ACE

He's not human.

That's become the general consensus of the crew lately, ever since we picked up our latest charge. I don't know whether I agree with it or not; or, actually, it's more apt to say I'm finding it hard to pinpoint exactly why I don't believe it. He's really given me no reason to think he's not some automated humanoid... thing. He's as machine-like as you can get while still wearing human skin.

"Hey, Timor, time to eat!"

Case in point: In response to my announcement, he looks up, eyes me dully through his unkempt bangs, cocks his head as though asking why I'm bothering with this menial task. It's a silent prompt which I can't effectively answer at this point. I don't why I'm keeping up with this, visiting him every day, testing the waters when everyone else warns me not to even dip my toes in this choppy water. The old man would probably understand it all better than I ever will.

"Man," I sigh, leaning into the door frame, which is the equivalent of telling him I don't plan on booking it just yet, "you've got to eat, Timor. Unless... you really are one of those android things?"

It slips out without warning, and I hastily bite my lip, afraid any more drivel'll pour out despite my hastily drawn filter.

But Timor doesn't react, not beyond blinking once, twice, then turning his head away, his pale blue eyes focusing on the window farthest from his dingy bed, through which I can just barely make out the hazy horizon we're forever sailing towards. His knuckles bleed white, his grip on the bed's frame tightening.

I pause, suddenly consumed with studying him. I've had my fill of Timor these past few days, seeing as I've been the only one daring enough to venture into his cabin since we put him in here, but I can't say I've ever properly looked at him. It's not as though he isn't easy on the eyes (hell, if we had any girls on board, they'd fall for him in a heartbeat) but he... has a presence, and it isn't kind.

I'd imagine he looks a little less menacing when he's all cleaned up and whatnot, but even I'd flinched the first time our eyes met. He'd been an absolute mess then, painted red from head to toe, torn and shredded. We only found out his hair was pink when we threw him in the bath so that the doctors could better see the full extent of his injuries. Now, his wounds are dressed and dealt with, and he's taken on the image of a mummy; most of his body is shrouded in crisp, white bandages, leaving only his piercing blue eyes and hair unfettered. Marco lent him some clothes, but he looks ridiculous in the get-up; somehow, it just doesn't suit him.

"Er, Timor, I didn't mean to..."

I blink. This is the first time he's spoken to me. Or anyone, for that matter, besides the old man.

"Don't."

"...Don't what?"

"Apologize," he says, but the word is empty, monotone and lacking. "You're right."

"You can't mean... There's no way you're really..."

"A machine?" His head cocks again, and then he's looking at me, staring, really, and a shiver seizes my spine. Those are the eyes of a dead man. "I might as well be."

Now I'm intrigued. A little terrified, yeah, but intrigued all the same. And I tell Timor as much, but of course he isn't fazed. He gives me another look, eyes narrowed, then rolls his eyes towards the ceiling. And he stands.

I move back as he passes me, heading out the door; his shoulder brushes mine, and I swear his face contorts, a twinge of barely-concealed pain rippling over his features. For a man this guarded to show pain... it must be intense.

"So you're eating with us?"

I jog to catch up with him (unnecessarily, honestly, because he's moving at a snail's pace, and I can guess this is as fast as he can go without visibly admitting to the amount of agony he must be in). He gives me a sidelong glance, which I translate to mean my question's one with an obvious answer, and therefore not worth asking. I chuckle; he sighs, but doesn't turn back, doesn't leave my side, doesn't balk from his decision.

He acts as though he's in no need of assistance, whether it be asking for directions or otherwise, despite having only been on our ship for a few days and having never left his cabin in all that time; I don't say anything to discredit him, but I do subtly point him towards the mess hall and steer him towards the back, where our cook resides.

Everyone is staring, some of them with jaws agape and half-chewed food falling from his lips. Timor doesn't seem to care much, if at all, and only silently (he does everything silently; even in this decrepit state, he manages to keep his footsteps light and soundless) takes a tray that's passed to him before walking to an empty table and settling in. I follow him, grinning widely at the all the gawkers, who take the not-so-subtle hint and return to their rowdy meals.

"...Soooo..."

Timor's expression tells me I should get on it without before he does something unpleasant. My lips twitch into a smile, and I lean across the table so that I'm heard over the din of my crew mates.

"What happened to you, anyway? You were in pretty rough shape when we picked you up, all cut up and everything. You lose a duel or something?"

Most likely, I shouldn't be broaching this topic. I barely know Timor, he barely knows me; this might be something he isn't comfortable sharing (like everything else with him). But I'm curious. I'd bet a lot that Timor's more than capable in a fight; he's got the right build to be both powerful and agile, he was carrying a wicked-sharp knife with him before we stripped him of his bloody belongings, and... there's something in his eyes.

He's seen hell, and he's survived, and that's enough to convince me this was no ordinary scuffle he got himself caught up in.

Still, to be asking that now, of all times, and to expect an answer is--

"Later."

"Later?"

Ah, he's looking at me like I'm an idiot...

"Later," he repeats curtly, twirling the flimsy knife he'd been using to dice up his food around long, pale fingers. Resting his cheek against his bandaged knuckles, elbow propped up on the table's edge, he looks over the crowd of drunken pirates that're causing an ungodly ruckus around us, and I understand. He'll explain the situation to me, just not now, with everyone around.

Funny. He doesn't strike me as the shy type.

"Right," I grin, plopping back into my own seat, rubbing my hands together eagerly, "but first, food! Admit it, we've got an A-class cook, right? Better than anything those snotty marines have!"

Something not unlike amusement flits through Timor's gaze as he watches me attack my meal, but I'm too preoccupied with filling my howling stomach to comment on it. It's gone in the next instant, in any case, giving way to the cold abyss I'm becoming used to.

"If you say so, Commander."

"You can call me Ace, ya know," I mumble around my food (though Timor doesn't seem to have trouble deciphering my gargled words). "I'm not big on formalities."

"...Noted. Commander."

"Angelus~"

Silence.

Right. Like that would bother him.

"You... Timor, you're gonna open up to me, alright? I don't care if it's just me, or if you become a softy and spill your guts to the whole damn fleet, but while I'm still alive, I'm gonna work on getting you to become social. Got it?"

I expect him to stoically continue eating his meal, or to roll his eyes, or just stare at me, once again communicating just how much of an imbecile he consider me to be. But he surprises me by slowly nodding, his eyes boring straight into mine.

Like he's accepting the challenge.

Heh. What an interesting guy we've picked up...