The toy clown's arms swung jauntily as it walked down the street, but inside it was seething. Cavendish, the most beautiful pirate in the world, had been reduced to looking like a child's plaything, and an ugly one at that. He glared at his knobby elbow joints and garish painted polka dots. He had been reduced to an ugly, awkward, stumbling excuse for a thing that no one noticed. Well, he thought belatedly, at least that much hadn't changed. No one had noticed him for years anyway, until he had told the crowd off for jeering at the woman gladiator.
He kept walking aimlessly, lost in the streets of Dressrosa. He wasn't sure why he had control over his movements now, but he still couldn't speak. The weird sticky guy had said that no one would remember him, so he wasn't sure if talking would help even if he could. Someone had to remember him though. He couldn't spend the rest of his life ignored and ugly! He turned a corner, and looked out at the city. Across the street, the coliseum loomed. If no one did remember, he'd never be able to kill Straw Hat, or get the Mera Mera no Mi and get him fame back.
He wobbled through the people, toward the building. Maybe he could get back in and steal the fruit while everyone was preoccupied. The one useful thing about his new form was that he was able to bypass the Marines without incident. Even the city guards didn't pay any attention to him as he wandered by, just another toy in a city with hundreds. Getting to the wall was easy, getting in was the hard part. His wooden hands weren't particularly useful, but he eventually managed to climb up in through a window, scraping off a large amount of his paint on the masonry. Great, now he was even uglier.
Thoroughly annoyed, he sat on the ledge for a moment. He didn't know where to go, and all the hallways in the coliseum looked alike. He might as well try any hall then, so he hopped down without paying attention, and tripped on the uneven stones. Rickety wood and pin joints didn't provide great reflexes, and he fell flat. Face down on the floor, Cavendish was ready to pitch a royal fit, when he was suddenly lifted up by gentle hands.
It was the gladiator woman. Rebecca.
She looked concerned, and placed him on his feet with great care. "Are you ok?" She asked, and her long fingers rested against his limbs, checking for damage. He was surprised by her worry; no one else had cared about toys that fell. Unless, her worry wasn't because he was a toy, but because she remembered who he was!
He waved his arms in delight, pointed to her, and then to himself, before drawing a question mark in the air. The sticky man was wrong, someone remembered! Still, he needed to hear his name and know for sure that this really was just a nightmare. He repeated the gesture again when she just looked puzzled, and then a third time with some fervour. She had to know! She had to!
"Whoa, whoa. Calm down," she reached out and caught his hands, stilling them. "What's the matter little fellow? Toys aren't supposed to be in here…"
If he still had control over it. Cavendish's jaw would have hit the floor. She had no clue it was him. For a moment he drooped, defeated. But she still was the first person to talk to him, perhaps all hope wasn't lost. Rejuvenated, he pulled away from her and looked frantically around the hall. He needed something better than charades to convey his message. A loose piece of mortar caught his eye, and he pulled it from the wall. Perfect!
Gripping the mortar between his hands, he went to the wall and scraped at it. The material left behind a faint broken line, but not too faint. He scraped harder and carefully drew a sloppy, but recognizable, rose. Rebecca, who had knelt behind him, looked at the drawing, and then to him.
"A… flower? Oh!" she gasped, "Do you have a message from Soldier?!"
Damn it. Cavendish shook his head rapidly. Next to the rose he drew a stick legged horse, and on the horse he drew a handsome stick figure man with a feather plumed hat. He paused, and looked back at her again. But the puzzled look was back, and this time she shook her head, not understanding his message.
Angry and frantic, he scraped at the wall again, trying to spell out his name. The C was barely visible, and then the mortar broke after the A, crumbling into pieces too small to pick up. He knew then that it was hopeless, and he beat his hands against the wall, the stones scarping little bits away with each blow, but he didn't care. He couldn't be any more humiliated than he already was.
Taking hold of his arms one more, Rebecca pulled him away from the wall. Cavendish tried to yank free from her hold, fuming as she made gentle shushing sounds. But his arms were pinned to his sides, and even in his temper he didn't have it in him to kick her. He struggled for a moment longer before he gave up, realizing he must look ridiculous. In this form he was most definitely weaker than she was.
Rebecca loosened her hold on him after he remained still for a while, and when he stood she drew him close and gathered him up in an embrace. Held snugly between her breasts, Cavendish could feel her heartbeat as she whispered reassurances to him. Why she cared about a strange toy he didn't know, but he knew that he had made the right choice, defending her from the crowd that morning. To have such a soft heart and be hated like she was must have been agony. It was calming, being held so lovingly, and he wondered what it felt like to return such a gesture.
Footsteps, loud and hard echoed off the walls. Rebecca quickly sprang to her feet, still holding him tight. With one hand she used her cloak to buff away his drawings, before she lunged to the window he had climbed in through. She hesitated there, and she held him extra tight for just a second, before she dropped him to the ground outside.
It wasn't too bad of a landing, and he sat up just in time to see her turn and follow the personnel, who were no doubt taking her to the final match. There was no trace of the sympathy she had showed in her straight back and confident walk, no sign that her sword-calloused hands were capable of holding something so delicately.
He rested his chin in his hand as he smiled to himself, and hoped she would win. Because after he got back to normal and he helped her thrash those Dressrosa bastards within an inch of their lives, he owed her a hug.