Note: Make sure you read "Objective: The Final Push" before reading this, or else you will be horribly confused. 

Scar's upon the back are a swordsman's shame.

Raya once told him that when she'd managed to let his practice sword nick the skin between her shoulder blades in one of their mock duels. It was joke back then, something she said because it reminded her a certain grumpy swordsman. Even now, it meant little to him - he was no swordsman, he wasn't bound by any code but the one of his own design.

But he remembered it, staring over his shoulder into the mirror at his back.

He didn't dare touch it - the memory of that pain was ingrained into his fingertips. It had only been a few days, and he couldn't sleep on his back at all without breaking out into a cold sweat (seeing as he was so used to concealing pain, even to himself, that he couldn't be bothered to shift positions until someone practically forced him). Then again, it didn't matter all that much - he'd barely slept since waking up several days ago aboard the Straw Hats' ship.

He'd been stupid, letting himself get caught by slavers. They weren't known for their subtlety, or their wit - they couldn't have outsmarted him. Which meant they'd overpowered him. That was, thankfully, somewhat less humiliating. Truth be told, it wasn't even the fact that he'd been captured that bothered him - it was that he cared.

He wasn't the same man as he was just a mere week ago, and that was... unsettling, for lack of a better word.

The mirror reflected his brand in ugly detail. The redness had faded somewhat, removing the demonic halo from around the mark of the Celestial Dragons. He briefly wondered what it would take to rid himself of the brand but dropped the matter after a moment's thought. What was the use? He was a changed man, for better or worse, and regaining his unscarred form wouldn't flush out the budding emotions taking hold of him.

Timor released a sharp sigh, running a hand down his face. He wasn't a religious man, he trusted only a select few people, none of which were here currently. Who the hell was he supposed to turn to when the world that have been built around him four years ago, the world that repelled all heartbreak and agony, the world that made him who he was - suddenly came crashing down around him?

Grabbing a sheet from his unused bed, he threw it over the mirror, tired of seeing his latest scar displayed so openly. It did little good, though, as the sight was already burned into his memory. Not just his brand, but Aoi's, too.

He raked a hand through his tangled hair, wincing whenever his fingers snagged on a stubborn knot. Aoi. That name hurt. Not in the same way that Echo pained him, but Aoi's name caused a prick of discomfort in his heart every time he heard it, every time he thought it. He closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath, releasing it a heartbeat later. This wasn't good, whatever it was.

Timor started for the door, but paused, weighing his options. Leaving his room was equal to admitting he wanted to partake in the festivities the rowdy crew had set up in his honor. But staying meant being alone with his intrusive thoughts and these damnable burgeoning emotions.

Stay or go, he was in his own personal hell.

Raya, Maddox, Adriel and to some extent Indigo knew the events that led to him collapsing, on the verge of death, and from the suggestive looks he'd been getting from Raya in particular, there was something else. Something Aoi-related, if he had to guess.

He sighed again, glancing to where he'd thrown his shirt. The fabric irritated his brand so he'd taken to going shirtless when he was alone. Leaving his cabin meant subjecting himself to that torture for however many hours it took for the crew to drink themselves unconscious.

That clinched it.

Timor, resisting the urge to feel for the brand for what had to be the tenth time that night, was just about to give sleep another chance when the door cracked open, allowing the din of the party to flood Timor's room.

"Angelus?"

Adriel, he concluded, choosing not to turn around as he crossed to his bed. The man - Raya's childhood friend - was the only one to call him by his surname; everyone else, including Katana, had dropped all formalities with him.

"You good?"

Timor gave him a blank look, and Adriel's mouth twitched into a sheepish smile.

"Thought I'd ask," he drawled, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind him. Darkness swallowed the flash of light his entrance had brought, and Adriel blinked, wondering if Timor had developed night vision of some sort with his terrifying Devil Fruit powers. He scratched his cheek, moving his hand up to thread his fingers through his hair. "...I was... asked to fetch you..."

Another blank stare. Adriel grinned despite himself. He really was the worst choice for this. Timor trusted him the least out of everyone, as his connection to Raya seemed to be the weakest. They hadn't seen one another for ten years, and Timor knew very well what could change in that amount of time. Thus, Adriel was an outsider to Timor, more so than anyone else. Why they decided he'd be able to coax Timor out from his stupor, he didn't know, but he was considering chasing after Raya in Zoan-form to give her a taste of the anxiety crawling over every inch of his skin.

"...You can go."

Adriel blinked.

"I really can't."

Timor raised a brow.

"I can't," Adriel repeated, resting his weight against the door. "Nami sent me in here."

That actually explained everything, and Timor let it be at that.

He sank onto his mattress, biting the inside of his cheek to keep a hiss from leaking past his lips. This was ridiculous - he'd endured far worse agony than this without so much as a facial muscle twitching. What happened to him?

Adriel eyed him with concern, debating whether or not he should run for Chopper. The little doctor had warned him prior to this to watch for any signs that Timor needed help, because the man wouldn't ask for it himself. He doubted the stitches sewn into the back of his head had come loose; was it the mark bothering him? Adriel, growing up as he had, was no stranger to the slave market, and he'd seen hundreds of men, women, and children marred by that brand. His heart panged, imagining the pain Timor must be in.

But it was more than that.

For the few months that Timor and Adriel had occupied the same vessel, whenever their gazes had locked, Adriel had never once seen light behind Timor's eyes. No emotion, no thoughts - just a dull, unyielding stare.

Now a storm was raging, and Adriel feared Timor would drown in it.

"Is it that bad?" Adriel questioned, and Timor looked up, face passive despite the violent swirl overtaking the pale blue of his eyes. He didn't have to say anything for Adriel to know what he was asking:

"Is what that bad?"

"Being like... us."

Timor's eyes widened a fraction, quite against his will. But he wasn't surprised - he couldn't be. Raya had likely guessed at the state he was in and informed the crew of what was going on.

"...No," Timor sighed eventually, "it's not."

"Then..." Adriel trailed off, unsure how to continue.

The former assassin let the unasked question hang in the air for a moment, scrubbing at his face with both hands as if he needed something to wake him up. And yet that was his problem. That he was awake, that all of this hadn't been a nightmare. His problem was that he couldn't have nightmares, not anymore, when he'd already lived through hell and come out the other side, broken but whole.

A conversation he'd been repressing for some time crept out from the depths of his psyche, replaying, over and over again, drowning out the rest of his thoughts.

" It's useless. This is his greatest fear, Aoi - accepting that everything he's done up until this point in his life was completely and utterly wasted. Right now, he really doesn't care about shit, outside of those pirates who saved his hide, but the moment those emotions start to creep back in, the moment he gets a piece of his soul returned - he'll realize what an empty life he's lived, that he's just a hollow shell, useless without someone to give him orders. And when that happens...he'll crumble."

And God, was he right to have that as his greatest fear.

If it weren't for Aoi, he might've wished he had died aboard that slaver ship.

His brow furrowed.

If it weren't for Aoi...

He'd been half-delirious with blood-loss towards the end of their little adventure, and he didn't recall everything that had taken place between Aoi and himself. But he remembered the anger, the desperation - he remembered he thought he was going to lose the last piece of his humanity.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, that piece he'd unknowingly entrusted to Aoi had found its way home.

"Angelus... Angelus, you need to meet with that kid. What's his name? Aoi?"

Timor closed his eyes, giving no indication he'd heard a word Adriel said. Undeterred, the snow-haired man lowered his hand to grasp the doorknob, turning it as he spoke.

"That's what Raya says, anyway. I trust her, and you do, too, at least a little. We can always arrange something, you know, get you and maybe Raya on a boat so you can head to an island, meet with Aoi... It's something, Angelus, and it's all you've got at the moment."

Lackadaisical as he normally was, Adriel knew when to be the voice of reason.

"You know... That mark? Not worth taking it off, honestly. I've seen it done - they have to... like... scrap off a few layers of skin, depending on how deeply the brand's seared into you. Besides..."

Adriel smiled as he pulled open the door.

"You can think of it like an unbreakable bond between you and Aoi."

His task seemingly finished, Adriel disappeared out the door, presumably to go chase after a feisty (and unsuspecting) redhead. Timor watched him go, and as he did, he registered the sharp pain emanating from his index finger - which he'd apparently sunk his teeth into some time ago.

When had he done that?

Timor lowered himself onto the bed, turning his head against the pillow so he didn't suffocate in his hypothetical sleep. Blood dripped slowly from his hand, dangling over the edge of the bed, pooling on the floorboards below. He couldn't be bothered to clean the wound. He couldn't be bothered about a lot of things, really.

"That brat," he muttered, closing his eyes. "Kids don't have any concept of responsibility..."