A/N: finally getting to posting all my work here! warnings for this fic: depression, suicidal thoughts and attempt, mentions of biphobia, past childhood abuse - but nothing is graphically or deeply described.
just a little character exploration that i felt was needed for monet, who has been one of my fave OP ladies so far
the way the world washes over you.
It's some privilege to claim that only the strong survive,
If you can choose the time and place and what you'll sacrifice
—Man of the Moment, Paul Dempsey
She was too young once, this little adventurous thing draped in red, climbing the giant oaks that lined the farms outside of Neige.
Fearless her mother would laugh, watching from below as she leapt from branch to branch, dappled sunlight dripping from the tips of her fingers.
Some days, she could never get high enough, reaching the top branches and stretching even higher for the clouds above; imaging her arms like feathered wings, ghosting the air. Other days—those horrid days, the days where the sky seemed to bleed, and her mother cried and cried—she would just stand in the dirt, too afraid to jump, too afraid to move, staring up at the branches, toes curling in the cool soil.
"Can you fall into the sky?" she asked her mother one night, over a cup of cocoa, fire crackling merrily in its hearth.
"You're so dumb," Sugar laughed, rolling her eyes. "How can you be so old but so dumb."
But her Mother just smiled, reaching across the table to brush a stray lock of hair away from her eyes, fingertips cold as they feathered her temple. She was so beautiful, the fire dancing in her blue, blue eyes, her skin so, so soft and warm.
And she breathed, "Maybe, my love. Maybe."
She knocks on his door because of course she does, drawn to him because of course she is.
He makes no pretence, inviting her in with a languid wave, the quiet of his quarters almost too loud. He is different in here, somehow: all loose and flowy, coat forgone, and hat discarded on the post of his unmade bed. Painted swirls trace the muscles of his arms, and his hair is knotted with sea salt, the smell of it almost overwhelming, intoxicating, as she closes the door.
Wicked thing, she thinks, but says, "You've settled in nicely."
He hums. "Drink?"
"Thank you."
His shoes go click as he crosses the expanse of the empty room, and she decides she quite likes that sound, that heel, those boots.
He pauses at his desk, hand hovering over the small selection of wine bottles. "Red or white?" he asks.
"Oh, red." She floats over to him. The desk is neatly organised, nothing betraying any intention, and—clever boy—a newspaper draped purposefully over the large book he had obviously been reading before her knock on the door. "I'm always partial to a Northern red."
He stiffens, but smiles, a thing so lovely she almost forgets herself, their shoulders brushing as he leans in close. Salt, and she thinks of freedom—thinks of castles made of sand, crumbling into the sea.
"Likewise," he drawls, pouring their drinks with practiced ease. "There are whole countries in the North covered in grapevines, wineries run by the same family for hundreds of years. This one is from Miche, the City of Lilies."
"That sounds peaceful." She takes the stem of her glass, swirling the liquid slowly, savouring the play of colour in the dim light from above. A deep, bloody red, but there's a fragile pinkness to it too, if she tilts it just so. She asks, "Expecting company?"
And Trafalgar Law smirks then, leaning forward—too close—as he places the wine bottle back on his desk. His shirt falls open, revealing the swooping tattoos that dance across his chest, and his eyes shine, golden pools of light, like afternoon sun.
"Just yours," he breathes.
And, oh, you wicked, wicked thing.
There was a girl who lived in the centre of town named Molly, and her hair was not blonde but yellow, like the sun, skin drenched in freckles. She would shop with her mother, hand-in-hand, and they would buy roses for the dining room, lilies for the lounge, and she would say to her "I hate lilies," and throw them in the bin when no one was home.
She loved Molly. Molly was wild and untamed, and her hair was always a knotted mess, and she had the prettiest dresses and dolls. And on Sundays they would dress and dance and play until the sun set, until the roses wilted, until Molly's mother would shoo her home.
Then one day, she kissed Molly.
And Molly did not kiss back.
On rainy days, she likes to watch the water streak down the window panes. She cannot watch in her own room—buried too deep underground—but in a laboratory as large as this, there are many quiet nooks she can fold herself away, listening to the sky outside try and batter its way in.
She remembers how calm her heart would talk in these silent hours, this steady thud, thud that could almost lull her to sleep. Her fingers ghost over its empty home, and she wonders if he sees it settle; if he ever looks at it at all.
The grating sound of a transponder snail ringing drags her back, and she slowly stretches, looking around for any sign of life. There's nothing, no one, and she pulls her knees to her chest, curling in on her self as she takes out the phone.
"Hello?"
"Monet."
She can see him, clearly, a vision of man—leaning on the windowsill with Dressrosa sprawling out to the horizon, drenched in morning sunlight.
Calm.
Waiting.
She smiles. "Young Master."
"Do you have anything new to report?"
"No. He—"
She stops, unsure how to continue. Rain tap, tap, taps the window, and she watches the world outside blur, rolling words and sentences around in her mind, images of nothing swirling through the empty hallways.
Joker says, "Monet," and she knows what that voice means, knows what he'll say next, and sure enough: "Do not underestimate him."
"Yes." She takes a breath. "I'm being careful."
"Of course," comes the clipped reply—and the den-den mirrors his smile, the one she remembers from all those summers ago. "I can always trust you to be careful."
And she fears she misinterprets him, like always, the burden of pupil and master. She hangs up not long after, nothing more to offer to the world, and she wonders if she should pay a visit to his quarters—just to know. Just to see how careful she really is when their fingers brush as they reach for the same wineglass, his eyes dancing beneath her touch.
At age fourteen, her mother died, leaving behind nothing but debt and promises she could not keep while alive. So, she sells every last part of her memory, left with nothing but expired cocoa and useless family photos, the kind she keeps forever so she won't forget.
One Saturday, a man with silver hair and blue eyes, smile like gold, took them to a house just outside of town. It had shutters covered in dust and dirt, and he said, "Here, you work for us now," and work she did, until her hands blistered and bled, then bled some more.
They never let her outside, but one starless night, six months on, the top story window was left open. She fell from the sill, knees buckling on landing. Grass tickled her bare shins, and she ran, and ran, and ran, until the oaks towered above, and the ground could keep her no longer.
Like an old friend, she climbed to the top. Reaching higher and higher—and higher still, rivalling the giants of Elbaf she read about in those dusty history books that lined the basement walls.
And she wondered if her mother could see her, grazing the clouds with the tips of her fingers, falling into the sky like a gull swooping off the waves. And she wondered if Sugar would miss her, if she fell into the atmosphere—weightless, careless,
free.
He plays chess with her by the shore one fine eve, set up on a stone table and chairs he'd fashioned together with that uncanny power. She likes it here, the sun mirrored in the bay, the fire and snow advancing and retreating like cat and mouse on bare skin.
He says, "I've never been very good at this."
She wants to say me too, but she feels that's obvious with the way he takes out her knight and bishop in one clean sweep—so instead, she smiles. Asks, "Where do you go when you leave?"
He hums. It's such a pleasant sound in the cold winter air, reverberating in his chest and leaving her wonderfully warm. "There are a lot of interesting places to explore on this island."
"Like where?" Across the table, his eyes find hers, shadowed by that fur hat. They hold a question all on their own, and she answers, unexpectedly honest, "Master Caesar doesn't like it when I stray too far."
"Do you always listen to others, Yuki-ya?"
A smile. "Only the right ones."
He returns to the board, mapping the game with his eyes. This delightful frown darkens his features, deep in thought. Law is so handsome, all straight lines and quiet brooding, youthful and cocky, and she knows she is staring, but she does not look away, does not try to.
"There's a glacier just beyond the abandoned lab south," he eventually drawls, breaking the peaceful silence between them. He takes his rook, moves it three squares, then looks to her as he rubs his hands together. "I like to hear it move."
"Why?"
"It's interesting."
How boring, she thinks at first, as he corners her king and takes her last remaining forces. But when he stands to leave, shrugging the nodachi on his shoulder, he offers her a small smile, and says, "You should go there some time, Yuki-ya."
Oh.
"Maybe I will."
"Monet."
They said her name like a reprimand. Cutting through the air, and she remembered hands dragging her through the house, to the room at the end of the hall, and she was old enough then, they'd said; old enough to pay her dues like her mother never did.
The memory of her mother faded and was replaced by hate. The image of herself flickered until only shame remained. Their dirty fingers dragged down her back and through her hair, and she would not sleep until the sun rose, dreaming of falling into the sky, the earth disappearing to nothing.
How wonderful it would be.
Silence is their third company.
It is so easy to love this—the cold outside far away as the raging fire fogs the windows of the basement library. They search for forgotten tombs with nothing but their breaths breaking the stillness between them, and she thinks easy, easy, easy as he settles down by her side, smelling like wine and salt and pine, shoulder just brushing her hair.
He hums as she leans towards him, peaking at the open book on his lap. Anatomical drawings of animals spread across the pages with medical lingo lining the margins—words she vaguely knows but does not care to truly understand.
He says, by way of answer, "You asked me to look after Brownbeard and his crew."
"By turning them into animals?" she asks wryly, leaning back and away from him.
He flicks the page without pause. "Unless you can find any humans around to replace their missing limbs, then yes. Something of the sort." His tone is snappish, clipped, like he is almost annoyed at her unspoken implication that the idea is stupid.
She smiles to herself, and lets the silence realign the room, steady crackling of fire falling into rhythm with their breathing. There is her own book on her lap, tales about the South Blue that she had found behind an old, rusty lantern—but she does not read it, instead flicking through the pages absently, studying the inked drawings.
She pauses on a two-page spread, running her fingers over the illustration of an albatross. Says, so softly, "I think, I would like to be a bird."
"Why?"
He's very brash, Law, quite bold and upfront, and she smiles a little to herself.
"They're free, don't you think?"
And he does not answer, the quiet their third company, melting into the lonely night.
"I heard ya mother died."
At age sixteen Molly has a lilt to her tongue—a foreign drawl she'd picked up from working at the docks with the sailors and merchants that came from the East. She was still incredibly beautiful, but she no longer wore dresses and she'd shaved her head, skin coated in a fine layer of coal dust. And her attitude: filthy, all sour and bitter like an off lemon.
The city had done Molly wrong, somewhere along the line. Like all of them, really.
"It was a couple of years ago, now, Moll."
That afternoon, she was sitting with her back very straight and Molly was glaring with vile, blue eyes, a burning hatred that she still dreams of at night.
She said, "You've changed, Mon."
The tea they drank was cold. She stood up, chair scraping loudly across the floor, sound broken by the laughter of nobles meandering outside. "Everyone's changed."
Molly was up too, then, face inches from her own, breath sticky on her cheeks. Her eyes were so blue. "Why did you run that night?"
"You called me a freak." Her voice was too soft. She licked her lips, tried again, "You said girls don't kiss girls."
"I was wrong."
Molly closed her eyes, leant forward, but she—
She left, then, out the door and running through the muddy street, puddles splashing up her legs and staining her white dress a dirty brown.
She forgot the problem and she never saw Molly again, because that is what people do when they're scared.
They run.
It is a cold evening when she leaves the laboratory, slipping out the window with her fruit power. The breeze catches her, and she floats down the bay for a few blissful, thoughtless minutes, before materialising by his side, just past the Northern Stones.
"Yuki-ya," he greets. He's not surprised, of course, Haki leaking from him, the smell of it thick in the air. He looks quite smug, gracing her with a brief, wry smirk. "Tell Caesar it's done."
"Oh?" she asks, raising a brow. "How mysterious, Law. What—"
She's cut off by the call of her name—an excited shout that slices through the snow. Making their way up the bay, in a large ambling group, is Brownbeard's men—if that could truly be a term for them any longer. They approach sporting all manner of animal parts, and she is reminded of the old tales of the New World—about centaurs and selkies and minotaurs.
"Oh?" she says again, this time with a grin.
"Monet!"
Brownbeard comes up to her himself, and he is on the verge of tears now, crying he's so happy, and she feels something in her chest then, something sharp and painful as she takes in the joy around her.
"Master Law saved us!"
Cheers rise, and someone yells out Caesar's name, too. Through the fray, she turns to him, holds his gaze for an impossibly long time, breath catching in her throat. She says:
"So, you save people, huh?"
A smirk. "Only the right ones."
She grins back, this feral thing that breaks her face, and she laughs then—can't help it, really.
You wicked man.
She had thought, when she was fifteen, that if she cleaned herself enough—that is to say, if she snuck into the showers during dawn, and stole their lavender soaps—she would forget. It would always be five degrees too warm, and she hoped at some point she would just burn off her skin; grow a new layer and shed the dirt, the filth of the night.
Of course, it never worked.
She did not give up, though. It became routine—work all night and let them do their thing, and once she'd handed over her earnings she would 'go to bed' only to lay awake until the first tendrils of dawn tickled her ugly lace curtains. Sugar would always be asleep on the comfier bed in the corner, and she would have to quietly open the squeaky drawers they owned to get new underclothes and a nightie, trying not to wake her.
She always let the water run for too long before stepping in—made it sure it was hot, really hot. She'd melt under the stream, then, and she would just—
cry.
It was easier when you could not see the tears from the water—swirling down the black, mouldy drain, body shaking from the heat and not the pain.
Never the pain.
The glacier is truly beautiful.
She stands on the precipice of a mountain, the expanse of white stretching endlessly before her. There's not a lot up there, and all thoughts just leave as a freezing gust of wind takes the mountain top, ice whipping painfully on her bare arms.
She breathes.
She breathes so deep.
The crunch of snow beneath her bare feet, the cold wind whipping her hair, the glare of sun on the stark white ground—these are all things that she knows, but what she knows—
What she knows is the pull, somewhere deep inside of her, under her skin, behind her breastbone, in her lungs, tugging her heart. It is each step, until her toes curl the edges of the mountainside, abyss sucking in the world below, but above—above is the vibrant, cloudless blue; an endless, unyielding canvas.
She takes a breath. Let's it go.
She takes a breath
falls.
Into the sky.
The wind picks up violently, and the world spins, and she is falling, falling, falling, the blue before her so impossible, so incredible, so—
And then, he is there.
It is unbelievably sudden.
His hand wraps around her arm, grip like a wolf's jaw, and he is dragging her back up, back to him, back to the world. He wrenches her close, like she weighs nothing at all, his breaths hot and cheeks red, eyes flashing with an emotion she can't quite understand beneath the brim of his hat. They are flush against one another, so very close, wind whipping her hair into his face.
"What are you doing?" he hisses. "Why—"
His hold is hurting her arm, pinching her, and she lets out a small sob, knees buckling beneath the sudden weight that falls upon her shoulders. He loosens his grip, but still holds her up, other arm snaking around her waist for extra support.
"Yuki-ya," he snaps, and she replies, "I know, I know—" and then she cannot possibly say anymore, sobs tearing through her throat, a painful raw sound that shakes her whole body. She is sinking into the snow, stars floating before her eyes, and he's sinking down with her, sword dropped and forgotten by their side.
His grip is still very tight.
"I guess you do save people," she laughs, tears streaming down her cheeks and drying all sticky in the rushing wind.
"Monet."
And oh, she hates that name, she does, but from those soft, soft lips and in that moment with the snow so cold on her feverish skin and his hands so warm as they slide up her bare arms, she thinks this isn't so bad, this I can live with.
He kisses her. Long and slow. He runs his fingers through her hair, messaging her scalp, and says her name again and again and again, smell of pine and salt rich and whole.
The silence is loud,
the snow incredibly bitter, and the sky
—extraordinarily blue.
She woke up one Sunday evening, and Sugar was not there.
She would like to say that she asked before the panic set in—calmly walking the house in search, trusting that Sugar would be safe.
The truth of the matter is, however, that she woke in a cold sweat, heart clenching in fear. She was not even awake for a minute before she was vomiting nothing but bile in the porcelain sink of their bathroom, the acidic smell burning her nose.
She knew. Oh, she knew. Because Sugar was ten yesterday, and ten was old enough in this city, and all she could think was how she had let her sister down, how careful she was not, and how—how—did she not just leave this hellhole all those years ago.
She found herself on the docks at 8pm, the sea calmly lapping the wood below. A pirate ship was docked. It was a beautiful thing, shaped like a bird and shadowed by the flickering streetlights of the city. Glass reflected and danced, and she stared, transfixed as the pirates moved around like they already owned the place, unbothered by everything and anyone. They carried boxes and boxes of stuff, and their weapons were big—and there were children, too, helping the adults and talking merrily, one bickering with a boy and another laughing at the pair.
"Girl."
She gasped, stumbling backwards into the buildings shadow—but a firm hand gripped her shoulder, held her steady. She was wrenched back into the streetlights.
A man, so tall, so well dressed, so threatening, knelt in front of her, and he'd asked, voice incredibly calm, "What are you doing?"
"I—I… Please," she rasped, inaudible, even to her own ears. "Please save my sister. Please. Please. Please."
And Joker just frowned—said (like it was that simple, like it was that easy):
"Of course."
And he did.
They make it back to the lab as the blizzard outside peaks, rattling and shaking the windows of his room, the expanse of it absurdly cold and very dark. He pushes her into bed. As always, he makes no pretense, dragging his teeth over the sensitive skin on her neck immediately, nipping and sucking. Despite their naked bodies, rough hands roaming over her breasts, he is still incredibly guarded, and it only takes a moment where she ventures—fingers tangling into his salty hair—before he grabs her wrists, pinning them violently against the headboard.
"Don't," he growls.
His eyes burn gold in the low light, and she swallows, mouth dry. "Okay."
She draws in a sharp breath when he kisses her, more passionate than the first time—then, more desperate, mouth opening and his tongue dragging across her teeth. Wriggling slightly in his grasp, she arches her back and jerks her hips, wrapping her legs around him, pulling him flush against her. The position is extremely awkward, but she can feel how hard he is through his jeans already, the friction perfect, pleasure warming her belly.
He moans, the vibrations of his baritone rippling through her own chest, almost choking her. "Fuck."
"Yeah," she breathes.
His mouth is moving back along her neck now, nagging at her earlobe, breath uneven and wonderfully warm. One hand releases the iron clad grip to rub across her breast, only to change it to a tongue, then teeth.
Her legs untangle, and she melts into the fur blanket below, him falling with her. There is a strange, vulnerable moment, where all he does is rest his forehead against her own, vivacity from before suddenly gone from him.
She listens to each breath.
Counts the ticking seconds.
The windows tap, bang, whoosh, and she finally whispers, "Punk Hazard has been a lonely place."
His eyes flutter closed for the briefest moment, the only indication that he has heard her at all.
"You're lonely too, Law."
We're allowed to be.
She lifts her head up slightly, then; takes his lips, minty breath so sweet. She can feel the sting of tears, but continues the kiss—this slow, passionate thing that she never, ever wants to end. His other hand loosens her wrists, and then she's free, tangling into him, all legs and arms—and there's not enough skin to touch, not enough of him for her, the swooping of his tattoos and the gold in his eyes, and he is just so perfect—just so—
"Monet."
Yes.
Life on the ship was different.
The ocean was incredibly endless, so vast and wide, and she took her time to know the sea—to learn the tides, the weather, the way the sky reflected in its surface at night. Sleep was still an evasive friend, but it was better like this, only the ship creaking and soft slap of waves on the hull to keep her company.
One night, draped over the rail on the quarterdeck, Joker settled by her side. She knew, like herself, that he did not sleep—and it was a comfort, really, as he talked with her until dawn touched the horizon, knowing that she wasn't alone in the dark.
What a delightful change.
He'd said, "You will achieve great things with us, Monet."
And she: "I have nothing to give you."
It was odd, like she wanted to cry but couldn't, tightness balling in her chest at her own honest words. Why was she like this? Why could she not be happy? What was wrong with her?
"Monet."
He opened his hand, in his palm a small, blue plum. Moonlight caught the harsh curve of the fruit, and she looked up at him—really looked at him, then—hoping he could see how dirty she was, how ruined, how she could never be what he expected.
"Take it."
She licked her lips, the taste of salt burning her tongue. "I don't—I don't deserve this."
"You do not get to decide that. Monet."
Ah.
There was a promise, firm as a sailor's hitch between them, and she let a breath go with the next roll of waves, feeling incredibly small. She took the fruit out of his hands, and hesitated, thoughts unable to articulate themselves even in her own mind.
But then Joker said her name, and the echo shattered, soft as a whisper.
She smiled.
The blizzard stays for some time, but Law disappears. She wakes to coffee and an empty bed, and simply lays, staring at the ceiling for an age. Her head pounds. Her eyes are dry and itchy, body heavy, and it takes some coaxing and nagging of her own thoughts before she can find the motivation to move.
She drinks the coffee—white, how she likes it, how funny he would remember such a thing—and dresses slowly, before moving about the lab and doing her rounds. First, Caesar. Then, the children in the Biscuit Room; only to finally retreat to her own quarters, four hours later.
It takes two rings of the den den before she gets an answer.
"Monet."
Whatever tension she had immediately disappears, and she lets out a heavy sigh, rubbing a hand down her face.
She may smile.
"Do you have news?"
"Yes. He has found the SMILE factory."
"Oh?" A savage grin graces the snail. "I trust he does not know you were following him."
"No. He is…" She falters a little, rubbing a thumb over her wrist, trying to find the right words. "—trusting of me."
She says the word tentatively, like a question, unsure even herself, and Joker merely hums.
"Careful, Monet."
"Of course."
"Keep him occupied. I will send Vergo there as soon as he returns." Another grin. "Law owes me a favour, and I intend to collect."
Vulnerability became a foreign thing. It was difficult to not get addicted to it—the rush of adrenaline and power Joker promised them. He taught them how to survive, how to win, how to make the world theirs. Her and Sugar would spend Sunday evenings learning how to control their powers with Baby 5. Gladius taught her how to fight—Jora, how to paint. Diamante showed her Haki, and Senor Pink stitched up her wounds.
And Joker would listen. He bought her whatever she wanted, encouraged whatever flight of fancy she had. At some point, Joker became Young Master, and she knew—deep in her heart, with her whole being and soul—the he would become the Pirate King. It was inevitable. Irrevocable.
One day, she promised him, "I will do anything you need, Young Master."
And she meant it, too. He'd kissed her on the top of her head, and she felt, then, something other than this melancholy that pulled her through the day, that dragged her through the night.
She felt—she felt—
Purpose.
The sky was wonderfully blue.
He taps his fingers on the sheath of his sword. Says, blunt as always, "Arms won't work. It will throw off your balance while flying."
"Oh?" She holds her hands out before her and wriggles her fingers with a grin. His serious expression does not change. "Alright."
A shift then. Slight widening of golden eyes that has her giggling.
"Why are you so okay with this?" he snaps.
"Give me claws, too," she whispers, "like a real bird."
"Monet-ya—"
"Mmmm?"
He frowns.
"You already have my heart," she continues, voice soft, "so why not have more of me?"
"I—"
He looks uncomfortable, then, the first real betrayal of his emotions, eyes flitting away.
"Law."
Silence. Then:
"Please."
I want to be free.
She left on Sunday. Had nothing but a bag and some glasses she'd bought off an old lady in Dressrosa's marketplace. Sugar gave her a bowl of grapes, and she felt awful that all she could give in return was a hug and kiss.
Her sister said into her ear, "I'll miss you."
She laughed. "I'll be back before you know it."
Joker walked her to the docks after that. The streets were oddly empty, the day strangely cold and grey. He did not talk the whole way, the soft click of his heel her only solace.
A SMILE ship loomed over the bay, and she hitched her bag further up her shoulder, straightened her back.
"I won't let you down," she said, the first words between them, oddly hollow but incredibly true.
His only reply:
"I know. Be careful, Monet."
She stands in front of the mirror. The change in her is startling, amazing, brilliant. She spreads her arms and she's taking up the space of the room, feathers ghosting the cold air that sneaks in through the open window.
"Oh," she breathes. Then, with a smile enormously wide: "Oh."
"Do they work?" he asks.
He's leaning back into the couch, one leg crossed over the other with his sword in the crook of his left arm. He is so handsome. There is a wonderful calmness about him right now, and she floats over to his side, looming above him. He smirks up at her, her hair falling into his face, golden eyes dancing.
"If they don't, will you catch me when I fall?"
"Hm. Probably not."
She grins then, closing the space between them before he can protest, capturing him in a kiss. He's ready for it though, opening his mouth greedily, hands immediately gripping her waist. He tugs her down, but she flutters back. For all the strength of him, her wings are stronger, and she laughs then—something in her exploding—breath like steam in the air.
"Careful," he drawls, earning another laugh out of her.
She turns—opens the window fully and jumps on the sill. They're in the highest story, the ground so far below, this white sea that glares back at her in the sunlight. She can see tiny black dots trekking through the snow, disappearing up the mountain path. Brownbeard and his men on patrol, no doubt.
"They look so small," she mutters, suddenly feeling the enormity of height. It's thrilling the way her stomach clenches, the nervous twisting where her heart should be.
"They are."
Law's right behind her then, hand in the small of her back, and before she can react, he gives her a firm push. The building rushes past, a blur of grey, wind cold and stinging on her bare skin. There is only a moment where she falters, tumbling upside down, and then, her arms—no, wings—are moving all on their own and—
And.
Ah.
She's flying.
Up.
Away.
The sky above is a sprawling blue, soft white clouds drifting by, and she soars past the laboratory, over the glacier, towards the volcanic mountain west. Punk Hazard is amazing like this, the island so small below her, all harsh reds and blue blues—and oh, the sprawling mountain range dipping and curving gloriously below.
"Careful," and his voice is ringing in her head, somewhere distant. But she just continues her flight path, taking out over the ocean and arching around the sunlight. She thinks about twirling up to the sky, never coming back; but something glints on the curve of the earth, catching her eye.
She pauses, alone with nothing but the ocean's quiet and her steady beat, beat of wings.
Oh.
A ship.
There is a moment where his eyes find hers in the fray. They do not question. They do not hold betrayal.
See, the thing with wicked people is, that they, too, clearly see the wickedness in others—and she is so full of it, it practically oozes out of her, stains the very soil she walks.
Maybe, as he stares at her, she remembers the way his hands ran over her skin, the first gentle touch she'd ever felt. How bottomless his voice was as he breathed her name. Maybe she will feel his grip on her wrists, how cold the snow was, the blue of the atmosphere.
Maybe.
Monet falls to her knees, and she spreads her wings open.
Takes a breath.
Let's it go.
For there is nothing but the sky above, the world below, and as her beloved Master says goodbye, Monet is
Free.