spiced-apple

[spiced-apple]

Shine the Light Ch.5

Yandere Batfam x Neglected Zoey!reader

Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4

Golden had released just a few days ago. The manor hadn’t been this quiet in a long time. Something had happened. Something that had left both a gaping hole and an unmistakable feeling of guilt. You were gone, and they were just starting to realize that. 

The worst part was that it wasn’t through learned firsthand information or even the feeling of guilt that always seems to find a way of seeping into one’s bones. No. It had been learned by chance, a random news channel reported the global success of an idol group hailing from Korea with one of the three members being the “pride” of Gotham. You. They had contacted Bruce and some of the others to get their opinions on it, but each time their answers were the same, “No comment.”

It wasn't hard for Bruce to connect the dots, and each one seemed to make it more and more obvious how much he had failed to even talk to you. And, as he did a brief search online, it was impossible to miss the way people seemed to be praising your achievements, the number of fans, and the fact that your group was not only a success, but an international sensation. Videos, compilations, interviews, articles, and pictures. Had he ever really known you, or had his negligence been so thorough that he couldn’t even recall the sound of your voice until he heard it in the song?

He had tried to reach out to your mother, but none of the answers she gave filled the void—the very apparent lack of information he had on his own child. She wasn’t any better as apparently you had moved out not long after the custody change. She tried to prolong the conversation to ask whether he had any form of contact with you because, “I’ve tried, but I think they’ve changed their number.”

He hung up shortly after, not having the energy to listen to her any longer.

Dick was next. He was still in Blüdhaven, but when he saw the news, he nearly dropped the phone. No, no, no. This had to be a mistake. Maybe they just had the wrong person, and that wasn't you. It couldn’t be. In all of his memories… wait a minute—he scrolled through his contacts. Did he even have your number? A quick check revealed that, no, he didn’t. How long had it been since he had last talked to you? How long had it been since any of them had?

He knew the answer, but to say it out loud was to admit how much he had failed. If he was being honest, he couldn’t even recall the last time he talked to you, or when and why you were Korea now for some reason. How long had you been there? He had always prided himself on his ability to become friends with practically anybody, but somehow he’d made a mistake with you. Multiple mistakes…

Instead of sinking further into the feeling, he opted to call Alfred.

No answer.

Tim was next. He had been the hardest hit when Bruce told them, and he had holed himself up in his room, looking over each of the posts, videos, and other media. It was almost obsessive—though he had always been this way with things, it never seemed to get this bad before. He was watching the newest video. It was an interview, and he watched as the three of you—your group—giggled and laughed together. You seemed so happy. Happier than you had ever been before. Happier than anyone had ever seen you.

A pang of guilt hit him, and he clicked the next video.

And the next.

And the one after that.

Each one made the knot in his stomach tighten.

He needed answers, and all these videos weren’t doing anything besides giving him more questions. And making the emptiness a little bit too prominent.

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to cry, or scream, or break something. All he knew was that he needed to see you. He needed to know. Why had you left?

Jason wasn't sure what had hit him the hardest. Maybe it was the fact that he didn’t even remember a face to your name. Or maybe it was the fact that no one had bothered to keep tabs on you. Not him, not Bruce, not Dick, not Tim, and not Damien. He wasn’t sure what to make of it. You. Forgotten. Not just by him, but by everyone else. He remembered meeting you, the bits of conversation he’d hear you involved with around the manor, but some part of him had always assumed that the others were better. That they would remember you. They had more time, more openness. But apparently not.

He wondered what you thought of them. The people you used to call family. How many nights did you lay awake wondering what had changed? Wondering where things went wrong? What had you done to deserve being ignored and forgotten.

Was this what the rest of your life would be like? He’d had had those same thoughts before, and it hurt to realize that he’d put someone else through that same pain. Even if it was unintentional, and even though they'd never known, the thought alone made the weight in his chest grow. He’d screwed up and he wasn’t sure if there was even a way to fix it.

Damien was last. When his father had told him, he felt confused. Why did this matter? They had a mission, and if the person in the picture in front of him wasn’t here, then why did it matter where they were, or what they were doing? Why did it matter if he didn’t know anything about you. Or what happened to you. Or that some part of him did miss you... It didn’t make any sense. You didn't make sense.

And that was when he realized. He was just like the them. He had no idea who you were, and yet he was mourning the loss of a person he was never even close to.

It was so frustrating. He should know these things. You were his sister, bound by blood, unlike the rest of them. So whydid you feel so unreachable? You were supposed to be there for him, to support him, and understand him in ways the others couldn’t.

There really was no comment to be made by any of them.

At least… not publicly.

The decision had been made in private, and a single message sent.

“We’re going to get them back.”

@saradika-graphics for the amazing divider, they have so much cool stuff!

The endings are gonna be released together, so that means they’ll probably take a bit longer. I’ll be doing a poll soon to decide which character is next! Maybe I’ll sneak in a Saja Boy lol. If you want to be added to the taglist for this or any other story, just let me know <3 <3

Thank you so much for the continued support, I don’t know if I could express how much it means! I hope everyone has a great night!

@mikusamsan @edgycatx @sir-lawrence-felidae @luludeluluramblings @demis2955 @fleursdeau @125bluemachine125 @just-set-things-on-fire @darktrashpoetry @fandomswept @doggyteam2028 @staarflowerr @zooemama @winter-solstice24 @mattsauxe @littlepotaaatosimp @wpdarlingpan @yumeravenclaw @kingofghostscr @holderoflostmemories @ratterpatter @ithoughtthinks @bloessom @letsbedragonstogether @awawage @cupid73 @stormnightingale @sunshinepower17 @goldenmoonbeam @gaozorous-rex-blog @cosmicyuk1 @dallysgirl1965 @sleep-7372 @ratchetprime211 @justafank @fantasy-angelo @sramoonlight @maybeethan69 @briceericeee @iamaunknownsecret @bad4amficideas @sleep-with-the-frogs

[spiced-apple]

Is it alive, wire?

Hurting them was never your intention. In fact it was the furthest thing from it. You only ever wanted to help them. To care for them, because you could tell something was wrong, and all you wanted to do was make it better. But somehow, every time, you made it worse. 

Each and every time.

And for each of those attempts… you failed.

They hated you. And even worse than that, you—and only you—had killed them.

You wanted to hate Reggie for showing up each time, “congratulating” you. It felt so cruel after all, Volt and Eddie had been the first hate ending you’d gotten in the game, and god did it hurt. So you tried again. And again. And by the fourth time, Reggie had pulled you aside with a hushed, “Look, I get what you’re trying to achieve here. It’s pathetic. For you, I mean. But, I think, unless you really just enjoy them wishing you were dead, that you should consider maybe focusing on getting other people to hate you. This isn’t doing you any favors.”

Just like that, something inside you broke. He was right. In all the worse ways, and you couldn’t hate or blame him for telling you the truth. This was your fault. Even having the best intentions doesn’t guarantee that everything will work out. And it seemed to surprise him when you mumbled out, “You’re right…”

“I’m right?—of course I’m right.” His face lit up. “And do you know what you’re gonna do?”

“I’m gonna reset the game.”

He stared at you for a long moment, before asking “Are you sure about that? What’ll happen if you do run into them?”

For the first time in weeks you smiled, “I won’t. I’m not gonna talk to them, or ever go back there.”

The screen flickered to black for a few seconds before changing to the home screen, the familiar toon both comforting and setting all your nerves on edge. You started a new game. And also started the silent promise of what you had told Reggie, you wouldn’t even go near the breaker box… or them.

Your heart thudded anxiously in your chest, a tightness gripping it and causing you to take a deep breath. Even if you couldn’t have a happy ending with them this way, at least… they were alive this way. And that’s all you could ever ask for. The nervousness seemed to almost wash away at the end of the first day after successfully meeting Skylar, Dorian, Maggie, and Betty.

By the end of the third day, Reggie appeared just you were about to go to sleep, “Wow, you’re really committed to this. Y’know, I wasn’t really sure about this whole thing to begin with, but I think I’m starting to understand it.”

“Understand what?”

“The hatred from a distance. I mean, the more you go out of your way to avoid them, the more they’ll end up jumping to conclusions. Which is the best kind of exercise a person can do, well… besides.” He winked, and you just sat there staring at him blankly, he looked nonplussed and continued. “I never considered the whole indirect method, but you might be onto something! If I’m being honest, I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“That’s… fine. I don’t want them to hate me. But at least this way, they won’t have to go through the same pain if I was there.”

“Ugh, god.” Reggie rolled his eyes, looking ill. “I’m gonna pretend like you didn’t say that, cause I think I’m gonna throw up if you keep saying shit like that.”

“Sorry.” You mumbled, he gagged in response and disappeared.

The Breaker Box was quiet. It had been weeks, hell, even a few months since the human had started talking to the residents of the house. All of them. Making friendships, and connections. With every single one, except for them. At first they had wanted to dismiss it as you being busy getting to know everyone, but then again, if that was the case, why had you made no attempt to even go near the closet. Even when you did, you rushed past or didn’t look directly at the breaker box without looking guilty and sad. As though you were physically in pain just being near the club, just being near them.

The bar was quiet as Eddie quietly made his drink while Volt sipped his. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this was personal.” The static surrounding Volt needled and stung with barely contained anger. “I mean what did we do to make them so desperate to avoid us like the plague?!”

Eddie sighed, running a hand through his hair tiredly. “I… I don’t know, Volt. I really don’t.” He stared into his drink as he stirred it, the ice softly clinking, filling the silence. “I’ve never even met them, but somehow it still feels like I lost something. Like we lost someone.”

Volt slammed his fist against the countertop, the sudden movement making the lights flicker and buzz with energy. He was upset about the blatant avoidance, but more than anything he hated how personal it felt towards Eddie. He could and always would do anything for him, it was his purpose. To protect him, and this was hurting him. You were hurting him. And he wouldn’t stand for it.

It was another week or so before he actually caught the human, and by that time he was practically crackling with energy.The hallway leading to the bedroom stuttered between being lit and being plunged into darkness, and the closer he got, the more the floor felt like it was vibrating beneath his feet. They were standing in the hallway, staring at the door to the room, and when Volt was finally standing in front of them, he snapped.

His body seemed to spark and hiss with rage, eyes glowing a bright electric blue and the white strands of his hair shining in the darkness of the hallway where he was illuminated in through the doorway of your bedroom where you stood. Stock still like a statue, eyes wide and unblinking, frozen in fear.

“Livewire. You and I have things to talk about.” He hissed out.

The door slammed shut, and the sound of the lock clicking was the only response they gave.

The wood of the door against your back was almost comforting if not for the fact that you could hear it. In your head, louder than the pounding of your own heartbeat against your ribcage, was his voice echoing like a thunderstorm. “I am grateful. Grateful that you showed your true nature and spared me from wasting any more time catering to you.”

Tears blinded your vision. No it wasn’t real. That was before, and this… this wasn’t supposed to happen. Why was he outside the Breaker Box? He shouldn’t be able to leave. Was this karma? Did they hate you so much that they’d go outside of their programming?

The lights in the room were flickering and popping with the force of the electrical storm raging outside the door, and you couldn’t tell if it was because of your heart pounding against your ribs or the static hissing behind the door.

No. This couldn’t be… the whole reason why you had avoided them was because—did this mean you were going to have to make that awful decision again? You couldn’t do that again. You couldn't.

You didn't want to kill him. You didn’t want either of them to suffer, and now…

The lights went dark, and suddenly you couldn't hear the hissing and popping anymore. It was so quiet, and in the darkness of the room, you could feel it. Another presence. 

He was here. They both were.

Filling and lighting up the darkness of the room was Eddie and Volt. Eddie looked tired, but something in his eyes was curious and cautious, while Volt had a wild and untamed look to his eyes. Almost feral.

"…hey, calm down. We’re not gonna do anything—”

“Unless you give me a reason to.”

“Volt.” Eddie looked at him, and Volt seemed to back off, but still held that same look.

The tears came back with a vengeance as your breathing lost whatever control you had over it. This was just like—

“We won't do anything. We just wanna know why. Why do this? Did we do something wrong? Did I?”

"I never meant to—" Your voice cracked. "I didn't want to hurt anyone, I just wanted everyone to be okay. I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry."

"That's not what we asked." Volt said coldly, the air seemed to vibrate around him, making the room feel smaller. "Don't give us some half-assed answer that has nothing to do with what we asked."

"I couldn't save you. I tried, but no matter what I did, I always ended up killing one of you. And it was too painful, I couldn't... I couldn't do it. Not again."

The words left your mouth before you could even register what was happening, the tears blurred your vision and you tried to curl into yourself. It was too much.

Eddie's expression shifted. He looked pained and confused. "How many times did you try? How many times did it not work?"

You couldn't respond, a sob escaped you. It was the only answer he needed.

"God." Eddie breathed. "What do you mean… killing us? What happened?"

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. It wasn't supposed to be like this. All I wanted was for you both to live. I thought, maybe if I didn't interact with you, it'd be okay. That you’d have that chance that I took away all those other times.”

A beat of silence. In that silence, the static seemed to change in feeling.

"Livewire, even if that was your intention, why didn’t you say anything?” Volt asked, his tone growing softer and gentle, the electricity still buzzing around him but no longer angry.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. "I knew if I even saw either you, if I ever went back, I’d change my mind. Even going back would create the risk of losing you both.”

The room was silent once again, and the air still.

“We’re not gonna leave.” Volt said quietly, and in the next second you were wrapped in a warm, almost suffocating hug, and the static had returned. Except, instead of being a harsh storm, it was almost comforting. The lights in the room flicked and buzzed, and the hum of the electricity felt more like a lullaby.

When they released you, Eddie was looking at you with a tired but soft smile. There was something about the look he gave that made you feel safe, like you didn't have to worry about a thing. "Hey, come on, we're not mad."

"How can you say that? I—"

"You were doing what you thought was right. And even if it wasn't exactly what we were expecting, I think we can work around this. We all just have some adjusting to do." He ran a hand through his hair, "We've never experienced something like this. But, if you're willing, we're willing to make this work."

You nodded, wiping the tears from your eyes. You were scared, but you knew he was right. You were so tired of hiding, of running away, and you had spent so long trying to protect them, you never considered that maybe they wanted the same for you. Whatever happened before, had happened. But nothing you did now would change that. Some part of you had wanted to move on from the pain, you had spent so long drowning in it since it was the only peace of mind, the only assurance you had, had for so long. But maybe you were ready to let it go. To let the guilt go.

"I am willing."

@saradika-graphics for the wonderful divider.

Sorry this isn’t the next chapter for Shine the Light. I got distracted romancing my furniture and getting sad when I got rejected. This story is based on my own repeated failure to romance Eddie and Volt and subsequent fear to go near the closet in game. Hope everyone has a great night! <3

[spiced-apple]

Shine the Light Ch.4

Yandere Batfam x Neglected Zoey!reader

Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.5

You didn’t want to jinx it and say that things were starting to look better and feel better. But… maybe, just maybe it was.

It had been months since this change. The audition, though you could barely tell what was going on from the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears and the nauseating anxiety coursing through you, went well. It felt like a fever dream that you kept expecting to have a worse ending than anything you’d ever gone through or witnessed. You kept expecting the pitying looks, the backhanded compliments, the barely concealed annoyance, and eventually dismissal. It all felt like a very real possibility that could happen. The best things almost always had the worse outcomes. You met the third member of what would become your group, Mira, who was nice from what you could tell, but hard to get a read on. 

You kept waiting for it. The sudden twist where they said how they really saw you, how much they hated you… clingy, talkative, too much…

But nothing, not even after almost half a year of training.

No. It was coming. It had to be. There was no way this would last.

And the longer it went on, the more your dread grew.

It was after one particularly grueling practice—sparring while singing is surprisingly really difficult—that it was suggested. To go hang out. Celine kept telling you three that maintaining harmony was one of the most vital things, and you kept hoping she meant vocally. Go get food, ice cream, something fun. Each of you would pick something. Rumi and Mira both picked theirs, and then it was your turn.

This was it. You knew it. The beginning of the end. They’d finally realize, or worse, reveal how they—

"What do you think?"

It took everything not to jump at Rumi’s sudden question.

You tried to swallow away the dry feeling the back of your throat, “Oh, um… anything’s fine.”

Mira sighed, and you flinched, preparing for the worst. “Maybe it’s none of my business, but if there's something you want to do, or somewhere you wanna go, it's okay. No one's gonna judge, and if they do, then that's their problem. But whether you like it or not, we’re your friends, we're not going anywhere. No matter what.”

No. No that can’t.

They were lying. They had to be.

Everyone lied.

Everyone would leave.

It didn’t matter. None of this mattered. You should have known better than to let your guard down, again—how could you be so stupid? And now, they would hurt you, and make it feel like your fault, and—

Rumi gently bumped her shoulder into yours, pulling you out of your downward spiral, "Hey, she’s right… I can tell there's a lot going on in there. But we can't help if you don't let us. So please, just talk to us, okay?"

There was nothing. The room was silent, but not like the suffocating kind. More like a gentle silence. Something that didn’t force itself on you or drown out any other sounds. The kind of quiet that made your thoughts louder, but not unbearably so.

“… maybe the aquarium…” You mumbled out, then hurriedly added, "We don’t have to go, I really don’t mind. I can just pick something else, or—"

Mira gently took your hand, and you were startled at how warm her hands were, "Then the aquarium it is. I've always wanted to go anyway."

Rumi took the other, and it was like her touch sent a wave of cool relief through you. "I don’t think I’ve ever actually gone to one, so I'm excited."

The feeling of dread changed when you got there. When they stayed and looked at the turtles with you. You had them, people who genuinely cared about you, who liked you, and were happy to spend time with you. This was it. Your home, the place where you belonged and had tried to find for years, and it was here. With these girls, who had accepted you for you, and didn’t want anything more or less. They liked you in spite of everything, not because of anything.

Things were starting to feel like they were worth smiling about.

And soon enough, they were.

By the end of the next year, the debut happened. You were on stage, in front of thousands, and you felt like you were truly living. For once.

The first album was a success, and so was the next, and the next. It was like you couldn't stop. You kept trying to give back, and show your gratitude, but none of it felt like enough. There were always new songs, new albums, and demons to kill. You loved this, you loved them. Everything was so warm, so full of life, and joy.

It was so bright.

Why do the brightest lights cast the worst shadows?

Looks like everything’s coming up Milhouse.

Or not.

The encouragement from everyone has meant so much! I’m planning on doing a poll after I finish this one. If anyone wants to join the taglist for this or any other story, just let me know!

@mikusamsan @edgycatx @sir-lawrence-felidae @luludeluluramblings @demis2955 @fleursdeau @125bluemachine125 @just-set-things-on-fire @darktrashpoetry @fandomswept @doggyteam2028 @staarflowerr @zooemama @winter-solstice24 @mattsauxe @littlepotaaatosimp @wpdarlingpan @yumeravenclaw @kingofghostscr @holderoflostmemories @ratterpatter @ithoughtthinks @bloessom @letsbedragonstogether @awawage @cupid73 @stormnightingale @sunshinepower17 @goldenmoonbeam @gaozorous-rex-blog @cosmicyuk1

[spiced-apple]

Shine the Light Ch.3

Yandere Batfam x Neglected Zoey!reader

Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.4 Ch.5

Everything felt so different here. It was a stark contrast to the quiet, stifling emptiness of Gotham even when crowded. You clutched your small carry-on, the faint scent of your mother's perfume a surprisingly comforting anchor in the unfamiliar chaos. She was there, a face from old photos and memories that felt so far away, but now here. Right in front of you, offering a soft smile and a warm, guiding hand. 

"Hey, come on." she'd murmured, and for a fleeting moment, a spark of the old hope, the one that used to flicker before Bruce and everyone else had snuffed it out, rekindled within you. Maybe this time around, things could be different! Even having one person that cared, that listened, was more than anything you'd ever had. And you wanted that. More than anything. 

It really could work out this time! That assurance didn’t feel so empty anymore, like something you told yourself repeatedly just to feel like things might just have a chance of working out. Like their was a light at the end of the tunnel instead of…

She took your hand and led you to the car. And soon, you were heading off, ready for a new chapter of your life.

But, you were so caught up in the excitement, that you missed the way the smile she'd given you had turned bitter.

You met the rest of her family. Your family—they had assured you—in the following days. Aunts, uncles, cousins—a sprawling network of people that instantly felt overwhelming yet held a glimmer of the warmth you’d always craved. Was this what it felt like to have people care? About you… it was so warm.

At first, you were cautiously excited. Years of initially good interactions, friendships, and conversations that quickly devolved into dismissiveness had worn down on you. That was how it had been for as long as you could remember. But everyone was so eager to talk to you, to ask about your life, about Gotham. No one had ever done that before.

They laughed easily, pulled you into conversations, and made you feel, for the first time in years, like you were genuinely seen. Like you belonged. And you started to gingerly open up, told them about your interests, the lyrics you’d had written down, and movies and shows you had watched.

You should have known that was all an act.

As weeks passed, it quickly became clear that their interest was just a front, a facade to keep up appearances. The moment you were out of earshot, they'd start to talk.

"Why does she always have to talk?"

"She's just so much sometimes."

"It's exhausting."

You’d heard the words a few times, but tried not to think too much of it—you were new here, maybe that’s just how all family’s are. Afterall, it’s not like you really had one before. But then your mother had offered to take you to an old venue that the Sunlight Sisters had performed at, and while you'd eagerly accepted, the moment you left the room to get your bag, you heard it from her.

“Yeah, apparently Wayne left her nothing. No trust fund, no assets, not even an allowance. Nothing. At this point, she’s just a burden on us all, and he knows it. I guess it should’ve been a sign when he was so ready to toss her away and be rid of her.”

What. Is that what she thought of you? A burden? Did she… did she not want you either? The spark that had just started to finally bloom died and faded. How could it not, after everything, did anyone ever care about you, or had they all just been faking it for whatever reason?

Maybe there was no light.

Without thinking, you left the house. Almost like you had never been there, and all you could do was wish that was the case.

You walked outside, down the street, and just kept walking. You weren't sure where you were going, or what you'd do, but in that moment, you had to leave. You had to get out. So, you wandered, the sound of your own heartbeat drowning out the bustle of the city.

You weren’t sure how long you’d walked, or where you were even going, but then you happened upon it. The venue. It was a planetarium one, that had been combined with an amphitheater, and it was one of the places the Sunlight Sisters had visited on their world tour. Your mother had promised to bring you here, to see it, the place where their legacy had begun. But now, you weren’t even sure if she cared about the fact that this was your favorite band, and you whatever meaning the gesture had held didn’t mean anything anymore.

There was some sort of sign out front, but you ignored it and headed inside. There was no one inside. The hallways were empty, but clean and dark. It was the perfect place to just sit, and be alone. You headed upstairs, and found an open area, a dome-shaped room with chairs and a platform for presentations. This was it. The ceiling was filled with constellations. They looked like stars, and the longer you stared, the more your eyes began to blur. You felt hot, wet tears rolling down your cheeks, and your face scrunching up.

“Are you okay?”

Freezing, you jolted towards the direction of it. She was about the same age as you, wearing a simple gray hoodie, and her purple hair was braided. You hurriedly wiped your face, “Um, yeah. I’m fine. I was just about to leave actually, I’m sorry.”

She looked concerned, but didn't push, instead offering a small, reassuring smile, "Hey, don’t worry. You can stay as long as you need. No one comes up here anyway, so if you want to just sit and be alone for a while, I won't bother you. Promise."

For a moment, the urge to bolt out the door was overwhelming. To run, and run, and run, and never look back. But then, a thought hit you. You knew this girl. You’d seen her before, but where… 

The door opened again, and she came in. Celine. “Rumi, where have you been? The auditions are about to start.”

You gaped, bearing a stark resemblance to a fish.

She stared at you for a long moment, eyes darting between the two of you, before asking, "Do… do you two know each other?"

Rumi shrugged, and you quickly shook your head, "I—no! I mean, I've heard of you! My favorite band is the Sunlight Sisters and—"

“Are you here for the audition?” Celine asked and you felt something very close to a heart attack, “For what. Oh, no, I’m not—”

“Yeah, she is.” Rumi interrupted, smiling like she had done nothing wrong.

You weren’t sure if the feeling was horror or excitement. Was that even a feeling? This had to be a joke, or some sort of cruel prank, right?

"Come on then, we can still get you signed in." Celine insisted and the next thing you knew, she was leading you and Rumi through the winding halls.

When they got to the main hall, and Celine had left to talk to someone, the words spilled out, "What are you doing?"

Rumi didn't seem the least bit fazed by your panic, instead smiling. She seemed like a nice girl, but this was just cruel, right? No one could ever just have good intentions and nothing else, they always had something else. Pretty much every person you had met before this, proved that. So why did it feel like this wasn’t some sort of elaborate trap to pointedly ignore you or hit you at your worst? Why did you want to trust her?

"Hey, calm down, just breathe." she said, and her smile faltered slightly, "Look, I know this is a lot, but trust me, okay?”

She held out her hand, and despite everything you reached out.

Credit for the amazing divider going to @saradika-graphics!

Everyone has been so nice, thank you so much for the support! Hopefully, if I’m lucky I can reach my real peak of writing Bobby!reader fanfic. Once again, if anyone wants to join the taglist for this series or any other, please let me know! I’m sorry, if I didn’t get it right, I’m still trying to figure this stuff out. <3 <3 <3

@mikusamsan @edgycatx @sir-lawrence-felidae @luludeluluramblings @demis2955 @fleursdeau @125bluemachine125 @just-set-things-on-fire @darktrashpoetry @fandomswept @doggyteam2028 @staarflowerr @zooemama @winter-solstice24 @mattsauxe @littlepotaaatosimp @wpdarlingpan @yumeravenclaw @kingofghostscr

[spiced-apple]

Shine the Light Ch.2

Yandere Batfam x Neglected Zoey!reader

Ch.1 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5

School was something that quickly lost its color. Any hope that you had had for forming close friendships and relationships that would fill whatever emptiness was inside, just didn't happen. The first few months, you’d excitedly introduced yourself, tried to make conversation, do whatever it took to just have someone, anyone to talk to. But, nothing. It was like people couldn’t stand the idea of even talking to you. Faces scrunched up in a mixture of pity and annoyance. “You’re just a bit much.” Or “Maybe people would actually talk to you if you weren’t like… that.”  So, you just sat there and ate alone, did group assignments by yourself, and tried to stay under the radar. You’d go to school, listen to music during free periods or lunch to drown out the noise you so desperately wanted to be apart of, and write lyrics or doodle in your notebooks during class. This wasn’t how you wanted any of this to go.

Sometimes you wondered if maybe it was your fault. Were you being too pushy, or annoying, or… was it just you? It’s not like you could keep sweeping it under the rug as being the wrong time or place. Not when this kept happening. It had to be you.

When you graduated a year early, it was no surprise that no one from your family was there. They were all busy. They all had work to do, places to be, lives to live that you weren't apart of. That was how it always was, and some part of you wondered why you… never mind.

It’s fine. You hadn’t expected anyone to show up, not even Alfred, who had always been a constant figure in your life. He—busy like everyone else apparently—had to help Bruce with something. When you stepped onto the stage and got your diploma, it was silent. There was no clapping, no cheers, no whistles or hollering. It was quiet. And cold. And lonely.

Maybe you should have just stayed home.

But, there was still one last shred of hope that lingered inside.

Damien showed up a little bit after you graduated, ten years old, and your half-brother technically. You were curious about him. You wanted to have the closeness, the sort of bond that only siblings seemed to have. That everyone seemed to have except you. And this time around, it could be different! 

You didn’t miss how the others looked at him with a sort of reverence and love though. They welcomed him into their fold so easily, like a missing piece of the puzzle. Dick ruffled his hair and fulfilled his promises, Jason would have conversations with him, and Tim would spend time with him. They talked to him, smiled at him, and he seemed happy though his expression seemed to be perpetually sour. It stung. Whatever the feeling was, it hurt.

Because he didn’t seem interested in even talking to you, he’d always brush you off, or tell you to get away from him. Even when you were just trying to tell him goodnight.

The first time you tried talking to him was over dinner. You tried asking about what kind of stuff he was into, how school was, if he had any plans. The answers were short, curt, and sometimes downright cold. You felt tears prick your eyes, and forced a laugh. It was fine. You didn't know him all that well, maybe you were asking too many questions.

You asked again the next night, and the next, and the one after that. Small ones, this time, trying to take things slower. Each time he became more and more aggressive, and eventually it was just him yelling at you. The last time marked the end of even attempting to go near him. He’d attacked you. You weren’t even sure where the knife had come from or where he had gotten it, but it slashed into your right arm, drawing a bleeding line of red that you’d frantically covered with your palm. In that moment, all you could feel was your heart pounding, echoing in your ears. 

Bruce hadn’t even scolded him, instead he told you to quit bothering Damien with questions he didn’t want to answer. But he’d answered those same questions for the others. Why were you so different? What had you done wrong?

The words dried up in your throat and your vision blurred. All you could manage was a small nod and a quiet, shaky, "Okay.”

It was hard to believe in anyone when it felt like no one wanted anything to do with you.

It was hard to think that everything would turn out alright, when no matter how hard you tried, things just seemed to get worse.

It was hard to see the light when all you could see was darkness.

And it was even harder to be happy, when everything and everyone else seemed so content in pretending like you didn’t exist.

Nothing would change for them, but things would change for you. Your mother, who’d been living in Korea, had requested a motion to modify the custody agreement. And since you were still technically a juvenile, it had gone through. 

A new court date had been set. Alfred had dropped you off and you had met one of Bruce’s lawyer in the lobby, a nervous man that didn't have a chance to introduce himself, before leading you into the room and taking his seat. You had taken yours, and your eyes darted to the empty chair where Bruce should have been. Where was he? He had to show up. Didn’t he care?

The hearing had begun, and it didn’t take long for your mother and her attorney to argue that with all the changes, and Bruce Wayne's apparent lack of involvement or attention in your life, it would be safer and healthier for you to be raised by her. All the things you’d tried to hard to put away, to ignore, each one just becoming another nail in Bruce’s coffin. The bang of the gavel was the last one.

He didn’t care.

He never had.

And neither had any of the others.

The ride home was silent. Alfred seemed to understand, and he didn't try to fill the void. You stared out the window and watched the buildings and lights blur past. Everything felt so numb, so… hopeless.

Once you were home, you retreated to your room. There were no tears, no sobs, or cries. You just sat down on your bed and let yourself fall backwards, staring up at the ceiling. You didn’t cry. Not because you didn't want to, or weren’t sad, or didn't feel like you needed it. But, because there was nothing. Nothing but a deep, aching void. A hollow, empty space.

Your mother would arrive in the next few days. And she’d take you with her to the airport. Your stuff, a meager collection of stickered notebooks, clothes, plushies, and other items would be shipped overseas. And that would be it.

There was nothing left for you here.

It was hard to sleep, not just that night, but every night leading up to it. The silence was suffocating, and all you could do was lie in bed, trying to ignore the way your heart pounded in your chest and wetness pricked the corners of your eyes.

The night before you left, Alfred came by to knock on the door.

He told you goodnight, and that if you ever came to visit, the kitchen would always have your favorite snacks. He wished you goodnight again and shut the door.

There was nothing.

The morning had come, and you were in a car headed for the airport where you met your mother. She got you breakfast, and asked some questions about what school was like and if you were looking forward to anything. It was hard to focus on the answers. But you tried.

Everything else was a blur.

It was like you blinked and suddenly the plane was taking off. A fifteen hour flight to Seoul. Gotham got further away, swallowed by the clouds that the plane swept over. Putting on the Sunlight Sisters only seemed fitting as the sun started to rise.

You wanted to miss Gotham, but would it even miss you?

Maybe leaving was exactly what you needed. Gotham had never truly been your home, just like the Wayne’s had never been your family. But maybe it would be different where you were going, and you could find belonging in your family there.

The divider was made by @saradika-graphics, they have a lot of cool stuff there! Though I have no idea how to use them, hopefully I’ll figure that out.

Sorry if I got anything wrong about the legal system, google was unsurprisingly unhelpful. Thank you for the support! If you want to be added to the taglist for this story or any others, just let me know! <3

@mikusamsan @edgycatx @sir-lawrence-felidae

[spiced-apple]

Shine the Light Ch.1

Yandere Batfam x Neglected Zoey!reader

Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5

You’d always wanted to believe there was a chance. A chance to be seen. To be acknowledged… to be loved. But when Bruce Wayne. The man that was supposed to be your father didn’t even bother to show up for the custody hearing, or even try. That was what broke you.

Staying positive had and always would be a necessity. Maybe it was naive. But feeling happy… or at least pretending to be, made everything a little bit easier to swallow.

If you could prove that none of what your family said or did bothered you, maybe they’d let you in on their inside jokes.

If you could show that you were a pleasant and good-natured person to be around, maybe others would want to be your friend.

And if you could keep a smile on your face, maybe it would be enough to convince you that you’re actually happy. That no one else’s words or opinions bothered you.

You’d arrived at the manor a little after Tim, you were about the same age actually. It made you hopeful of a connection. Years of being pulled back and forth left little room for forming lasting connections. But the times you did try talking to him in the hallway it was always the same excuse—if you were lucky to even have him talk or look at you. “Sorry I’m busy.” Or “I have to help Bruce with something.”

That was it. In all the 4 years you spent with him, those were the only real words he spoke to you. On holidays, he’d be distracted with another conversation, or playing on his phone.

That’s fine. You reasoned, maybe he’s just a really busy thirteen year old.

Then there was Dick. You didn’t meet him until a month after moving into the manor. He seemed so happy to see you—it felt real, you quickly learned that it was surface level. At least for you. Only you. He’d come by, invite you to see a movie, play games, or get lunch sometime. But, none of those things ever happened. With everyone else he could make time, be the shoulder to cry on, and be everyone’s best friend. But, just not you.

The worst time was when he’d invited you to go see turtles at the local aquarium. You were so excited you got ready two hours before it was time to leave and waited downstairs. Five hours passed. After the first one, you thought, okay maybe he’s just held up. Traffic, got distracted, had some last minute things to get done. It’s all good. After the second one, you tried calling. Nothing.

Third time is a charm. You waited and waited. The fourth hour, the sun started to set and the house was quiet. Your stomach grumbled. No one was here.

The next day, you woke up on the couch to him shaking your shoulder and asking you why you’d fallen asleep in the living room. Did… did he not remember? You asked him and he seemed confused, “Why would you want to go to the aquarium, aren’t they closed today?”

So, you were an afterthought. Even after he promised and invited you himself. It hurt, but you smiled and told him that you were mistaken, must have been a dream. You didn’t miss the way he frowned, how he was going to say something, and then decided against it.

You didn’t see him as often after that. You stopped going out of your way to go talk to him every time he’d come by, and he never made any effort to seek you out either. Just sweep it under the rug to deal with later. He’s busy.

Jason seemed to show up out of the blue. You knew about him, but everyone seemed to not want to talk about him or why he had been gone for so long. It sparked the bit of hope you still had inside you, he’s kind of on the outside too, maybe you can both be on the outside together! You went to the library, where he normally seemed to be and tried to start up a conversation about the book he was reading. He didn’t even look up. He just waved you off, it made the words die in your throat as you retreated back to your room. You never saw him outside of that one time, not that he seemed to come by the manor all too often. That’s fine, he was already gone for so long before, maybe he was busy too. 

Just like how Bruce is always busy. You used to call him Dad, but that title never seemed to suit him. In fact it seemed to make him uncomfortable. He was never home, and if he was, you never saw him aside from the mandatory family dinners. Sometimes, he'd forget you existed entirely.

He’d forgotten your birthday for every year you’d known him, you’d invited him to your own self-thrown birthday party a few times, and nothing. The days he was supposed pick you up from school, he wouldn’t show up—leaving you to wait for hours before Alfred could come by, he even forgot your graduation. 

It's okay, you'd tell yourself. He’s got a lot of stuff going on just… like everyone else.

[spiced-apple]

On Butterfly Wings Ch.6

Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5

It was spring again. And it was raining a lot more than the last year. She hated it. The torrential downpour showed no signs of slowing, hammering relentlessly at the treehouse and the surrounding forest, an angry smothering rush. Lightning flickered behind dark clouds and thunder rumbled with a deep boom.

It felt like it was suffocating her. A distinct heaviness in her chest that she had tried to attribute to the weather, but if that was the case, it didn’t explain why the feeling had started long before the snow had showed any signs of thawing and melting into the earth. She’d tried to swallow it down, and ignore the thoughts that made it painfully come to the surface every time she drifted back to it. But somehow it felt like every time she got her head above the water, something else would pull her down for a longer, heavier amount of time. Making her helpless.

Kanao shivered under the blankets, pulling them tighter as if their thin material could somehow ward off the penetrating dampness of the day. Some animals like bears and frogs hibernate or go to sleep for a long time during cold weather, she was kind of starting to hope maybe she could do the same thing. She wrapped herself tightly in the blanket, pulling it over her head, cocooning herself in darkness. A warm fuzziness filled her. It was a quietness that was starting to cause her to drift back into a dreamless sleep. Though it was broken by the sharp banging and yelling from within the treehouse that caused her to jolt and further bury herself in her fabric cocoon.

It was only moments before she heard a great tumult of footsteps and a furious rush of activity. A corner of the blanket was tugged on, revealing a small slit of light that Luffy quickly filled.

“Kanao! Wake up!” Luffy’s voice, loud and cheerful as ever, pierced through the muffled warmth. He leaned against her, trying to tug the blanket off of her in his enthusiasm. “The treehouse is broken! We gotta fix it!”

She peered out cautiously. Sabo was already surveying a sagging section of the wall, his brow furrowed in concern. Ace stood nearby, his hands on his hips, a familiar scowl on his face as he glared at a leaky spot in the roof. The storm had left its mark.

“We need more parts,” Sabo announced, turning to them. “The roof’s leaking pretty bad. And that north wall… we need stronger wood, maybe some metal sheets.” He looked at Luffy and a look of annoyance crossed his face, it changed to a smile when he turned his attention to Kanao. Eyes and voice soft. “We were going to go to Gray Terminal. Did you want to come Kanao?”

Luffy’s eyes lit up. “Yeah! Let’s go, Kanao! It’ll be an adventure!” He bounced on the balls of his feet, entirely oblivious to the underlying tension that had seemed to hang in the air ever since…

Kanao’s gaze flickered to Ace. He didn’t look at her, his posture stiff, his shoulders hunched. The air around him still carried that faint, disturbed quality that felt like needles against her skin. What he said that night was something she kept circling back to. She didn’t know why though. It hurt. She didn’t have an answer to his questions and it seemed like even if she did, it wouldn’t make him any less upset by her answers.

The coin was warm against her palm, its familiar weight a momentary comfort. She rolled it over, the smooth metal pressing into her skin. Heads, go. Tails, stay. The thought of staying, of retreating further into the damp quiet of the treehouse and the suffocating heaviness within her, felt almost overwhelming. But the thought of the boys going without her, of not being there, also brought a pang she couldn't quite identify. It wasn't sadness, but a strange hollow ache. She didn’t want to be alone. She was tired of being alone. Her thumb hovered over the coin, ready to flip.

Then, she looked at the worried lines on Sabo's face, the hopeful eagerness in Luffy's eyes. And even Ace, though still turned away, was there, waiting. She had hated the rain because it reminded her of being alone. But maybe she didn’t have to be anymore.

Without flipping the coin, Kanao slowly, almost imperceptibly, nodded.

Luffy immediately erupted in a cheer. “Alright! Let’s go!”

Ace still didn't turn, but the faintest hint of his tense shoulders relaxing was visible. Sabo smiled, a genuine, relieved curve of his lips.

Kanao pushed off her blankets, peeling herself from the almost comforting pile of fabric. She hesitated for a moment before grabbing the wooden bird that had sat perched near the end of her bedroll since summer. She dusted off the small layer of dust and cradled it in her hands before moving to join them in climbing down the treehouse. A heavy wind still rustled the leaves above—shaking off the drops of water onto the rain-soaked ground as the four set out. Sabo talked to her as they walked, asking her what she was hoping to find. Luffy excitedly yelled out that he wanted to find a telescope.

“You’ll never find something that nice here, stupid.”

“I think I’d rather have a cannon.”

“Maybe some dummy threw one away.”

The familiar sight of gray terminal appeared through the crevices of the trees. The place was practically empty, with most of the usual residents and passerby no doubt shielding themselves from the sporadic stormy weather and gusts of wind. On top of that, the smell of the terminal when soaked by rain wasn’t exactly pleasant. Sabo and Ace started climbed onto varying mounds of trash and debris, most of it luckily being metal. Good that was what they need. Kanao caught sight of a spot that seemed good and was about to start making her way when Luffy tugged at her sleeve.

“Hey, come on. I want to play! We can look for a telescope!”

She was going to be looking for scrap either way, adding a telescope to the list was hardly an issue. A small smile tugged at her lips and she nodded. She was prepared to look for those things, and play whatever games Luffy had in mind. Fun for him never really depended on being talented or putting in a lot of effort, just being present for him seemed to be enough. What she wasn’t prepared for was for him to start pulling her with a remarkable amount of force towards a flatter area that had a lot of hidden corners.

One of those hidden corners had some small frogs that they tracked with their eyes. The small amphibious things seemed to be a mixture between being unbothered and annoyed, doing their best to ignore the two of them. One of the largest of them while passing by—undoubtably trying to get away—seemed to almost glare at them as it croaked, puffing out its throat and cheeks. Luffy did the same in return and Kanao could have sworn she saw the small black eyes narrow. And when he reached out to pet its small head, it bit Luffy with all the strength it had in its gummies.

Luffy yelped, startled more than hurt, and recoiled his hand. "Hey! That wasn't nice!" he whined, shaking his finger. The frog reluctantly let go and landed in a small mossy puddle next to some pipes. 

Kanao watched, unblinking, as Luffy exaggeratedly nursed his finger, a tiny red mark already fading on his rubbery skin. The frog, seemingly satisfied with its victory, hopped away into the murky depths of a broken pipe, she saw a smug expression on its small green face.

“I think I see a telescope over there!” Luffy then declared, his pain and defeat by the frog instantly forgotten. His eyes lit up with renewed excitement.

Before Kanao could react, Luffy was off, bounding over piles of rusted metal and broken crates, shouting about what he’d be able to see with it. She watched him go, a faint sigh escaping her into the damp air. It was exactly as she'd expected. Luffy's attention span was as elusive as smoke. She glanced at the retreating back of her energetic friend, then back at the endless piles of debris.

A moment later, Sabo appeared, scaling a small hill of broken crates. He dusted off his hands, his gaze sweeping over the landscape. "Luffy already off chasing something, isn't he?" he remarked, a knowing smirk on his face. He caught sight of Kanao, alone amidst the junk. "Didn't think you'd get pulled into his games."

Kanao merely shook her head, the butterfly clip in her hair glinting faintly in the dull light. She pointed vaguely in the direction Luffy had disappeared, then at a large, promising mound of twisted pipes and shattered machinery.

"You want to check that out?" Sabo asked, following her gaze. She nodded and he lit up. "Alright. Let's see what we can find."

They moved together, a stark contrast to Luffy’s adventures—likely with more disgruntled frogs—just a few feet away. Sabo and Kanao, scanned the piles for materials. The air was damp and smelled of rust and decay, but they paid it no mind. In fact it was something that most people who lived in or journeyed through the terminal were familiar with. The rhythmic sound of their boots crunching on broken glass and metal was the only constant.

They found a few good pieces of corrugated iron, bent but repairable, and a length of sturdy, albeit rusty, piping. As Kanao reached for a particularly large sheet of metal that was propped precariously, her foot slipped on a patch of slick, wet grime. Her wooden bird, still clutched in her hand, flew from her grasp. She gasped, a rare sound from her, as she scrambled to regain her footing, her eyes fixed on the bird arcing through the air.

Sabo, reacting instantly, caught her arm, steadying her. His other hand darted out, snatching the wooden bird out of the air just before it hit a jagged piece of scrap. He pulled her upright, his grip firm but gentle.

“Are you okay? You’re not hurt, right?” Kanao shook her head, her attention mainly on the wooden bird which he was still holding tightly. He was still holding onto her arm and didn’t go of it, at least until she started pulling it back. The previous expression of frowning concern quickly changed to one that was apologetic as he asked, “Sorry. I know this is important to you. Do you want me to hold onto it, so it doesn’t get lost?”

Kanao’s eyes flickered from the bird in his hand to his face. The question was unexpected. But, she nodded anyways, she trusted him and she had no reason to assume otherwise. He slipped the wooden bird into his coat pocket and the two kept looking for materials.

It was overcast and gray, heavy clouds overhead smothering the surroundings in dull light. It had been like that since morning and for weeks on end, making the hours and time of day indistinguishable from each other aside from the amount of light that peeked from behind the clouds. Without the bird to worry about, it became easier to navigate thesteep terrain of disposed-off debris. Which also easier in turn to focus on looking through the trash. Then she spotted it. Sliding down a slick sheet of metal, she approached the object and picked it up. A telescope. Turning it over in her hands, the outside of it was dented and scratched up a fair bit, but the knobs and lenses were still intact.

Sabo stood nearby, a pipe and some wood tucked under his arm. He caught sight of the telescope and grinned. "Nice!" He reached for it, and she handed it over silently, checking the make and working for possible impurities. “It’s a telescope! Luffy’s not gonna believe this!”

Something in the air seemed to change, like Gray Terminal was holding its breath. The awareness that there were other people there first came as a faint prickling and numbness on the back of her neck. The feeling didn’t have a lot of time to register before the crunching of heavy footsteps and chuckles came. Then she saw them. They weren’t residents of the Terminal, they were dressed marginally better—though not by a lot, and the way they held themselves seemed more aggressive than passive. Like they were itching to do attack anyone and anything. It was the man at the front, closest to Kanao and Sabo, that told Kanao everything she needed to know. When he stepped forward, the gold tassels on his navy blue coat rustled like dried leaves, and Sabo moved in front of her. Almost instinctively pushing her back.

“Hello there. Who would’ve thought that one of the three gray terminal brats was from a noble family.”

“Oh yeah, who told you that?” Sabo, who had moved to place the telescope in his coat pocket paused when he glanced behind him. More of them, on all sides now. They were surrounded.

“Who’s this? Another brat or some stray that wandered out of High Town?”

Sabo's entire demeanor hardened, his grip on the pipe in his hands tightened. Any calm he had managed to show was starting to crack, replaced by a fierce protectiveness that radiated from him like heat. “She has nothing to do with this, Bluejam,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "Leave her out of it."

The group surrounding them tightened as Bluejam, the man in the navy coat waved his hand almost dismissively. “Whatever you say, noble brat. Men, try not to leave a mark on him.”

Right as the men started to lunge towards the pair, a barrel appeared, having rolled off the slanted metal and crashed into a member of Bluejam’s group. The wood from the barrel seemed to almost explode into wooden shrapnel, and jumping out the debris was Ace and Luffy. Luffy spun around, still reeling from the bumpy and disorienting barrel ride. “I feel dizzy.”

“Oh, wow! Nice shot!”

“Are you ready to take them on Sabo?”

“Yeah!”

Ace was about to continue and paused when he saw Kanao. His eyes, usually alight with a mischievous defiance, narrowed instantly. The tension that had simmered between them for weeks now spiked, but this time, it was laced with a different, sharper edge: concern. He took one look at her, standing quietly beside Sabo, then at the growing circle of rough-looking men, and his decision was made. "Kanao! Get back to Dadan's! Now!"

Luffy, still oblivious, bounced on his feet, ready for a brawl. "Yeah, Kanao! Go on! We got this!" he cheered, completely missing the loaded command in Ace's tone.

Sabo, momentarily distracted by Ace’s sudden appearance and command, spared a glance at Kanao. He could see the flash of surprise, quickly followed by that familiar, unreadable stillness on her face. He knew Ace’s words, blunt as they were, came from a place of protection. "Go on!" Sabo urged, pushing her gently but firmly towards a narrow gap in the surrounding junk piles. "We'll handle this!"

Kanao hesitated before darting into the shadows of the mountains of trash. She wove through the maze of garbage, ducking under twisting, rusted iron sheets, and dodging loose, jagged screws and nails. When she burst through a leaning pile of rotten wooden pallets, she was greeted by the forest just beyond some metal that had become overtaken by moss. She rushed out onto the muddy ground, half-trampled grass and weeds spongy under her boots. She could hear Bluejam's shouts from here, feel his presence, his sharp, coiling aura and something else—someone else. It was an awareness, an intuition that pushed her to keep moving. Running. To put more distance between herself and the men. She needed to get to Dadan.

She reached the cover of the trees and sped up her pace, the muddled, gray daylight filtering through the clouds that were still heavy. She didn’t want to leave them to deal with that, something that prickled her senses and left her with a distinct feeling of something being wrong. She didn’t have any doubt they could handle it just fine on their own. But then, why did that leave her with no feeling of assurance. Why did she feel so doubtful of her own attempts at rationalizing? And why did she feel so alone?

[spiced-apple]

Calm

Joining the marines was something that was purposeful. Everything about it was purposeful actually, the requirements, duties, responsibilities, and expectations that you had almost eagerly anticipated and tried to fill the shoes of. Promising, was what the progress reports had said. You hadn’t expected greatness, but just something that really made a change. Made an impact. It was a naive desire that almost every aspiring marine had. Everything was set for that.

Until it wasn’t.

It wasn’t a demotion. No one would say that outright. But it sure felt like one. Transferred was the word, to being a verifiable desk jockey, a glorified secretary confined to paperwork. No answer was given, even when you’d asked your direct superior. They’d avoided eye contact as they mumbled out, “It was a request from up top. Don’t question it. You have your orders, so do your job. Maybe if you’re lucky, they’ll change their mind.”

The sting of those words still lingered late into the night. From up top? You’d only just joined six months ago and as far as you could tell you’d never even met anyone that was a higher rank than your commander. 

“You’re overthinking it.” Were the words of Rory, your bunk mate, when you tried to explain it. “It was probably just someone who looked at your reports and decided they hated you for some stupid reason. Like they thought the way you wrote your sevens was weird or maybe they thought you looked kind of cross-eyed. Who knows. Now go to sleep, you’re keeping me up.”

Rory’s words, while blunt, were a familiar comfort. They wouldn’t say those things if they didn’t mean it, and maybe they were right. Maybe you were overthinking it

The fluorescent lights of the office did little to ease any discomfort. It was stagnating, suffocating in how opposite it was to what was normally the average cadets duties. There was no sunshine, no sea spray, no wind. Just the annoyingly familiar smell of ink and dust. There wasn’t much to be done for the first few hours. Filling out basic forms, organizing again, and setting documents aside to be delivered to specific officers. It was a tedious job, and one you hoped that they wouldn't have you do long.

The hours ticked by, as indicated by the increasingly loud—why was it so loud?—clock. Checking the time did no favors, since it only felt like it slowed down every time you looked up at it. And when the person, Carson, that usually was supposed to deliver the files and paperwork didn’t arrive, you had no choice but to go deliver them yourself. You’d already gotten “promoted” to this position and didn’t even want to guess what another one would be.

That was how you found yourself walking down the halls, arms full of paperwork. Each folder and stack held different assignments, some were finished, others were half completed. But it wasn't any of those that you were interested in. They all had names that you recognized and were all dropped off without issue, except for one. Rosinante, Donquixote.

You paused outside an unassuming door, a brass plaque on it bearing the name. This should be it. In and out. Taking a deep breath, you knocked lightly. There was no immediate answer, and your nerves began to prickle. Had you come at the wrong time? Was he even in? Just as you were about to knock again, a loud thump followed by a crashing sound came from behind it. You immediately opened the door to find a chair on its side behind the desk with a blonde haired man face planted on the floor. Judging by the marine uniform, this was the guy. He scrambled to get up with the chair and after seeing you standing in the doorway, quickly sat down.

His eyes, which had been a vacant stare, suddenly seemed to focus on you. A strange, almost unreadable expression flickered across his face. He fumbled, attempting to light a cigarette, only to accidentally set his own collar on fire with the lighter. You stifled a gasp, as he quickly tried to pat it down.

He cleared his throat, “Sorry, that wasn’t really the first impression I wanted to make.”

You, still processing the faint smell of singed fabric, managed a small, “Are you… alright, sir?” The question was out before you could stop it, a genuine concern born from the fact that this man had almost cremated himself in front of you.

Rosinante, blinked. He seemed surprised by your question, a faint blush dusting his cheeks as he stammered, “Y-yes, I’m fine. Just… I’m sorry.” He tried, unsuccessfully, to light another cigarette.

"It's... fine," you stifled making any comments about whatever that was, stepping further into the office and carefully placing the stack of papers on the corner of his large, surprisingly tidy desk. "I have some reports for you, sir. They need to be signed and sent to Captain Hiroshi by the end of the day."

He nodded, his gaze fell back on you, unwavering. It was almost unnerving, the intensity of it. You found yourself shifting uncomfortably under his stare, had you done something wrong? Was he going to yell at you for walking in without waiting for an answer, despite the crashing noise?

"Thank you," he said, his voice quiet, almost a murmur. He reached for the top file, his fingers brushing against yours. You expected him to take it right away but he paused, clearly considering something, before taking it.

As he began to flip through the documents, you tried to recall if you'd ever seen him before. He was a commander—technically a higher position than your superior. Yet, nothing. Your memory remained blank. Rory was probably right; you were overthinking the entire demotion thing. Maybe this was just a weird, clumsy, higher-ranking officer who was oddly prone to setting himself and nearby furniture on fire. “If you don’t need anything else, have a good night sir.”

The truth was, Rosinante did remember you. He knew deep down that it was weird to focus so much on you, but it just felt so safe. You felt safe, like someone he could trust. It’d been months ago when he first met you, though he still recalled it. He’d been deep in thought, walking down a mostly quiet corridor, and, when he’d tripped over his own feet. Papers had scattered, and he’d braced for impact, expecting the usual sighs of annoyance or hurried steps around his prone form. Instead, a voice had cut through, clear and genuinely concerned. “Are you okay?”

It had been you. A fresh-faced recruit, your eyes wide with concern, already bending down to help him gather his scattered documents. He’d stammered a quiet “Yes,” and you’d smiled, a small, empathetic curve of your lips that had, for some inexplicable reason, lodged itself firmly in his mind. The way your brow furrowed slightly when you focused, the quiet efficiency with which you helped him, the genuine warmth in your voice—it was a beacon in his often-grim existence. Most people saw him as a bumbling idiot, a burden, or at best, an object of mild amusement. He never tried to let it get to him since he had his own plans and goals in mind that took precedence. But you, a stranger, had shown him a kindness that felt so genuine. Like you actually cared about him.

From that day on, you became an unexpected focal point. He read your reports, it was outside of his parameter to review new recruits, but… 

It was just the once, he told himself. And then he told himself again. Until, the excuses and rationalizations piled up. Until he found himself asking for your files, saying it was because he wanted to keep an eye on your progress. Until he found himself observing drills just to see you. His interest was not a good thing, however. It wasn't professional, and yet he couldn't bring himself to stop. It was harmless, he told himself. He just cared. But then the training period was over.

You’d be on the field.

You’d be in danger.

You could get killed.

Or worse. He couldn’t let that happen. It was selfish, he knew. You were too good, too pure, too empathetic to be out there in the harsh realities of what was out there. You would get hurt. You would get disillusioned. The thought gnawed at him, growing stronger with each passing week. He had connections, albeit clandestine ones, that allowed him to pull certain strings. It was surprisingly easy to initiate a request “from up top” to have you transferred. To a desk job. Safe. Close by. Where he could… observe. Protect.

Your demotion, as you called it, was his doing. He’d watched as your initial excitement dwindled, replaced by the familiar anxiety he recognized. He knew it was disheartening for you, and a part of him, the part that still clung to his own moral compass, felt a pang of guilt. But the other part, the growing, darker part, justified it. You were safe. And now, you were here, bringing him paperwork. Directly to him.

As you spoke, a quiet intensity settled in him. He knew you didn't remember him, and that was fine. He was fine with being patient as long as it meant he got to spend more time with you.

[spiced-apple]

Lost Signal — Donquixote Pirates

Strawhats Redhaired Kid

Despite "family" being a key element of the Donquixote Pirates, the care, the loyalty, and the benefits always came with strings attached. No one truly cared about each other, not beyond the guarantee of a quid pro quo or a debt to be paid. So, to have someone be absent, to be genuinely missed, was deeply unusual. It was like a strange blip on the radar, a profound anomaly in their calculated world of self-interest.

But someone was missed.

Doflamingo's signature, predatory smile fell, not out of anger, but a rare, unsettling contemplation. He was smart. All his puppets had their strings, and he knew exactly where each one was attached. He controlled every facet of his world, every intricate detail. But one string, one vital connection, was gone. It was an absence so noticeable, so insistent, that he kept returning to it, his mind snagging on the empty space. Yet, he couldn't remember anything about them. It was like trying to read a blank piece of paper, or pierce through an impenetrable fog. There was someone there—someone who used to be there—but they were gone. Both physically and, more disturbingly, mentally.

He hated the feeling. Doflamingo never admitted to weakness, never acknowledged an emotional void. Yet, the fact that they were missing was bothering him. It was a gnawing irritation, a flaw in his otherwise perfect control. He missed them. The admission, even to himself, was a bitter pill. It was a person who had seen through his masks, understood his true nature, and yet, inexplicably, had stayed. A presence that had offered something akin to genuine understanding, without demanding anything in return. And now, that unique, unnerving dynamic was simply... gone.

"Something's amiss," he finally drawled, his voice losing its usual theatricality, the words aimed at no one in particular, yet echoing through the cold corridors of their base. "A crucial piece of the puzzle... has vanished."

The unusual quiet in the Donquixote Family compound deepened, morphing from a mere blip on Doflamingo's radar into a persistent, grating static in his mind. The absence, once just a curiosity, now felt like a direct affront to his meticulously crafted reality.

Doflamingo's fingers, usually so precise as they manipulated his strings, twitched with a simmering agitation. "This isn't merely an absence," he purred, his voice low and dangerous, "this is a deliberate act. Someone has dared to tamper with my domain." His eyes narrowed, a predatory gleam in their depths. "To make me feel... incomplete. To leave such a glaring hole in what is mine." For him, this wasn't about loss; it was about a profound, infuriating challenge to his absolute control. He hated feeling small, feeling vulnerable to an unknown force. And that hatred fueled a cold, burning desire to get his... back.

Trebol, his slimy body trembling, chuckled nervously. "Fufufu... Doffy, what could possibly escape your grasp?" But even his usual fawning felt a little forced, a subtle tremor of unease beneath his bluster. He felt it too, a phantom echo of a presence that had once been there, a comfortable silence that now felt like a gaping wound. It was the memory of a unique, almost disarming honesty that had cut through his own sycophancy, a quiet understanding that, despite himself, he’d found… calming. And now, that unique comfort was gone.

Diamante, ever theatrical, clutched his chest. "Such a dramatic void, Young Master! Like a stage with a missing star!" He puffed out his chest, but his movements were less flamboyant, more stiff. He remembered a silent appreciation for his displays, a subtle nod of understanding that wasn't about fear or flattery, but something… genuine. That genuine reaction was now conspicuously absent, and the lack of it grated on his performer's soul.

Pica, his massive, stone form silent, felt the absence most acutely as a disruption to the family's internal equilibrium. He remembered a quiet strength, a steadfastness that had somehow complemented Doflamingo’s erratic genius. It was a presence that didn't demand, didn't flatter, but simply was, providing a peculiar stability amidst their volatile world. Now, that stability was gone, and the internal currents of the family felt subtly, dangerously off-kilter.

And Sugar, usually focused only on her treats and transforming others, found herself frowning. She remembered a warmth, a softness that made her feel... safe. Not safe from Doflamingo, but safe in a way she couldn't articulate, a feeling that had nothing to do with her Devil Fruit. And now, that unique sense of comfort was gone, leaving a chilling void.

They were all starting to remember the feeling of your presence, even if the specifics of your identity remained locked behind a foggy barrier. It was a maddening paradox: they could recall the impact you had, the specific roles you played in their dysfunctional family, but not you.

Doflamingo's gaze swept over his top executives, seeing the faint, unsettling blips of confusion on their own radars. This wasn't just his problem. This was a disruption to his entire operation, a wound in his meticulously designed tapestry. "Find them," he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous growl that promised severe consequences for failure. "And when you do... ensure they understand the price of leaving what is mine." His smile, when it returned, was sharper, more cruel than before. This wasn't about missing someone; it was about reasserting absolute ownership.

It was just another trip to the store. Early morning, practically no one around aside from the workers, who lazily floated near the front registers, bleary-eyed. The repetitive tapping of a distant keyboard was the only sound, aside from the music playing over the speakers with a thick static overlay. It made the lyrics and voices muffled and indistinguishable, a dull drone in the cavernous space.

Walking past the technology aisles, one of the televisions suddenly flickered on. You stared at it for a few minutes, then looked around to see if any of the workers were nearby. No one was in sight. Curious, and a little unnerved, you walked closer to the TV.

As you approached, the store music abruptly stopped, but the static remained, growing louder. The visuals on the TV changed from a generic home screen to an episode of One Piece. Your breath caught. It was from one of the Dressrosa episodes—the one where the king and his soldiers were being controlled into killing the villagers. A strange choice for a store display, you thought, a shiver running down your spine.

Then the audio of the episode, the screaming and yelling, came through the store speakers, getting louder and louder. It wasn't just coming from the TV; it was filling the entire store, echoing off the high ceilings. You pushed your hands into your ears, trying to block it out, to shield yourself from the noise. It was too much and it needed to be blocked out because it hurt so much. But it came through all the same, impossibly louder even. The static in your ears intensified, and then fuzzing spots filled your eyes, spiderwebbing until they took over the entirety of your vision.

Your skin felt like it was burning, prickling with an unbearable heat. You swayed, reaching out blindly for something to hold onto, and the cool linoleum of the store floor felt surprisingly nice against your face as I crumpled to the ground. A coolness that contrasted the sharp burning like a fever, but somehow much worse. The world spun, the static roared, and then… black.

The first sensation was the cool, smooth feel of polished marble beneath your cheek. It was a jarring contrast to the linoleum floor of the store. When the roaring static finally receded from your ears and the blackness cleared from your vision, you slowly opened your eyes.

The world around you was bathed in a strange, rosy twilight, the kind that only exists in sunsets and dreams. Towering white buildings, intricately carved and impossibly grand, stretched into the sky. And standing over you, their faces etched with a mixture of relief and something possessive, were the Donquixote Pirates.

"Fufufu... looks like our little bird finally flew home," Trebol spoke, his voice a sickeningly sweet rasp. He reached out a sticky hand, and you instinctively flinched back, the memory of the store's static-filled screams still fresh.

Diamante, struck a pose, his flamboyant cape rippling. "Such a dramatic entrance! Truly a star worthy of the Young Master's attention!"

Then, a shadow fell over you. Doflamingo. His signature pink feathered coat seemed to absorb the twilight, making him appear even larger, more menacing. His sunglasses were still in place, but you could feel the weight of his gaze, an unnerving intensity that made your skin prickle. This was wrong.

"You've caused quite the stir," he purred, his voice a low, silken thrum that vibrated through the air. He knelt, not quite touching you, but close enough that you could feel the subtle chill emanating from him. "Leaving your family in such disarray. Don't you think that's a bit rude?"

Your mind raced, struggling to reconcile the impossible reality before you with everything you knew. Everything that was supposed to be real, but somehow… All of this was wrong. The TV, the static, the store… it all blurred into a dizzying vortex. "This... this isn't real," you whispered, the words barely audible even to your own ears.

Doflamingo's smile widened, a cold, sharp line. He reached out a hand, and one of his transparent strings, almost invisible against the twilight, brushed your cheek. It felt strangely cool, like a wisp of silk, yet undeniably present. He had cut and controlled people with those strings before. To be so close to even one made it feel like your heart was going to beat out of your chest in fear. "Fufufu. Oh, it's very real. More real than you've ever known." His voice dropped, becoming a low, possessive growl. "And now that you're back, you won't be leaving again."

Pica's massive form loomed behind Doflamingo, a silent, imposing presence. Sugar, clinging to Trebol's side, gave a small, unsettling smile. The air around them crackled with an undeniable sense of ownership. You were here. And they were not letting you go.

[spiced-apple]

Lost Signal — Kid Pirates

Strawhats Redhaired Donquixote

All was quiet. Too quiet. Especially for the Kid Pirates. The cacophony of clanging metal, Eustass Kid’s booming laugh, Killer’s low hum of amusement, Heat and Wire's gruff exchanges – it was all muted, a strange, suffocating blanket of silence. It wasn’t noticed at first, this profound quiet, this lingering absence. It was a feeling that someone vitally important was missing, but the initial unease was quelled by the usual shouts and the frantic energy of their daily lives aboard the Victoria Punk.

But eventually, all those things slowed to a stop. Kid's roars felt less impactful, Killer's blades seemed to whistle through air that was too still. Heat and Wire found themselves exchanging fewer words, their usual banter replaced by a shared, unspoken disquiet. The absence, though they were just starting to understand it, had come from a lack of judgment, a peculiar strain of kindness that once balanced their harsh reality, a shared ambition that felt oddly incomplete, and a quiet presence that had been willing to sit and not ask too many questions, simply existing in their chaotic orbit.

"It's like... part of the crew's gone," Kid finally snarled, his metallic arm clenching, sparking with uncontrolled magnetism. His voice was laced with a frustration that went beyond their usual brawls.

Killer, equally disturbed, slowly shook his head. "No one's gone, Captain. We've done headcounts. Everyone's here." His voice was raspy, the sound of his helmet grating slightly as he turned his head, surveying their grim faces.

But the feeling persisted. Where were they? And most importantly, who were they? This was the crushing weight of the paradox. They didn't even remember this person, and yet they missed them with an ache that resonated deep in their very bones. How was it possible to miss a person while simultaneously not knowing—no, they knew them—not remembering anything? No name, no face, no voice, no… nothing. It was like a gaping hole in their collective memory, a phantom limb that throbbed with undeniable loss. Their very world, their shared history, felt fundamentally incomplete without this unidentifiable presence.

The Kid Pirates, a crew forged in chaos and fueled by ambition, found themselves ensnared in a different kind of turmoil. The invisible void that plagued the Victoria Punk was deepening, turning their usual aggressive certainty into a desperate bewilderment.

"It's not just a missing person," Killer rasped, his voice unusually strained as he stared at the empty space beside where Kid would usually sit, a space that felt colder than the rest of the ship. "It's like our own history is missing pages. Like someone ripped out the most important parts of our story."

Kid slammed his metallic fist down, a shower of sparks flying and the sharp ringing of metal against metal grating. "Then why the hell can't we remember them?!" he roared, his voice thick with frustrated anger. "If they were so vital, so important, why is there nothing?! No damn name, no face, no voice in my head! Nothing!" He paced the bridge, his heavy boots clanking against the metal deck, the sound, a frantic rhythm mirroring his racing thoughts. "We know we interacted with them. We feel the hole they left. It's like... like our very existence was erased, rewritten, but only for them."

Heat, his masked face tilted, grunted. "Every time I try to picture them, it's just... static. Like trying to see through thick fog. But then I remember a feeling, a warmth, a sudden quiet that only happened when they were around."

Wire nodded, his own masked gaze fixed on the same empty spot. "It's like they were the anchor to our chaos. The one who made sense of our madness, without judging it."

The terrifying realization began to settle in: their memories weren't just fuzzy; they were actively being suppressed or blocked. This wasn't a natural forgetfulness. This was an active force at work, stripping away the details of someone who, by their sheer absence, proved to be intrinsically woven into the very fabric of their lives.

"This ain't natural," Kid growled, his voice low and dangerous. His magnetic powers flared, causing loose metal objects on the bridge to vibrate. "Someone did this. Someone took them from us. And someone messed with our minds."

A chilling certainty settled over them. This wasn't just a loss; it was an abduction. And the fact that their memories were tampered with made it even more insidious. They were being denied the right to mourn, to even name their missing nakama. The frustration solidified into a terrifying resolve.

"We find them," Kid declared, his eyes blazing with a dangerous light. "And we make whoever did this pay. And when we find them... we'll make sure they can never leave again." His metallic hand slowly extended, as if reaching for the phantom presence, his gaze hardening into a singular, obsessive focus. The Red-Hair Pirates might search for a lost star, but the Kid Pirates would tear apart the very fabric of reality to reclaim their missing piece, even if they couldn't remember what that piece looked like. The Grand Line, once a stage for their ambition, now became a brutal hunt for an erased truth.

It was accidental. A screw loose or something, but either way, the TV had fallen from its mount and cracked, shattering when it hit the floor. A double shift couldn't sweep away the overwhelming tiredness, but sweeping up the glass did resolve some of the immediate problem. Blinking the sleep out of your eyes, you dragged yourself to Walmart and bought the cheapest, shittiest TV you could find. When you got home, passing out on the couch with the heavy boxed tv beside it was almost inevitable.

When you woke up, vision still blurred even after blinking the sleep out of your eyes, the TV was already mounted. Weird, didn’t remember doing that last night… but maybe you’d done it before crashing and just couldn’t remember it. Hell, you couldn't even recall who you worked with the day before, so it could be possible. You grabbed the remote and pressed the power button, but nothing happened. The screen stayed blank and blackened. You waited a few minutes, pressed it again. Still nothing. Maybe you’d plugged it in wrong?

You pushed yourself off the couch and moved to investigate. Your face was only a few inches from the screen, visible in the reflection of it, when it suddenly flickered to life. The bright flash of lights almost burned into your eyes from how close you were. And it was already on an episode of One Piece? That shouldn't happen; this TV was brand new, fresh out of the box and metaphorical plastic.

Despite being mere inches from the screen, you felt stuck, like your body couldn't move. Vision fuzzed, like static, black and white spots dancing in the corners at first, then spreading. They consumed everything, until it all turned black and the world spun sideways.

The metal, which was the first sensation felt, felt both warmed from the sun and cool to the touch. It was a stark, undeniable texture against your cheek. When the darkness finally faded from behind your eyelids, you opened them, the first thing that was heard solidified the horrifying, beautiful truth that this wasn't a dream, this wasn't stress, or overexertion.

"You idiot! You had us worried… it's good to have you back." The voice was rough, familiar, filled with a raw relief that bypassed your confusion and went straight to your gut. It was Eustass Kid.

You slowly pushed yourself up, muscles aching as if you'd been asleep for days, not minutes. The deck beneath you was a hard, scarred metal. You looked up to see Kid looming over you, his signature metal arm flexing, his face a mask of scowling concern. His gaze, usually so fierce, held a surprising flicker of genuine worry.

Beside him, Killer stood, his helmeted head cocked. "Don't pull a stunt like that again," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He wasn't yelling, but the underlying severity was clear. You could feel his eyes, even through the mask.

Heat and Wire were also there, their own masked faces unreadable, yet their posture conveyed a strange sense of coiled tension that eased only slightly as you sat up. The air was thick with the smell of ozone and something akin to burnt metal, mixed with the salty tang of the open sea.

This was real. The sun beat down with an intensity that burned, the wind whipped around me, and the Victoria Punk swayed with the movement of the waves. This wasn't some high-definition projection. This was tangible. They were tangible.

"What… what happened?" You managed to croak, voice sounding weak and foreign in the vastness of the open ocean. Beneath you, still resting on the metal deck, the faint vibrations of the ship's engine were felt.

Kid knelt, his metallic arm now resting on the deck beside you, not quite touching, but close enough to feel the radiating warmth he gave off. "You disappeared, moron," he growled, though the anger felt performative. "Just… vanished. And we couldn't remember jack shit about you." He leaned closer, his eyes piercing and almost unblinking. "But we found you. And now you're not going anywhere."

The implication hung in the air, a possessive undertone that sent a shiver down your spine, unrelated to the sea breeze. They remembered you now. And they weren't about to let go.

[spiced-apple]

The Phantom’s Black Swan Ch.6

Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5

The air in the grand ballroom thrummed with a chaotic energy, a kaleidoscope of vibrant silks, glittering jewels, and masked faces. The annual masquerade ball was in full swing, a brief respite from the anxieties and artistic tensions that usually permeated the air. For Delphine, however, the prospect of attending had initially held little appeal. Social gatherings were not her forte, and the thought of forced gaiety felt particularly jarring after the unsettling encounter in the Phantom’s lair and the subsequent quiet defiance of her solitary practice.

It was Madame Giry, surprisingly, who had subtly encouraged her to attend. "A breath of air, Mademoiselle Laurent. Even the most dedicated artist needs to step away from the barre now and then. And besides," she’d added, her gaze knowing, "one never knows what one might observe in a crowd."

The decision to go was solidified by a chance encounter with one of the older costume makers. He’d found Delphine’s meticulously crafted Black Swan bodice tucked away in a storage chest. "Such a waste, Mademoiselle," he’d grumbled, his wrinkled hands stroking the rich black velvet, shining beads, and intricate featherwork. "A masterpiece gathering dust. Wear it tonight. Show them what might have been."

And so, Delphine found herself amidst the swirling throng, a simple black velvet mask concealing the upper half of her face. The Black Swan bodice—worn with a large black Juliet tutu that she had used for some previous dances—repurposed with a few subtle alterations to make it suitable for the ball – the sharpest edges softened, the dramatic headdress replaced by a cascade of black feathers woven into her hair – felt both familiar and strangely poignant. It was a reminder of lost opportunity, but also a symbol of her enduring dedication.

Then she saw Christine. Across the crowded floor, bathed in a soft, almost ethereal light, Christine stood with Raoul. Her gown was a vision in white, adorned with delicate feathers that seemed to float around her like a halo. The resemblance to the White Swan was uncanny, an accidental mirroring that made Delphine’s stomach clench with a sudden, inexplicable embarrassment.

It was an accidental coincidence, she knew. Christine, now the reigning star, would naturally gravitate towards such a visually arresting and thematically resonant costume. Probably finding it reminiscent of the angels she had heard the girl talking about occasionally. The unintentional mirroring was… embarrassing. Delphine hadn’t sought attention, hadn’t considered the visual parallel. Most of the costumes at the yearly masquerade were jewel toned or shades of gold and silver. Now, amidst the sea of colorful costumes, they stood out – a stark contrast of black and white, shadow and light. It felt almost deliberate, a silent commentary she hadn’t intended to make.

She kept to the edges of the ballroom, observing the spectacle. Getting out was well-needed, but the compromise she had to make with dealing with the unintended embarrassment and conversation wasn’t something she’d prepared for. The music swelled and dipped, couples twirled across the polished floor, the masked figures, the forced laughter, the fleeting connections. Delphine watched, a detached observer, her mind still preoccupied with the enigmatic figure in the opera’s depths and the unsettling shift in the atmosphere surrounding Christine. The prima donna, for all her outward joy, sometimes carried a fleeting shadow in her eyes, a hint of unease that belied her radiant smile.

Raoul, however, seemed utterly besotted, his gaze never straying far from Christine. His presence seemed to bring a light to her eyes. Their happiness was a tangible thing, a bright flame in the dimly lit corners of the ballroom. She saw the opera management attempting a semblance of normalcy, their smiles strained. And she couldn’t shake the feeling that beneath the glittering façade, the Phantom’s presence lingered, an unseen shadow cast over the festivities. Like a purposeful ignorance for the sake of maintaining some facade of normalcy and peace, the calm before the storm, relatively speaking. 

As the evening wore on, the revelry reached its peak. The orchestra played a frenzied waltz, the dancers a blur of motion. Suddenly, a hush fell over the ballroom. The music stuttered and died. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd as a new figure appeared at the grand staircase.

He stood on the staircase, framed by the flickering torchlight, a terrifying vision in crimson. Dressed as the Red Death from Edgar Allan Poe’s macabre tale, his flowing robes were the color of dried blood, his tall, skeletal mask a chilling visage of mortality. The air around him seemed to crackle with an unseen energy, a palpable sense of dread that silenced the boisterous celebration.

Delphine felt a cold dread grip her. There was something undeniably familiar in the figure’s bearing, in the way he moved with a silent, predatory grace. Her breath hitched in her throat. It couldn’t be… could it?

Christine gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, her eyes wide with terror. Raoul instinctively stepped in front of her, his face hardening with protective fury.

The Red Death descended the stairs slowly, his unseen gaze sweeping across the petrified crowd. He moved with a singular purpose, his attention seemingly fixed on Christine. The joyous masquerade had been shattered, replaced by a chilling tableau of fear and foreboding. The crowd of masked faces parted, squishing into the corners of the ballroom. Delphine, hidden amongst the shadows in her black swan attire, felt a cold certainty settle in her heart. The Phantom had made his dramatic entrance.

The Red Death, a figure of chilling authority, allowed the silence to stretch, amplifying the terror that gripped the ballroom. His skeletal mask swiveled slowly, taking in the frozen faces of the opera's patrons and its bewildered staff. Then, his voice, amplified by the cavernous space, cut through the tension – deep, resonant, and utterly devoid of warmth.

"Good evening, dear patrons. Forgive my unscheduled appearance, but the spirit of this masquerade, much like the spirit of this opera house, has grown… complacent."

His gaze, unseen behind the mask, settled directly on the trembling figures of Monsieur Firmin and Monsieur André, the co-managers, who stood aghast near the edge of the crowd.

"I have a new opera," the Phantom declared, his voice gaining a chilling edge of command. "One that will truly awaken the dormant soul of this establishment. Don Juan Triumphant."

A nervous ripple went through the crowd. Murmurs of "Don Juan?" and "He wrote an opera?" spread like wildfire. Firmin, finding a sliver of courage, stepped forward, his voice a strained whisper. "Sir, this is hardly the time... this is a private event. And as for a new opera, we have our season planned—"

The Red Death moved, a swift, unnerving glide that brought him within an arm's length of the bewildered manager. "Your season is my season, Monsieur Firmin," he hissed, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl that seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards. "And Don Juan Triumphant will be performed. Immediately."

A collective gasp swept the ballroom as the Phantom extended a gloved hand, its long, bony fingers hovering inches from Firmin's face. The unspoken threat hung heavy in the air. Firmin, his face ashen, visibly paled and stammered. "But... but the cast! The rehearsals! It's impossible!"

"Nothing is impossible for me," the Phantom retorted, his voice rising, resonating with a terrifying power. "Christine Daáe will be the lead. And the rest of the company will follow my instructions, or they will face… severe consequences." His gaze swept over the petrified faces of the dancers and chorus members, a silent, chilling promise.

Delphine, still cloaked in the dark velvet of her Black Swan costume, watched from the periphery, a cold knot forming in her stomach. She knew this man. She had confronted him in his lair, stripped him of his ghostly mystique, and seen him as nothing more than a bitter, isolated individual. Yet, here he was, terrifying the entire company, wielding an undeniable power that belied his human form. Her earlier defiance in his lair, the stark accusation of "just a man," suddenly felt terribly small against this grand, terrifying display.

His attention remained fixed on Christine, who stood pale and trembling beside Raoul. The Phantom’s gaze lingered on her, a possessive intensity that cut through the space. Delphine saw it – the old obsession, still burning, still claiming its target. This whole masquerade, this dramatic interruption, was for Christine. Don Juan Triumphant, his own opera, designed for her voice.

The Phantom continued to issue his commands, his voice chillingly precise as he dictated terms to the terrified managers. He spoke of new arrangements, swift rehearsals, the very air seeming to vibrate with his absolute will. And through it all, Delphine noticed a subtle, almost imperceptible avoidance in his movements. As his gaze swept over the petrified faces, it would skim past her, never quite meeting her eyes, even as she stood in the shadows which cloaked her. 

But he knew she was there, a stark silhouette in her black swan attire, a direct challenge to his authority from their last encounter. He didn't want to meet her eyes, not now. He needed to reassert his dominance, to solidify his control over his opera house, and her defiant presence was an inconvenient, unsettling reminder of a vulnerability he was not yet ready to acknowledge. He kept his attention focused on Christine, whose terrified eyes were fixed on him, a more predictable and satisfying reaction. He was Christine's "Angel," and she would obey. Yet, despite his efforts, his gaze kept snagging on a fleeting glimpse of black velvet, a cascade of dark feathers at the edge of his vision.

Delphine’s lip curled in a silent, bitter assessment. He was still upset. Her confrontation, her dismissal of his “help” and his authority, had clearly wounded his pride. He was pointedly ignoring her, perhaps as a silent punishment, or to assert his dominance in front of the very people she’d tried to defend. Ridiculous, she thought. He was still so petty, so consumed by his ego. He could terrorize an entire opera house, but he couldn't face the woman who had called him "just a man." The thought ignited a fresh spark of defiance within her. He might choose to ignore her, but she would not be dismissed.

The Phantom’s monologue continued, a chilling declaration of his absolute control over their lives, their art. He outlined the swift timeline for Don Juan, the impossibility of it, all dismissed with a wave of his gloved hand. Delphine watched Christine’s terror, Raoul’s protective stance, and the managers’ horrified submission. She felt the weight of the Phantom’s threat, the chilling implication that every member of the company was now under his thumb. Even her. And that frightened and angered her at the same time. It was pathetic. Infuriating. He was still trying to prove something, to cling to his fantastical facade of being a phantom, despite her seeing through it. The thought spurred a fresh wave of defiance. Very well. If he wanted to play this game, if he wanted to ignore her because she had challenged him, she would show him. She would show him that his blackmail meant nothing. She would work twice as hard, not for him, but to prove to herself, and to everyone else, that her talent stood on its own, untainted by his shadow. Let him avoid her gaze; she take this as her opportunity to prove him wrong and be the best damned person in his opera.

[spiced-apple]

Lost Signal — Redhaired Pirates

Strawhats Kid Donquixote

Things had gotten quiet. Too quiet. The familiar boisterous laughter that usually filled the Red Force was eerily subdued. Each hearty guffaw from Lucky Roux felt a little hollow, each clinking of Tank's tankards sounded less celebratory. Even Rockstar's usual swagger seemed to carry a subtle limp, a phantom weight dragging him down. And Benn Beckman, ever the calm observer, found his gaze drifting, not across the vast, welcoming sea, but into an empty space on the deck, a space that felt profoundly, unnervingly vacant.

"Something's missing," Yasopp finally voiced, his keen sniper's eyes narrowed, not at a distant target, but at the indefinable. His words hung in the air, a bell tolling the truth they'd all been subconsciously avoiding.

Shanks, usually the embodiment of carefree joy, sat on the railing. His eyes, usually sparkling with mirth, were clouded with a quiet, aching longing. "Yeah," he murmured, his voice softer than usual. "It's like… like a piece of the world just got ripped out."

The feeling was a persistent hum beneath their skin, a low-level static in their minds. It was the absence of a particular laugh that used to mingle with their own, a unique cadence that now only echoed in the silence. It was the lack of a specific comfort during their moments of sorrow, a gentle hand, a quiet understanding that was now just… gone. They felt the phantom ache of shared adventures, of battles won and stories told, that now felt incomplete, like a song missing its crucial melody.

What was worse, infinitely worse, was the impossible truth that gnawed at them: they couldn't remember. No matter how hard they strained, no matter how desperately they tried to grasp the fleeting wisp, they couldn't recall a face. No name surfaced, no specific memory clicked into place. It was like trying to discern the features of a shadow, a presence so intimately known yet utterly unidentifiable. They knew, deep in their bones, that someone vital was gone—the one who had laughed with them, cried with them, understood them perhaps better than anyone else. But they were gone as if they had never even been there to begin with.

The Red Force, once a beacon of freedom and adventure, now felt like a ship adrift, searching for a star that had vanished from the sky. Every shared glance among the crew spoke volumes: a silent, desperate question.

What could they do to find someone they couldn't even remember? How do you call out to a ghost of a memory that nonetheless left such an undeniable void?

The unsettling hum in the Red Force intensified, morphing from a low static into a constant, nagging throb. It wasn't just a missing person; it was a missing truth. The more they tried to pinpoint the source of their pervasive unease, the more they realized the horrifying nature of the void.

"It's like... like they were never even here," Lucky Roux finally articulated, his usual jovial tone replaced by a rare, troubled frown. He took a bite of meat, but the usual pleasure seemed to elude him. "But... they were here, weren't they?" He looked around, a silent plea in his eyes for someone to confirm what he couldn't remember.

Benn Beckman looked towards them, his gaze piercing, not just at the crew, but through the very fabric of their reality. "It's a paradox," he stated, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "We feel their absence profoundly, yet we can't define their presence. It's as if their very existence was erased, rewritten from our memories, but the space they occupied remains an open wound."

Shanks slammed his fist on the railing, the wood groaning under the impact. His usual easygoing demeanor was gone, replaced by a fierce, almost desperate intensity. "No!" he roared, startling even the seasoned crew. "They were here! I know it! And I can feel it, they’re gone now." He clawed at his chest, as if trying to hold onto a fleeting phantom. "The laughter... the conversations... the understanding... it's all still here, in my heart, but I can't see their face! I can't say their name!"

Yasopp lowered his rifle, his sharpshooter's instincts failing him in this intangible hunt. "It's like trying to hit a target you can't see, but you know is there," he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. "Our memories... they're like a scratched logbook. The stories are there, but the main character's page is blank."

This wasn't just about finding a lost crewmate; it was about reclaiming their own reality. The shared history they cherished felt fundamentally compromised, a grand adventure missing its most crucial witness. The Red Force, once a vessel of pure, unadulterated freedom, now felt like a prison of forgotten truths. Their laughter, their tears, their triumphs—they were all tainted by this impossible void, this phantom limb of their collective consciousness. They were searching for someone no one remembered, but simultaneously, everyone did. It was a maddening, soul-crushing paradox.

The only thing clear was the unwavering conviction that they had to bring back what was lost, even if they couldn't remember what it was. Their very sanity, their very existence, depended on it.

Your TV broke about a week ago. Not just a simple malfunction, but something truly bizarre. Trying to explain it to the repair people—hell, even trying to get ahold of a person instead of a robot was a nightmare. It kept freezing whenever you tried to watch anything besides One Piece. How do you even begin to explain that to some dude on the customer service end? "Yeah, so my TV only works for one specific anime, and then it freaks out for everything else." It was even more embarrassing when he called over his supervisor, who sounded even more confused than he was.

The old TV finally went black when you managed to force it onto another title. You figured it was toast and bought a new one that weekend. The new TV was smaller, thankfully, like the size of a computer monitor. Hopefully the reduced size would make it less prone to… whatever the last one had. But when you plugged it in, all the things that had previously been swept under the rug became stranger. The only icon available on it was for One Piece. None of the other streaming services, no settings, no other apps. Just a giant One Piece logo. The skull with the Strawhat stared back almost mockingly.

"How is that even possible?" You muttered, reaching for the power cord. You unplugged it, but the screen didn't change. It was still on—still bright and on actually changed to the show's title screen, like it hadn't just lost power. In fact, it started to get brighter, and hotter. Lighting up the dim room with the faint smell of ozone filling the air. Then smoke began to rise off the top of it.

"What…" You stumbled back, eyes wide. The light intensified, filling the small room with an almost blinding glow. You squeezed your eyes shut, but the brightness still shone behind your eyelids, a searing white flash that seemed to almost burn into the retinas. It got brighter, and brighter, until finally, overwhelmed, everything simply shut off.

The sky was beginning to turn to dusk, a soft, light purple with no cloud in sight. You felt a cool breeze on your skin, and the scent of salt and something vaguely woody filled your senses. When did you get outside? Your eyes snapped open, and you jolted upwards, your already racing heart seizing at the sight in front of you.

They were there. All of them. And they looked… real.

Benn Beckman stood closest, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips, his gaze unwavering. "Good to have you back," he said, his voice a low rumble that somehow cut through the roaring in your ears. He reached out a hand, surprisingly gentle, and placed it on your shoulder. His fingers were solid, warm through your shirt. This wasn't a dream.

Shanks, his eyes shone with an emotion you couldn't quite place, strode forward, a wide, relieved smile spreading across his face. "Took you long enough, partner!" he laughed, his voice boisterous, yet edged with a profound earnestness. Before you could react, he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into a surprisingly firm hug. The smell of sake and the faint musk of the sea clung to him, undeniably real. "We were worried you weren't coming back."

"Coming back?" You managed to croak, voice hoarse. Your mind was a whirlwind of confusion. Was this a hallucination? Some elaborate dream? "W-where am I?"

Yasopp, his long rifle casually slung over his back, stepped forward, his eyes, usually so sharp, now held a deep, knowing warmth. "You're home," he said, his voice soft. He reached out and gently ruffled your hair, the sensation startlingly real and strangely... nostalgic. "You always were, you just... stepped out for a bit."

Lucky Roux chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that seemed to vibrate through the deck beneath your feet. "We knew you'd find your way. We just had to... make the path a little clearer." He offered you a piece of what looked like freshly cooked meat, the aroma making your stomach growl despite the surreal situation.

"But... I don't..." You tried to protest, to explain the impossible reality of your television, the static, the blackouts. How could you possibly be here? None of this was supposed to be real. None of this was supposed to be familiar…

Shanks pulled back from the hug, but kept a hand firmly on your arm. His expression, usually so carefree, was now serious, his gaze piercing. "You're more real than you think," he stated, his voice quiet but firm. "We remembered you, even when you were somewhere none of us could reach. And now you’re here, you’re back where you belong."

The feeling was overwhelming: the cool air, the scent of the sea, the undeniable warmth of Shanks's hand on your arm, the solid deck beneath your feet, the distinct scent of Lucky Roux's cooking, Yasopp's touch, and Benn Beckman's steady presence. They weren't just images on a screen. They were here. And you were here too. Something told you that wouldn’t change.

[spiced-apple]

On Butterfly Wings Ch.5

Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.6

Nestled within the large overarching branches of the tallest and oldest tree in the forest was the treehouse. It was there, high amidst the rustling leaves, which speckled down shades of gold, yellow, and green onto the hideout and the ground. Simultaneously shadowed by the very same leaves, making everything warm and cool at the same time. The weather was perfect when the three decided to build their ultimate hideout – a treehouse, designed to be an impenetrable sanctuary from Garp’s relentless Marine training. Never mind that Garp himself had departed the very next day after his last visit, leaving a trail of exasperated sighs from Dadan. They didn’t realize though, and within a week—probably less—it was complete. A sturdy construction made from parts they found Gray Terminal and carefully hammered together with well-meaning but brute force and ingenuity. Complete with all the necessities: a steering wheel, bowls, blankets, a crows nest, and a flag with their initials on it.

Kanao, for her part, didn’t much care about Garp's training. She was actually happy to see him again, but also thought the idea of hiding from him seemed… unnecessary. Yet, she found herself drawn into the boys’ project, a quiet participant in its boisterous construction. Her own contributions were quiet but essential. She held planks steady for Ace, her small hands surprisingly strong. She fetched tools when Sabo pointed, anticipating his needs with an almost instinctive understanding. She even, on occasion, caught Luffy mid-air when his overenthusiasm sent him tumbling from a branch, her quick reflexes saving him from more than one painful landing. They didn't explicitly ask for her help, but they came to expect it, and her presence became an unspoken, grounding element in their frantic building efforts.

And before it could be fully comprehended, the leaves started to change again. Their bright green, almost emerald shades shifted into shades of amber, orange, and red, withering to brown and crispy after days of dry heat. Autumn leaves littered the grounds, covering it in splashes of color, and a cold air swept over the island. It would only continue to get colder, especially at night. The fire used to make their dinner was beginning to die out, burning and making a small, faint whistle as the winds hit its small core of flames. She wasn’t really sure why she was still awake, but it just seemed impossible.

Around the dying fire, the trio rested. Sabo reading his book of the Grand Line, despite it being useless without anything other than his imagination for stories, Luffy was asleep, snoring, his arms sprawled apart like a starfish. Ace was barely holding onto consciousness, fighting to stay awake, though it was quickly becoming a losing battle on his end.

The air was just starting to become bitingly cold.

Kanao pulled her blanket around her more tightly, the rustling and the dimming light drawing Sabo’s attention. He looked up from his book, his breath coming out as a faint cloud, barely visible.

"Hey. You're still up?"

She nodded.

Sabo closed his book, placing it carefully beside him. He shifted closer, pulling his own worn blanket tighter. "Can't sleep?" he murmured, his voice gentle.

She shook her head

He watched the embers for a moment, their dying glow casting flickering shadows on his face. "It's… quieter up here, isn't it?"

Kanao nodded again. The silence was different here, more profound, a comfortable blanket against the constant clamor of the hideout.

"You know," Sabo began, his voice barely above a whisper, "I've been thinking about your coin." He gestured vaguely to her hand, where she often held it, even in sleep. "Why do you use it?"

Kanao's fingers tightened around the worn copper. Her gaze drifted to the distant, shadows of trees. The smell of the burning pine and drying leaves thick in the air with the food cooked just a few hours ago. She’d never really considered why she used it, it was just something she had to do. Because before… before the silence and waiting… the uncertainty, the isolation. The empty feeling inside her where someone should be. Something changed, like a spark, an ache she tried so hard to shove away. "I was... alone." The words came unbidden, and surprised them both.

There was an involuntary memory of the past, one she didn’t realize she still had; the rain was pouring down, and the rumble of the thunder was constant. She waited on the docks, waiting for some sign of life. Any sign of her parents. Days passed, and those days turned into weeks, the feeling of waiting became more and more frequent. She couldn’t leave. She was told to stay and she did, because they said they would come back. Maybe they would come back in the dead of the night and bring her back. If she stayed in place… if she was right where they left her when they got back, everything would be alright.

Then Garp came. He was the first person that day to walk to her without the usual sneers and derisive looks. He called her kid and crouched down to her level, asking what she was doing. She never spoke a word to him. It just felt unnecessary. Why tell someone who already seemed to know? He brought food, and water, and stayed by her. Then when it all faded to darkness and she woke up here, with them, she realized something that felt so minutely important.

She hated rain.

Tears stung the corner of her eyes. She looked back at Sabo and whispered, "Now, I'm not."

Sabo grinned, and for a second he became very bright. Not quite like the sun, but something else.

In the woods, a tiny flicker of light danced past. Then another. And another. Like sparks of the flames that had by now died out. Soon, dozens, then hundreds of fireflies began to drift into view, their small, glowing bodies illuminating the deepening twilight outside the treehouse. They swirled and pulsed in the cool evening air, creating a silent, ephemeral dance of tiny, living stars.

Kanao’s eyes, still glistening, widened almost imperceptibly. This was new. She leaned forward, captivated by the gentle, silent spectacle. The tears on her face dried, leaving faint trails on her cheeks. She extended a tentative hand, a single firefly drifting close enough for her to almost touch its soft glow.

Sabo watched her, and something softened in his gaze. He saw the wonder in her eyes, the way the tiny lights seemed to calm the remnants of her sorrow. He didn’t say a word, simply shifting closer with his blanket, feeling the subtle warmth of her presence beside him. He reached out and gently took her hand, his fingers intertwining with hers, a silent offer of comfort. The fireflies continued their dance, a living constellation outside their little sanctuary, each blink of light a quiet reassurance.

The soft glow of the fireflies, combined with the comfortable quiet and the sheer exhaustion of the day, soon began to work its magic. Luffy was already a snoring lump, and Ace’s breathing had deepened into the slow, steady rhythm of sleep. Sabo, his hand still intertwined with Kanao’s, felt his own eyelids grow heavy. He glanced at Kanao. Her head had tilted slightly, her breathing now even and shallow, her gaze still fixed on the mesmerizing dance outside. The distant lights visible in the shaded reflection of her eyes. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor of peace seemed to settle over her. He smiled, a deep, contented sigh escaping him. He closed his eyes, drifting off to sleep, whatever had happened to her was behind her. He’d make sure it stayed that way, at whatever cost. That she never had a reason to be upset like that again. And if everyday after that was a step away from the empty loneliness that was the only thing present for her, he was more than happy to stay by her side. To be the only person, the only constant for her.

The seasons turned again, the vibrant autumn golds replaced by the stark, skeletal branches of winter. A thin blanket of snow dusted the forest, muffling the usual sounds, lending an even deeper silence to the treehouse. The air was crisp, biting, and the warmth of the small, carefully nurtured fire within the treehouse was a precious comfort. Despite the chill, Kanao had actually been looking forward to the season. Though she wasn’t entirely sure why, she liked winter, the frost, and the snow that seemed to soften everything. She stared out from the small window of the treehouse, enjoying the white, fresh layers dusting the surrounding tree branches and watching the warm embers floating lazily in the cool air. It was quiet, a rare thing since the trio was almost always getting up to something. 

The three were gone though, off to fight a tiger from what she heard. Something about how whoever defeated it would become captain. But she wasn’t interested in becoming captain, so she didn’t even have to flip her coin to come to the conclusion that she wasn’t going to get involved in that. Rather, she went to go see Dadan and the rest of the bandits, who had given her some food, a pat on the head, and grudgingly told her to visit more often and tell the others to come by too. She’d nodded and left as the sky darkened into an inky blackness, something she hadn’t really noticed until she had gotten outside. The sun seemed to set so much earlier around this time. The powder snow, while soft, crunched underfoot as she made her way back to the treehouse. It hadn’t snowed since the early morning, so her footprints from her earlier trek were still imprinted into the snow, so she followed it until she reached the bottom of the ladder.

When she reached the top and pushed back the curtains that functioned as the entrance, the inside was lit up with one of the overhanging lanterns and Ace was sitting near the window, staring outside. He didn’t turn around, and she paused as the curtains moved back into place.

Was something wrong? The air around him seemed disturbed, crackling with that indescribable force, the intensity of his energy in the confined space almost tangible, like the shiver in the air before a storm. Whatever it was though, Kanao could tell that he didn’t want to talk about. She rolled her coin over in her pocket, wondering if she should…she stepped closer, and moved to sit beside him. She didn’t say anything and just stared out the window with him. After a while, Ace frowned and his hands which were loosely laced together tightened.

“I just don’t get it.” He gritted his teeth and stared down at his hands. “I don’t get why he…why I…”

He stopped and Kanao turned her head towards him

He eased the grip of his hands and sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping, the weight of the frustration and hidden emotion finally settled. Exhaustion lining the edges of his being. He let go, closing his eyes and hanging his head, releasing a pent-up sigh and his aggravation dissipating. He looked so tired, drained, and worn and she noticed the redness lining his eyes that she hadn't seen earlier. She placed her hand on his shoulder, she didn’t understand what was going on fully. He’d always seemed to have something that simmered under the surface, but he never said anything about it, so she didn’t pry. After a second he turned towards her and asked, “Kanao, why did you stay there for so long? Dadan and the others said you waited there for months by yourself, completely alone. Why would you even wait that long?”

Kanao froze before swallowing and simply stating, “They told me to wait, so I did. They said they’d come back.”

“What. So you just waited.” It was framed like a question, though it sounded more demanding. Kanao pulled her hand back and nodded, causing him to turn towards her and continue, “Okay, let me ask you something. Why don’t you go back? What’s stopping you from going back and continuing to wait.”

She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t have anything to say, she moved her hand back to her pocket and gripped the coin tightly. The metal digging into her palm. It’d know, it’d have to know, because she didn’t.

The sound of the curtains opening both shocked her and vaguely registered in the back of her senses, but she didn’t pay it any mind as she started to move away, she had to get out of the room. She could hear Sabo shout out, “Hey, Ace! There you are! Didn’t know you came home already!”

Luffy’s voice could be heard loudly exclaiming shortly afterwards, “Hey, Ace! Didn’t know Roger was your Dad and you hate him!”

Roger? Was that why…

Kanao came to a halt, her whole body rigid in front of the ladder to the crows nest.

Roger. She recognized that name, he was a pirate? Wasn't he dead, though?

A hand reached and turned her around gently. Luffy. There was a bit of soot on his cheek, probably from fighting whatever. He smiled at her, seemingly oblivious and just happy, before turning back towards Ace. As if his action had a catalyst to it, all her emotions spiraled into a nameless tempest, swirling back and forth like the blustering winter storm outside. She moved towards her bedroll, turning her back towards the rest of the group, rolling herself up so that her body was completely underneath, drowning herself under the blankets.

She had nothing to say, even if she wanted to. She just didn’t know what to… would she have gone back? Should she have? What if they came while she’s been… what if that was the case? Why didn't she do more than just wait? She could feel tears coming, unbidden, she tried to stop them. Try as she might though, they came, slipping through the cracks like water, her breathing shortening and coming out in gasps and forced breaths.

She heard Ace responding to Luffy. Sabo had said something, but she hadn’t quite caught it. She squeezed her eyes shut until sleep came over her. 

[spiced-apple]

The Phantom’s Black Swan Ch.5

Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.6

The cancellation of Swan Lake faded into a strange, uneasy memory as the opera house slowly found its footing again. New productions were planned, old favorites revived, but the undercurrent of the Phantom's influence remained, a subtle tremor beneath the surface of the artistic endeavors. Christine Daaé, under the unseen guidance of her "Angel of Music," began to flourish. Her voice, once merely promising, now soared with an ethereal beauty and a breathtaking range that captivated audiences. She was given leading roles, each performance met with rapturous applause, a full house, and critical acclaim. The opera house buzzed with excitement over its newfound star, the sweet-faced chorus girl who had seemingly blossomed overnight.

Delphine watched Christine's ascent with a complex mix of emotions. There was a professional admiration for the undeniable beauty of her voice, a recognition of the talent the Phantom had clearly nurtured. But beneath that admiration lay a persistent ache of what might have been, a quiet resentment at the unfairness of it all. She was jealous, she’d be the first to admit it, but dwelling on that feeling wasn’t doing her any favors. It was just holding her back. She redirected her attention to remaining steadfast in her own training, her dedication a silent act of defiance against the unseen force that had sidelined her. She’d show him just how much fire she could have and make it so then he’d have no excuse to let her talent go unacknowledged. 

Meanwhile, Christine found herself increasingly drawn to the familiar comfort and genuine affection of Raoul de Chagny. Their childhood connection rekindled into a passionate romance, a beacon of normalcy in the increasingly bizarre atmosphere surrounding her sudden fame. Raoul, oblivious to the true nature of her "Angel," saw in her a talent that deserved to shine, free from any mysterious influences.

As Christine spent more time with Raoul, a subtle shift began to occur in her performances. The ethereal quality remained, but a new warmth, a grounded emotion, started to infuse her singing. The Phantom, ever watchful from his hidden perches, began to sense this change. The absolute devotion, the almost childlike trust he had cultivated in Christine, was beginning to waver. Her gaze, once often directed towards some unseen presence, now frequently sought out Raoul in the audience boxes. Her private rehearsals, once solely dedicated to his instructions, now included hushed conversations and stolen glances with the young Vicomte.

A cold fury began to simmer beneath the Phantom's masked exterior. He had nurtured this talent, guided it, brought it to fruition. And now, this callow youth, this interloper from the mundane world, was threatening to steal his creation, to sever the delicate thread of influence he had so carefully woven. His angel was straying from his celestial guidance, drawn by the earthly allure of human affection.

He intensified his "lessons," his disembodied voice in her dressing room growing more demanding, more possessive. He reminded her of her debt to him, of the power he held over her destiny. But Christine, emboldened by Raoul's love and increasingly aware of the Phantom's controlling nature, began to subtly resist. Her responses became less yielding, her obedience less absolute.

Unseen by either Christine or the increasingly agitated Phantom, Delphine continued her rigorous training. Night after night, after the opera house emptied and fell silent, she would inhabit the deserted rehearsal rooms. The echoes of her determined steps and the whisper of her turning body were her only companions. She worked with a fierce intensity, honing her technique, perfecting her artistry, her gaze fixed on an imagined future where her talent would finally be recognized on its own merit.

One such night, as the Phantom, consumed by his growing frustration with Christine's burgeoning relationship with Raoul, stalked the deserted corridors, he paused outside a closed rehearsal room. The faint sound of music, a music box, drifted from within. He recognized the piece – a challenging variation from Giselle.

Intrigued, he silently pushed the door ajar, just enough to peer inside. In the soft moonlight filtering through the tall windows, he saw Delphine. Her silhouette was sharp and elegant against the pale light as she moved through the intricate steps, her focus absolute, her movements imbued with a quiet strength and a burgeoning artistry he hadn't fully appreciated before.

He watched her for a long moment, the familiar bitterness towards the world momentarily eclipsed by a flicker of something else – a grudging respect, perhaps even a recognition of a talent that had continued to bloom in the shadows, untainted by his manipulative touch. He knew she had continued to practice, but had let it drift out of his focus.

The scene held him captive: Christine, the white swan, drawn towards the light of human love, and Delphine, the black swan, rising in the darkness, fueled by her own unwavering dedication. The contrast was stark, a living embodiment of the metaphorical dichotomy he had unknowingly fostered.

A cold realization began to dawn within him. His control over Christine was slipping, her heart yearning for a world beyond his influence. But here, in the solitude of the empty rehearsal room, another talent was blossoming, a talent forged in the crucible of disappointment and fueled by an unyielding spirit.

The heavy oak door of his hidden lair creaked shut behind the Phantom, the sound echoing in the vast, subterranean space like a sigh of weary resignation. The familiar darkness, once a comforting embrace, now felt heavy, oppressive. He moved with a languidness that betrayed the turmoil within, his gloved hand trailing along the cold, damp stone walls. He sank onto the worn dark velvet of his organ bench, the silent keys a stark contrast to the vibrant melodies that usually filled the space. His masked face, usually an impenetrable shield, seemed to betray a flicker of something akin to confusion in the empty eyeholes. His thoughts, a turbulent storm for weeks, now swirled around the image of Delphine in the moonlight.

Christine. His Angel in a world that had been so dark and unfair. The vessel through which his artistry had once found voice and recognition. He had seen in her a raw talent, a sensitivity that resonated with the depths of his own soul. His obsession had been a fervent, almost religious devotion, a desperate attempt to connect with the world through her voice, to mold her into the perfect embodiment of his musical genius. He had believed her gratitude, her dependence, was a form of love, a reflection of the profound bond they shared through their art. 

But Raoul… the young Vicomte’s presence had been a discordant note in his carefully constructed symphony. He had dismissed the boy as a fleeting infatuation, a childish distraction that would eventually fade in the face of the true artistry he offered. Yet, Christine’s heart had clearly found solace and affection in the warmth of human connection, a connection he, the Phantom, could never truly offer. The light of her devotion, once solely focused on him, now flickered towards another source, leaving him feeling a chilling sense of abandonment.

He clenched his gloved fists, the velvet bunching within his grip. Was it anger he felt? Betrayal? Or a deeper, more unsettling emotion—a recognition of his own delusion? Had he mistaken dependence for love, control for guidance? The thought was a bitter pill, a crack in the carefully constructed edifice of his self-belief. 

Then, the image of Delphine returned, unbidden. The stark contrast to Christine was undeniable. Where Christine had been initially yielding, almost childlike in her acceptance of his guidance, Delphine had been defiant, her spirit unbroken by his masked presence and his pronouncements. While Christine’s talent had blossomed under his direct tutelage, Delphine’s continued to flourish in the shadows, fueled by her own internal drive and a fierce determination to succeed on her own terms. She didn’t need his help like Christine did, and a burning feeling of inadequacy, a realization that perhaps he wasn't necessary, started to rise in his chest.

But there was also something else, an awareness of a talent he hadn’t fully acknowledged. He had always seen Delphine as a mere obstacle, a petty rival to be removed. But here, alone in the darkness, he could see that she had her own potential, a potential that perhaps, had always been there, waiting to be realized. One that he was just beginning to see. Whatever affection he still held for Christine was starting to die away, slowly and surely.

[spiced-apple]

Lost Signal — Strawhats

Redhaired Kid Donquixote

The Straw Hat Pirates sailed on, yet a pervasive emptiness clung to the decks of the Thousand Sunny. Luffy's boundless energy felt oddly muted, his usual boisterous calls echoing in a space that felt too large. Zoro's perpetual scowl seemed etched deeper, his swords idle at his hip, their usual gleam dimmed. Nami, ever practical, found herself pacing, her logbook open but her eyes unfocused, searching the horizon for something indefinable. Usopp's tall tales lost their usual zest, lacking the eager ears that once hung on his every word. Sanji's culinary creations, while still delicious, were presented with a subdued air, the usual flirtatious banter absent. Chopper whimpered softly, his fur ruffled, sensing the unease that permeated the ship. Robin's quiet smile was gone, replaced by a thoughtful frown as she observed her crewmates, her knowledge of the world offering no explanation for this profound disquiet. Franky's "Super!" lost its usual punch, his elaborate poses feeling hollow. Even Jinbe, stoic as he was, felt the currents of unease, his wise eyes scanning the quiet crew.

They were all there. Every single one of them. A headcount confirmed it, a quick glance around the ship verified it. Yet, the vibrant tapestry of their shared life, woven with laughter, adventurous cries, and the comforting murmur of companionship, felt frayed. The world, the Grand Line itself, seemed to have lost its vivid hues, replaced by a muted palette.

The silence wasn't just the absence of sound; it was an unnerving quiet that pressed in on them, a silence that spoke of a fundamental absence. Something was profoundly, terribly wrong. The feeling ached, a gnawing hollowness in their chests. It was as if the very air they breathed was missing an essential element.

As the days bled into weeks, a shared, unspoken understanding began to settle among them. It wasn't just "something" missing; it was "someone." A phantom presence, an invisible thread that had once connected them all, was gone. They couldn't name this missing person, couldn't conjure a face or a memory, yet the void was undeniable. It was a person who had witnessed their triumphs, shared their sorrows, and cheered them on through every impossible challenge. A person whose silent presence had been a constant, unwavering support.

And now, that support was gone.

This growing realization, warped by the obsessive instincts stirring within them, began to manifest in chilling ways. The longing for this unknown individual became an obsession, a feverish determination to reclaim what had been lost. Their usual desires for treasure, freedom, or the One Piece itself began to pale in comparison to this singular, all-consuming need.

Luffy's boundless will began to focus on this absence, his rubbery limbs twitching with an impatient urgency he couldn't explain. Zoro's relentless training took on a desperate edge, as if honing his strength would somehow bridge the impossible distance to this missing presence. Nami's navigational skills were now bent on finding a path to this phantom, her charts scrutinized with an intensity that verged on madness. Sanji's cooking became a desperate offering, a set plate in front of an empty seat, a silent plea to an unseen diner. Robin delved into ancient texts, searching for any hint of a forgotten connection, a hidden truth about their world that would explain this void.

They were searching for you, the reader. And they wouldn't stop until they found you. The Grand Line, once a path to adventure, had become a prison of longing, a vast expanse they needed to cross to reclaim the one piece that truly mattered: you.

Luffy's voice, usually a beacon of boisterous optimism, cut through the pervasive silence on the Sunny, imbued with an uncharacteristic, almost chilling, clarity. "Maybe we're not real," he stated, his gaze fixed on the endless expanse of the sea. There was no tremor of despair in his tone, just a simple, matter-of-fact acceptance, as if he'd just declared the sky was blue. It was a statement so profound, so utterly out of character, that it froze the crew.

But then, the raw emotion hit. "But our nakama... they're somewhere that is real," he continued, and this time, the words were laced with a deep, aching sorrow that twisted the hearts of everyone present.

Chopper, ever the most emotionally transparent, crumpled to the deck, his sobs echoing the unspoken grief that now settled like a heavy shroud over the ship. The initial shock gave way to a simmering discontent. Zoro's hand, which had been casually resting on his swords, clenched into a white-knuckled fist, the very air around him thickening with restrained fury. Nami gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, her eyes wide with dawning horror. Sanji, usually so expressive, simply stared at the deck, clutching his unlit cigarette as if it were his only anchor in a world turned upside down.

What could they do? The question hung heavy, unspoken but profoundly felt. How do you pursue a person who exists in a different reality? How do you bridge a gap that seems fundamentally impossible? The helplessness was a bitter taste in their mouths. They couldn't just stand by and allow this void to persist, this profound imbalance to continue. But what action could possibly be taken against such an inconceivable barrier?

A long, restless silence stretched, punctuated only by the mournful creak of the ship and Chopper's soft whimpers. Then, Robin, her eyes normally calm and perceptive, now held a fierce, unyielding glint. "Perhaps," she began, her voice steady despite the tremor in the others, "it's not a matter of trying to get to them. Perhaps it's a matter of trying to get them here."

The words hung in the air, a revolutionary concept that ignited a desperate spark of hope. Luffy's dream of becoming the King of the Pirates, the ultimate treasure of the One Piece—all of it suddenly seemed trivial, secondary. The shared victories, the thrilling adventures, the very essence of their journey—none of it would be complete, none of it would be worth it, without their missing nakama. The Grand Line now offered a new, more profound quest: to tear down the invisible wall between worlds and bring you home.

The world had felt... off, for about a week now. Not wrong, exactly, but subtly misaligned. It started after you took a much-needed break from One Piece, drowning in the more pressing realities of work and school. When you finally surfaced, something felt altered. Your brain seemed perpetually out of focus, a persistent brain fog that you initially dismissed as a side effect of the change in focus. It had happened before, but this time, it was different. Like the ground beneath your feet had subtly shifted, even when you were standing still.

Trying to immerse yourself in anything else was practically useless. Other shows, movies, even just browsing online, yielded a persistent migraine, a pulsing headache that brought with it brief, disorienting moments of blacking out. It had to be "nerves," or "stress." It was a perfectly rational explanation for the unsettling sensations.

But then you tried to watch One Piece. The moment the familiar intro music started, the television's lights seemed to become too bright, almost painfully so. The usual cool tones of the screen were replaced by an unnerving wash of red, yellow, and blue fluorescence, illuminating the dark room in a distorted glow. Then, it froze.

Annoyed, you leaned forward, tapping the screen impatiently. The first tap, nothing. The second, still nothing. But on the third, something impossible happened. The solid surface of the screen pushed inward, yielding like a water balloon or a slab of jello. Your finger sank into it, not a hard surface, but something strangely pliant.

You jolted back, stumbling onto the couch, your heart pounding. That couldn't be right. Your TV was a solid object. The screen unfroze for a flickering moment, but the audio was strangely muffled, as if it was coming from deep underwater. As you tried to process what just happened, the couch beneath you began to sink, pulling you down with a strange, inexorable force. Your brain, already reeling, became an indiscernible mess, a swirling mass of static.

Then, the final, jarring sound: the repetitive beeping noise of the TV, flashing "No Signal." But the feeling of being pulled wasn't gone. It was just... changing.

The sun was blinding, searing through your closed eyelids. Your mouth felt like sandpaper, and your heart hammered a frantic rhythm like a drum. When you finally forced your eyes open, the first thing you saw was a familiar blue nose twitching inches from your face.

"Chopper?" The name was a hoarse whisper. He looked… real. Not a picture, not a cartoon, but a living, breathing, fluffy reindeer. Hesitantly, you reached out a hand, fingers sinking into soft, surprisingly warm fur. The texture was undeniably real, and you instinctively jolted back.

Before you could even process that, Chopper let out a high-pitched sob. "You're here! You're really here!" He practically launched himself at you, his small hooves digging into your shirt as he buried his face against your chest. His fur was surprisingly soft, and the warmth radiating from him was palpable.

"W-what?" You stammered, your mind a blank slate of confusion. It wasn't just confusion; it was a profound lack of comprehension. Nothing made sense.

You managed to push yourself up, Chopper still clinging to you like a burr. He was surprisingly heavy. "I missed you so much!" he cried, his tears dampening your shirt. You looked past his little pink and blue hat, and that's when you saw them.

The Straw Hats.

Luffy was grinning, that impossible, ear-to-ear grin that seemed to defy the laws of physics. "You woke up!" he cheered, bounding towards me. Zoro was leaning against the mast, a smirk playing on his lips, his hand resting on the hilt of Wado Ichimonji. He gave a slight nod. "Took you long enough."

Nami, ever the practical one, walked closer, her arms crossed. "Are you alright? You've been out for a while." Her expression was a mix of concern and a surprising hint of relief.

Sanji, smoking a cigarette, looked at you with an intensity that made your stomach clench. "Here, have some water, darling." He offered a glass, his eyes never leaving mine. You reached out, your fingers brushing his as you took the glass. His touch was unexpectedly warm and solid.

Robin, her usual serene smile absent, knelt beside you, her dark eyes piercing. "Welcome, nakama. We've been waiting." She extended a hand, and you instinctively took it. Her grip was firm, her skin smooth and surprisingly warm.

"This… this can't be real," You mumbled, the words escaping before you could stop them.

Luffy, who had been bouncing on the balls of his feet, suddenly cheered even louder. "It wasn't until you got here!" he exclaimed, his laughter echoing across the deck. "Now it is!"

Your gaze swept over them, their forms so solid, so vibrant, so utterly real. The salty spray of the ocean misted your face, the creak of the ship's timbers beneath you, the distinct scent of Sanji's cooking wafting from the galley—it was all overwhelming, undeniable. You were here. On the Thousand Sunny. With the Straw Hat Pirates. And they were… waiting for you.

[spiced-apple]

On Butterfly Wings Ch.4

Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.5 Ch.6

With every month that passed, or more accurately, everyday, something different seemed to unfold. Ace, Sabo, and Luffy had formed a trio, a whirlwind of ambition and rough-and-tumble games that often left the hideout in a state of amiable disarray. Kanao occasionally joined, a quiet shadow on the periphery of their adventures, but for the most part, she did her own thing. Flipping a coin did only leave a fifty percent chance of her going outside what had become normal for her. Collectively it was understood—even vaguely on Luffy’s part—why she relied on the coin. But it always left an odd feeling in the air around them afterwards that they would have to squash with the change in topic to fighting, competitions, and boasting about strengths.

Despite the distance it undeniably created, and despite Luffy's eager attempts to include her, which she never outright avoided, Kanao felt little desire to disrupt the comfortable patterns they'd established. Her life here, however unconventional, had become a quiet certainty.

One sweltering afternoon, the trio returned to the hideout, bruised and exhilarated from a particularly intense hunt for a giant boar. They found Dadan and a few of the bandits huddled by the hearth, grumbling.

"Still no idea how old she is," Dadan muttered, gesturing vaguely towards Kanao, who sat in her usual quiet corner, tracing patterns on the wooden bird she kept. "Or when her blasted birthday is. Garp just dumped her here like a sack of potatoes, said it was complicated, that she was almost eight. Is she?" Dadan tossed a sharp glance at her subordinates, as if expecting some revelation. She received only shrugs in response.

"Yeah, didn’t Garp say something about finding her on the docks," Dogra chimed in, scratching his scruffy beard. "Poor thing. No one knows a thing about her, not even a birthday to celebrate."

The words hit the trio with unexpected force. Ace stiffened, a flicker of that familiar protective anger crossing his face, he tugged the other two outside towards a boulder that sat near the edge of forest. Moss had climbed across it until it was practically a soft green hill with stone peeking out from crevices. The earthy scent of moss and the scent of pines surrounded them as the air cooled and lightning bugs flitted around the darkening woods and sky. 

"No birthday?" Luffy mumbled, picking at a loose thread on his straw hat. "That's… not fair."

Ace grunted, a low, rough sound. "She was just… left there. Garp said so." He kicked a loose stone, sending it skittering across the dirt floor. "Someone oughta do something about it." His gaze drifted towards some flowers she had started to tend to in the distance, a flicker of possessiveness in his eyes. She was theirs now, a part of their unconventional family, and she deserved better.

"We should do something," Luffy declared, his voice gaining conviction. "She's our... she's here with us now."

Sabo leaned forward. "We can't give her a real birthday, not without knowing when it is. But… we could give her something else. Something for her. Something from us." His mind, always racing, was already conjuring possibilities. A gift. A mark that showed that she belonged.

The idea, simple and profound, resonated with all three. Luffy's face lit up, his usual enthusiasm returning tenfold. Ace, despite his gruff exterior, felt a rare warmth spread through his chest. It wasn't about the Grand Line, or pirates, or even their personal dreams. It was about Kanao. About showing her that she was seen, that she was cared for, in a way that Garp's gruff protection and the bandits' begrudging tolerance never could.

“Alright, so a gift. Do we have any ideas?” Ace asked, a flicker of excitement lacing his voice As he and Luffy stared curiously at Sabo. He had come up with the idea, so he had to have some semblance of any idea of what kind of gift to get her. Right?

Sabo, rather than giving a straightforward answer, fell back into thought. He leaned against the mossy boulder and scratched at his chin, as he formulated the next steps. What did Kanao care about? What did she need? She was fairly quiet and seemed quite stoic for her age. But there were moments, brief, delicate hints of the person behind her mask, subtle and vulnerable. Getting her a gift like food, or clothes, or even something like treasure wouldn’t garner much of a reaction. She’d appreciate it, but it wouldn’t hold the amount of intended care needed if time and effort wasn’t put into it. Then it came to him.

The next day, the trio was gone before Kanao had even risen from her bedroll. After getting done—what had become a routine for them—fighting each other, they set off with a determined glint in their eyes and a shared, unspoken goal. Their destination: Edge Town, a rough-and-tumble settlement known for its illicit trade and its proximity to the more dangerous parts of the island. It was the bridge between Gray Terminal and High Town, picking up the garbage of High Town and whatever was leftover went to Gray Terminal. Their plan was simple, or so they thought: hunt something valuable, trade its hide, and buy Kanao a gift.

"Alright," Ace declared, leading the way, hopping across the branches of the tall trees. "We need something big. Something worth a lot."

"What about an ape?" Luffy suggested, leaping after Ace, his rubber arms springing back.

Sabo followed close behind, their supplies strapped to his back. "Doubt we can trade an ape," Sabo said. "Their fur isn't that rare and I doubt anyone would want it." He paused, his brow furrowing. "Let's aim for something that we can eat and also trade for a high price. Like a crocodile, their skins pretty tough, I think it’s used for making leather since it’s pretty durable.”

“Alright a crocodile.” Ace nodded, changing his direction to the swampy rivers near the mountain peaks. There had been a crocodile around there that had almost eaten Luffy a few weeks prior and that one had been a particularly large one. So finding and hunting just an average one wouldn’t be an issue for any of them. Unless Luffy got eaten again or jumped in headfirst. Which of course, he did immediately after catching sight of one. The other two sighed in exasperation and jumped in to help him. There were a fair amount of the reptiles lurking in the water, and by the end of it, there were none. Having been beaten and subdued by Luffy’s erratic rubbery punches—that usually landed on himself or the other two, and Ace and Sabo’s metal pipes.

After dragging some of the carcasses to a dry clearing where Sabo skinned them, and they cooked and ate. After resting for a few minutes, they continued their quest, unhindered by the lingering scent of dead reptiles which had become particularly foul. The swampy water and dirt dried into a thick muck after sitting in the sun too long. Tying one of the larger skins to a makeshift wooden sled they made their way to Edge Town. They were of course not welcome there, something that they were aware of—beating up and stealing from most of the people that lived there kind of did that. So, instead the trio stacked on top of each other and donned a simple black cloak and hood that hid the fact that they were the very definition of three kids in a trench coat.

Wearing something like this however, led to trouble and made them stand out immediately, even more than someone like Luffy who constantly bounced and stuck out his tongue. This of course meant, most everyone shied away. Except maybe the occasional rough character who didn't know any better or just wanted to have a go at them. Which in turn, the trio handled very much the same way. The town itself was a grimy collection of makeshift stalls and shadowy alleys, reeking of stale alcohol and desperation. They found a dubious-looking merchant willing to inspect their prize. His eyes widened at the size and quality of the hide, but his grin was predatory. With Ace being the “adult voice” for the three. 

"A fine piece," he rasped, turning it over with a calloused foot. "But crocodile skins ain't what they used to be. Too many hunters. I'll give ya… this." He held up a handful of paltry berries.

Ace's eyes narrowed dangerously. "That's it?! For this beast?!"

The merchant merely sneered. "Take it or leave it, kid. Plenty of other beasts out there."

Frustration gnawed at them. The meager sum wouldn't even buy a decent meal, let alone a gift special enough for Kanao. They argued, they blustered, but the merchant wouldn't budge. They left Edge Town empty-handed, the heavy crocodile hide feeling like a worthless burden that they ended up dumping behind one of the darkened alleyways.

The sun reached its highest point in the sky, glaring down on them despite the shading darkness the alley provided. They took the cloak off and huddled together.

“Right, so that was a bust.” Ace grumbled, kicking on the loose rocks from the paved roads. There were many loose rocks in the roads.

Luffy looked downcast. "But… we promised."

Sabo stopped, his eyes distant as he formulated a new plan. "There's another way," he said and looked towards the towering walls of High Town. The other two grinned.

High Town was everything Edge Town was not. It was opulent and pristine, a collection of immaculate palaces and mansions that dazzled the senses. The streets were cobblestone and swept clean of even the smallest speck of dirt, the air perfumed with sweet smells and the gentle chimes of elegant bells. It was all flora, brightly colored flowers and luscious foliage that shined and glittered like gemstones. Everyone wore silken fabrics and shiny jewels, the very air reeked of money.

The trio had donned their cloak once again. If Edge Town was unwelcoming towards them in the sense that they’d just be turned away at the gate or beaten up by a particularly vindictive group of people, High Town would sooner punt them into the sea or have them arrested. Their presence drew the attention of pretty much all the residents who looked at them with scowls and disparaging looks—like they had smelled something rotted. Maybe that crocodile smell was still on them…

That last sentiment was largely ignored by the three boys, who focused mainly on finding the perfect gift for Kanao.

“Okay,” Sabo whispered, his voice muffled by the cotton hood. "We need something that seems like something Kanao would like.”

"Like a really shiny rock?" Luffy whispered back from the bottom of their three-person tower, his voice too loud. The volume caused some people outside the stores they were near to look at them sharply.

"No, Luffy," Ace hissed. “When would she ever need a rock?”

“It’s shiny!” He exclaimed, loudly as always. Drawing the unwanted attention of even more people. Sabo, who was in the middle, placed his hand over Luffy’s mouth to get him to quiet down. He did not, but the muffled noise could at least be dismissed as a growling stomach now.

Ace, perched precariously on top, peered through the eyeholes of the hood. His gaze swept over the pristine shop windows, glittering with jewels and silks. Surely, one of these excessively fancy stores contained something Kanao might like, something that would resonate with her in the way a particularly vicious river crocodile did not. He was about to suggest heading into one of the stores to look for said potential item, when his gaze caught a sight that made his brow furrow.

He squinted, leaning forward to get a better look, his movement tipping the edge of the robe awkwardly and making them look like they were melting.

"Ace?" Sabo said, taking his hand off Luffy’s mouth. "You okay up there?"

"Shush," Ace murmured. "Look. To the right."

Both Sabo and Luffy peered through gaps in the cloak, trying to make out whatever it was that had drawn Ace's attention. In the window of a small, discreet jewelry shop, nestled amongst jeweled necklaces and silver trinkets, was a hair clip. It was fashioned into the shape of a butterfly, its delicate wings crafted from a sort of iridescent material like pearl or abalone on the outside, but the center part was like stained glass. The sun glinted off the surface of the glass refracting a kaleidoscope of colors.

There was something different about the way it had been shaped.

"It's like the ones in the woods," Sabo explained, his voice low. "I’ve seen her looking at them before. It’s perfect!"

Luffy, surprisingly, understood. He'd seen Kanao tracing patterns on her wooden bird, watching the real butterflies that sometimes flitted near their hideout. He saw the way she looked at delicate things, and somewhere in the back of his mind he thought she was kind of similar. The thought vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by enthusiasm at having found the gift. "Yeah!" he chirped. "It's pretty! She'll like it!"

The problem, of course, was acquiring it. The shop was small, but well-guarded, with a stern-looking clerk inside who was already looked ready to drop-kick the three. The three snuck towards the back entrance of the shop, shadowed by the walls of the store next to it and pulled off the cloak.

"Alright," Ace muttered, his mind already formulating a plan. "Luffy, you're the distraction. Sabo, you're on lookout. I'll get in and out."

“Okay!” Luffy said happily, running into the store. His rubbery limbs stretched all over the store, knocking over display cases and at one point placing a crown on top of his hat—which was shortly taken away from him. All of this drew the clerk’s attention. The store clerk—a rather short and obtuse man wearing a pair of half-moon spectacles frown turned into a disgusted sneer on his face was following Luffy and yelling at him. Sabo went to the edge of the alleyway they were in—still shadowed and hidden—keeping an eye on the street for any danger. Ace in the meantime slipped in from the back and observed the clerk and the location of the hairclip. He sped through and snatched the hairclip and then the back of Luffy’s shirt. As they ran out of the entrance, Sabo followed after them. The clerk yelled at them to stay out much to the amusement of the trio, who had started hightailing it. As they were running down the cobblestoned street, they passed a man with long curling black hair and mustache wearing a navy blue coat and a hat with a golden feather. He froze, looking shocked and yelled out, “I think that’s him. Please come back!”

Sabo stopped in his tracks and stiffly turned to look at him.

“It is you! You’re alive!” The man continued. “Let’s go home!”

Ace and Luffy paused next to Sabo and looked back at the man confused. “Who the hell is this? Are you friends with that old dude Sabo?”

“Yeah. I think he knows you.”

Sabo gritted his teeth in anger. “He’s confused me with someone else. Let’s go!” He ran off with the other two following shortly behind him. The man’s expression fell into one of disbelief and he yelled out to the retreating trio. “No Sabo! Come back!”

The trio made a good distance away. Away from High Town, Edge Town, Gray Terminal and everything else. Sabo didn’t say a word to the other two the entire way and the quiet was starting to eat away at them. They made it to one of the grassy cliffs that overlooked the ocean below. The sun had started to move a bit below its high earlier that afternoon and it reflected off the waves in streaks of red and orange.

Sabo collapsed into a cross-legged position. The only sound around them being the distant call of sea birds and the waves crashing below against the cliff. Luffy approached Sabo carefully, while Ace kept a distance observing.

"Who was that guy?" Luffy asked.

“Yeah. What are you so insistent about keeping from us?” Ace continued.

Sabo didn’t answer right away, instead opting to just breathe heavily while staring out at the outstretching blue, before turning around angrily at the questions. “You’re wrong! I’m not hiding anything!”

“Oh, you aren’t? That’s cool.”

“Yes, you are! Tell us, Sabo!” Ace growled. “Dammit Sabo! We can’t keep secrets from each other!”

The weight of Luffy and Ace’s pointed questions and insistence started to weigh down on Sabo, who looked away from the two’s pointed looks. His whole figure shaking, and his hands clenched into fists in frustration. And then, he cracked and revealed the truth.

“The truth is, both my parents are still alive. So I’m not an orphan and I didn’t grow up in Gray Terminal.” Sabo sat down and looked down in his lap. “And that man who called to me today… that was my Dad. I’m sorry, I know I’ve been lying to you two for a long time.”

Luffy quickly accepted the apology, but Ace turned away from him. “I don’t have to forgive anyone. Not until I hear the full story. If you’re really from a noble family, why would you want to live in some crappy junkyard?”

“Cause I ran away from home.” Sabo’s expression wavered in a mixture between frustration and sadness. “I realized that they love their money, their property, their status, but not me.”

He pulled his legs tighter to his body and traced his fingers across the soft grass. “That family had no place for someone like me. I know you’ve guys had it worse, but even if I had parents, I was still alone.”

“I had no idea.” Ace trailed off. Sabo stood up, seemingly refreshed after getting all of that off his chest. He’d known Ace for about five years and Luffy for about three months now, but in all that time, he had never told anyone the truth. It was such a relief, his face lit up as he shouted to them. “Listen! The three of us, we’re gonna set out to sea someday! We’re gonna sail the seas and see the world! And when we’re done, I’m gonna write a book about all the adventures we go on! We’re gonna be pirates!” The enthusiasm spread, contagiously and they all grinned. Following that renewal, they became brothers—having shared sake.

The sun was beginning to crest below the tree lines, with faint lines of coral and lavender bleeding into the darkening blue sky like watercolor. The moon rising slowly behind them, almost like a little silver orb. The day was coming to a close, and although the weather made it seem like any other day, it wasn’t. The events that took place were set in stone, and all that took place this day would be remembered. Kanao was still outside, though she had just started to get up and head inside when the faint shouting voice of Luffy was heard. She paused and turned towards the direction of the noise, she didn’t move any further.

She didn’t have to, since the voices got clearer and they were fast approaching her.

"We're back!" The trio crashed in a pile of limbs a few feet from her, Sabo carried a wooden chest, which she'd assumed was apart of their treasure hoard—as it was usually—in his arm.

"Hey, Kanao! Happy Birthday!" Sabo presented the box to her. Luffy cheered and Ace nodded and flashed her a warm smile.

Kanao tilted her head slightly, her gaze unfocused with confusion. Her fingers looped around the coin in her pocket absentmindedly.

Luffy, perhaps expecting the confusion and realizing the lack of understanding on her part, loudly declared: "Your birthday is special because it's the day when you were born! Dadan said that you don’t have one, so it’s today!"

“Yeah! Happy birthday!” Ace said. “Go ahead and open your present, we went through a lot of work to get it.”

This didn't clear up the confusion at all, even with Sabo providing a rushed explanation on what it meant and why it was meaningful to spend time together on such a special occasion. Still confused by this odd development, Kanao moved her hand to the lid of the box and hesitantly opened it. Resting inside it was a small pile of green leaves with looked like a butterfly sitting on top. She picked it up carefully and examined it.

“Isn’t it pretty!” Luffy reached out to hug her, Ace grabbed his cheek and pulled at it roughly. “You idiot. You’re gonna break it.” 

“It’s a hairclip.” Sabo told Kanao, after seeing her continued look of confusion and lack of doing anything with her gift besides holding it gently. She nodded in understand and pulled her hair into a ponytail, clipping the butterfly onto it.

The clip settled in, nestling into place against the inky strands of her hair. She stared at the trio owlishly for a few seconds. She expressed how she was feeling outwardly—whether by talking about it or showing it with her facial expressions. But her eyes softened and her mouth pulled into a small smile. One that made the three grin widely.

The smile that proved the worth of all the troubles that had gone through the three boys that day. Ace let go of Luffy, whoimmediately took that opportunity to wrap his rubbery limbs around her. She hesitantly hugged him back, patting him on the back before nodding at the other two. Even if she didn't understand why this was meaningful, or why they would go through all the trouble. Just knowing that they wanted to include her and share this occasion with her nonexistent birthday—was a precious gift.

Ace turned away, blushing and coughing. "Yeah, well, it's no big deal."

Sabo smirked and elbowed Ace. "Whatever."

"That's right!" Luffy chimed. "And since it's your birthday, you get an extra piece of meat at dinner!"

"Who gave you the authority to choose her food portions?" Ace said.

"But it's a holiday, Ace!"

As the two bickered, Kanao smile widened a little bit more. Though she didn’t fully understand the full meaning behind this, it was important to them. And she realized that she cared for them. A feeling that she also didn’t fully understand.

[spiced-apple]

The Phantom’s Black Swan Ch.4

Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.5 Ch.6

The air in the hidden chamber felt thick with unspoken tension as Delphine turned to leave. The Phantom remained hunched over the organ, his masked form a silent sentinel in the dim light. She didn't offer a parting word; their argument had reached a stalemate, a chasm of differing perspectives that seemed impossible to bridge.

As she retraced her steps down the winding staircase, the initial surge of adrenaline began to fade, replaced by a weary resolve. She had faced the myth, the terrifying legend that had held the opera house in its grip, and found a man – a disturbed and manipulative man, but a man nonetheless. The power he wielded wasn't supernatural; it was born of fear, secrecy, and perhaps the complicity of those who believed the rumors.

Emerging from the hidden passage behind Box Five, Delphine felt the familiar opulence of the opera house press in on her. The hushed anxieties of the other dancers seemed less daunting now, somehow less… spectral. The "ghost" had been unmasked, at least to her. He was just a man, and that struck her as so particularly ordinary.

Back in her small attic room, the moonlight seemed less romantic, more stark. Washing over the white of her pillowcases and dying it a silver. But it was just light. Sleep didn't come easily. Her fingers knotted the pillow and the case into an uncomfortable lump and she had to squeeze her eyes shut. The Phantom's words, his bitterness, his strange conviction, echoed in her mind. "You lack the fire." The sting of that pronouncement lingered, a fresh wound added to the ache of what had been just within her reach. She’d worked hard, she’d always made an effort to work hard, despite all the uncertainty and the favoritism that seemed to prevail. It hurt, each and every time she got turned down or overlooked for a role, and this was finally it for her. Odile was supposed to be the reward for all that pain, the justification that made everything else not look as dim.

But amidst the lingering resentment, a new resolve began to solidify within her. She wouldn't let his dismissive words define her. She wouldn't let his petty manipulations extinguish her passion. The Black Swan might be lost for now, but her dedication, her years of relentless training, remained. The fire within her might not burn with the same volatile intensity the Phantom claimed to see in Christine, but it was a steady, unwavering flame, fueled by her own determination and love for her art. There would be other roles, other ballets for her to have the opportunity. Mourning the loss of something so easily taken wasn’t worth the time that could be spent practicing and perfecting for the next role, the next ballet.

The next morning, the cancellation of Swan Lake was officially announced, the management citing "unforeseen circumstances." A wave of disappointment washed through the company, but beneath it, Delphine sensed a subtle shift. The fear of the unseen "ghost" seemed to have lost some of its potency, perhaps a subconscious reflection of her own defiance. She’d seen what he was, and it was more pathetic and sad than anything.

Delphine returned to her routine with a renewed focus. While others moped or whispered anxieties, she sought out the empty rehearsal rooms, her worn ballet slippers whispering against the wooden floor. She ran through her exercises, the familiar movements a comforting anchor in the swirling uncertainty. She practiced the Black Swan pas de deux, every extension, every dramatic flourish, as if the premiere was still weeks away. She wouldn't let the Phantom's whims steal her progress. She would be ready for the next opportunity, whenever and wherever it might arise.

Unbeknownst to Delphine, her encounter in the hidden chamber had left a deeper impression on the Phantom than she realized. As he sat in the darkness, hunched over his organ. The echo of her defiant words reverberated through his solitude. "You are not a ghost. You are just a man."

He had expected fear, perhaps pleading. Something that he had grown used to, being called a monster, a demon, or a ghost. He had encountered a spark of unexpected courage, a refusal to be intimidated. Her accusation, stark and simple, had landed with an uncomfortable truth. He was just a man, albeit a disfigured and isolated one, wielding power through deception and fear.

He had always justified his actions as a necessity, a means to an end. His years of isolation had hardened him, his artistic vision growing twisted and perverse. But beneath the layers of bitterness and resentment, a spark of humanity still smoldered.

Delphine's defiance, her refusal to be silenced, had sparked something. A faint flicker, perhaps, like sparks being coaxed from a dying piece of coal. He had always thought of himself as the teacher, the guide, the one who understood the complexities of the art they all purported to pursue. Christine had always been intended to be his zenith, his star, and the angel that could look beyond his monstrosity and see him for who he really was. How could it be that this dancer, who was temperamental, held grudges, and dared to argue with him, saw him as human?

But her passion for her art, her quiet determination in the face of his pronouncements, had also struck a chord, a discordant note in the symphony of his bitterness. He had dismissed her as lacking "fire," yet the steady flame of her dedication was undeniable. It was a different kind of fire than the shining brilliance he saw in Christine, but it was persistent, resilient.

As he watched her from his hidden vantage points in the opera house in the days that followed, he saw her continuous quiet dedication, her solitary practice. He saw the unwavering focus in her eyes, the determination etched on her face. The sparks grew into a small flame, fanned by his unintentional notice—not admiration, perhaps, but a grudging respect, a flicker of recognition for a spirit that refused to be extinguished.

He had sought to control through fear, to elevate through manipulation. But in Delphine Laurent, he had encountered something he hadn't anticipated: a quiet strength that might just prove more formidable than any phantom. The cancellation of Swan Lake might have been his decree, but this little dancers unwavering dedication was a silent rebellion, an echo that lingered in the darkness, a testament to the power of a dancer who refused to let her dreams be silenced by a ghost. And that was something he wasn’t sure he’d ever encountered, someone who saw him.