murder is not the farthest thing from my mind as I angle myself in the split-second before I kick off from my perch and literally throw myself back into the crowd.

"Heeeeeeeere's Raya!"

It's funny, really, how many lips are touched with that familiar curse - "Demon" - while I'm ripping and shredding and altogether rampaging. And it fits, because I've enough bottled up rage left over to fuel an entire demonic army, possibly at the Sea Devil's command. 

Caught up in my current task of simply taking down as many officers as I can before something unfortunate befalls me (I have a rather consistent record for humiliating myself just before the climax of these types of things), I barely take notice of the ear-splitting howl that hits the air with the force of a canon blast (vaguely aware that there's a hint of my cap'n's childish pitch in the cadence) but I am floored (literally, as I'm caught so unawares that a passing Marine's leg is enough to trip me and send me flopping backwards onto my ass) when Lucci of all people peels away from the stonework of the only standing tower with agonizing slowness, tumbling end over end until he hits the ground with a resounding crash that shakes the entire bridge.

And, in the silence that follows, only one voice is brave enough to call out:

"We're going back together, Robiiiiiiiiiiin!!"

Well... here's the climax. And I'm not writing out my will in my own runny blood yet. 

Weird.