Alright, go easy on me. I haven't written fanfiction in god knows how long. It's been years. Honestly I haven't written much besides dumb papers or this black hole of a thesis so I apologize if this is crappy. I wasn't a good writer to begin with.

So this goes along the Sinbad no Bouken timeline – so if you haven't read that you might be lost. It is set just after Sinbad gets freed from Maader.

Ja'far didn't really think before he lunged at Sinbad. He was small, he knew that, he knew that very well, but he knew how to properly use his weight. He barely felt when his fist connected with Sin's face. He was so angry. His heart thrummed heavily in his chest, vibrating his pulse behind his ears, digging his nails into his palms as his fists tightened through the blow. He knocked the sixteen year old to the ground and was on him, pulling his tunic so that he'd look in his eyes, eyes that burned like the strongest acid.

"What a fucking joke." Ja'far was at a loss, this man, this broken creature beneath him, was not the one he had chased to Imuchakk. He was not the confidant man who boasted to allies and enemies and Djin alike of his desire to reshape the world. The eyes that had glittered with aspiration, sparkled like the gold he so often chose to adorn himself with, were darkened and hallowed. The bruises on his neck and ankles, the despair in the eyes that had once promised so much, all fueled the fire in his chest. Was he angry? Undeniably. Was it all because of how Sinbad was behaving? No.

He didn't have a lot of experience expressing emotion. The only one that was even mildly acceptable in Sham Lash had been anger. God forbid you show sadness or cry, they'd eat you alive. He knew this well. The day he murdered his parents was the last day he cried. Their hearts had barely stopped beating before he was dragged away and punished for his weakness. The blood was still pooling beneath the ashen skin of their corpses when his hair was pulled roughly, near to the point of holding him above the ground, and he was thrown into a bath of ice water, held beneath the surface to a point dangerously close to death. The first couple of times he was let up for air he heard their jeering, their torment and promises of worse to come. They became a dull roar shortly after, as his heart constricted the blood flow to keep him warm, and the cold made him feel like his chest was both imploding from the temperature and exploding from the lack of oxygen. The last time he cried was when Rurumu had called him her son, the first time he had felt pure kindness. Kindness that held no ulterior motive, kindness that had no ill intent. Kindness meant to comfort. She had to dirty her hands, she who held such kindness for useless brat.

"Disappointed me? Yeah you disappointed me." His hands were still gripped around Sin's tunic, a tremor running through them so faint it almost wasn't there at all. "You'll take responsibility for everything?.. You're not taking responsibility for anything, are you?!" He was sure his face was nine shades beyond scarlet. He could barely breathe. He was so overwhelmed, with anger, with relief, with pain, with disappointment, with grief, and he couldn't contain it, couldn't fathom how to express it all. His teeth ground together, reverberating through his jaw as he looked down at the bloodied man beneath him. "You're letting yourself sink into despair, giving up, and, on top of that, having the nerve to act like it's all over.. Listen up!" He had pulled Rurumu and Hinahoho from their home in Imuchukk with his promises of a better world; Ja'far knew he was filth already, but she was a goddess. She shouldn't have had to parade around in this mud with him. "What you did is the same as what Maader and Parthevia did? And because of that, you're calling yourself a corrupt person?! This isn't a fucking joke!" He was seething, because the words Sin was saying about himself, for actions that Ja'far and Rurumu had mirrored, were wrong. "In order to pay our debt we used the same tactics as that hag to fuck with the Mariadel Company! We risked the company you were desperately trying to protect, using King Rashid, and got our hands dirty pulling the worst sort of scam that barely escaped getting us mixed up with the law!" They had dirtied their hands, Ja'far knew this would happen, one wasn't going to change the world without getting their hands dirty, either directly or indirectly. Why was this so groundbreaking to Sinbad? Was he that deluded? Ja'far shook his head. He was getting lost in the whirlwind of emotions inside his skull. His anger was fading, the initial outburst at Sinbad's defeated words after he and Rurumu had painstakingly plotted for his freedom, after he had promised so much to Hinahoho, Rurumu, Mahad and Vittel. And to Ja'far. His anger was fading, like fireworks in the sky, burning brightly, but fleetingly, before going out and falling. His grip loosened incrementally, and he realized how rough he had been. "Think back, on that dream you shared with me…Was that dream really so meaningless that you'd give up on it just because you had to get your hands dirty? It isn't is it?! So build it. I've already decided to do whatever it takes.. In order to make that ridiculous dream of yours a reality."

Ja'far had known Sinbad was naïve. He knew this when the man decided to take in three assassins as subordinates. When he decided a couple of, albeit now formerly, illiterate kids were going to create a country. In a way, he loved that about Sinbad. If Ja'far was darkness and death, Sinbad was light and life. He just figured eventually Sinbad would understand some things did have to be done. You don't build a new country without pissing someone off. You don't establish a new order without making enemies. He thought these should be a given. There has never been a war without death. Yes, part of his anger that he felt was misdirected. He was frustrated at Sin, but he was appalled at himself. He was supposed to protect Sinbad, he was supposed to be there for him. The man that had shown him this new life, he was powerless to help him when he needed it most. He couldn't rescue Sin from becoming a slave. His failure was why those golden eyes had dulled. His failure was behind those bruises on his future King's neck. His failure was the reason the man that stood tall and proud before armies and Djin alike looked so damn defeated. It infuriated him. If it hadn't been for Rurumu, Sin still would have been at the witch's mercy. Their conversation piddled off, and Ja'far helped Sin up with the promise of tomorrow. The promise to each other to realize their dream, to stay strong when circumstances demand unsavory decisions to be made. The promise of consequence.

Ja'far fell back as Sinbad talked with the slaves, as he promised them a future in his country. Ja'far tried to keep the frown off his face, but he was fairly sure he failed. The fire that once lit Sinbad's words just wasn't there. He grit his teeth, biting his tongue to the point copper burned in his mouth. He hated that woman. For all that she had done. But he hated himself more for letting it happen. His was a heinous existence. Hers was abhorrent. He wanted to wrap his wires around her neck, pull on them until her skin bulged around the ridges his weapon created. He wanted to take her God damn head off, he wanted to see the color of her blood stain the ground beneath him. He wandered back to their ship, to his room as the others went to find Masrur. He changed his path when he hit the deck, decided to duck below, to the company of stowaway rats and other heathens. He tucked himself in behind some barrels, curling his knees flush against his chest and folding his arms atop them. It was chilly and dank down there, quite different from the sunny breezes of Reim of above. He belonged down here, this is where his existence fit. He laid his cheek on his arm, feeling the wires against his face. They would probably set off tomorrow. Back to the Sindria Trading Company.

He sighed. Eyes slipping closed. He was tired. He had only slept enough to keep functioning through the time Sin was gone, his brow furrowed, recalling the stern scoldings he had gotten from Rurumu and Hina at his insomniac behavior. It wasn't ever that he was really doing anything, the plan had been made in short time, but he just had this anxiety thrumming through his veins that prevented him from resting any more than was absolutely necessary. Perhaps he should have made himself sleep a incremental bit more. Even with his drowsiness, his guilt kept him awake. The panging inside his being preventing him from falling to sleep no matter how much he wished to shut his mind down at this point. As much as he ever did anyway.

His habits from childhood died hard. He kept himself on the ready, sleeping with "one eye open" as one might say. He didn't physically have one eye open in his sleep, but he kept his senses open. As with many things, it had been painstakingly drilled into him. The same way his emotions had been whittled down to solely expressing rage or distaste, the same way his palate had been practically reduced to nothing and his immunity to poison and illness now practically unsusceptible to harm. The same way his body had been riddled with scars and callouses, the same way he was able to sneak around undetected, the same way he had been able to almost remove any distinct scent to avoid being remembered or noticed by animals. Even now he was uncomfortable showing his distinctive features, his white hair and freckled face. Anything identifiable. He survived on the basis of being unnoticed, of being a shadowed strike.

He did not hate the skills he learned, or the apprehensions he experienced day to day because of them. The continuous distrust he had for most people. If anything, at this point he was grateful for them. They gave him something. Something of worth. He had murdered more people than he could possibly count, before or after the education he had with Rurumu. He was a clean killer, yet the sheer amount of blood on his hands could satiate a vampire for its entire existence. He laughed, a dry, hoarse, humorless laugh. He was a despicable human. Human. Was that the word for his existence? Had he traversed the realm of monster yet? He was certain he had. He was well aware of one thing, he had very few plans to atone for his crimes. Sin may not be able to do this with clean hands, but he didn't have to do the shady jobs. Shady jobs did not befit a King. This was something he could do. He pulled at the wires, already taught around his arms, feeling them rub against the wounds he'd created beneath them. The pain, while small and barely noticeable in the scope of pain he has felt in his life, still quelled some of his uneasiness. A small trickle of blood welled around the wire, continuing down the winding trail until it ran itself dry. He closed his eyes again.

'I won't fail again.'