Arcane Dissonance

by ObsidianPhantom

Two. It defined them perfectly. Two sides of a coin, two shades of the same color, two ends of a spectrum. It was only appropriate that they would share two very different agendas; one striving for salvation, the other a martyr's death. As they wade into deeper artifice not only will they contend with a millennia's old adversary but two determined pirates as well. Kid/OC, Law/OC.

20. Alea Iacta Est

I'm ALIIIVE! You can all take a breather now. Lol! But I'm very sorry for the delay in updating Arcane Dissonance. For the last couple months I've not been in the right mind to write. Besides, if I had tried to update earlier than this anything I would have written would have been absolute crap. I couldn't rush it and I certainly couldn't do that to my story or all of you guys. :)

So enjoy!

Disclaimer: Sadly I do not own One Piece nor do I own anything Dragcave related... *Sobs in the background*

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Chapter 19: Alea Iacta Est

"It's out there waiting to ignite!

The fever will rise, rise, rise;

taking over my mind.

The countdown has begun,

the walls are falling down.

It's dangerous. So dangerous.

It makes your blood run to throw the dice!

We're going on and we'll never stop.

We're going on 'til worlds collide!

Dangerous by Within Temptation

Elmeldale, Hall of Deliberation...

"I wonder how long they'll argue before the Old One actually convinces them to co—"

"I'm hungry."

Every gaze in the chamber snapped to Allanon of Ranglai who casually reclined in his stone chair with an impish smile as a black claw scraped a line down his bony, white beak.

"You're dead," a female Howler Drake spat scathingly. "You don't need to eat."

The Black Marrow dragon gasped at his fellow Sentinel, deep-set red eyes widening in mock alarm. "You wound me, Stratonice. Just because I look like a walking carcass doesn't mean I have no appetite like one. I'm alive, empty stomach and all. And as hungry as I am right now, I'd even try a piece of that taupe hide of yours. It might even be tasty, that is, if it's as rotten as your attitude." He finished with a lazy, patronizing smirk.

As was usual, Stratonice of Iilium - proud, ill-tempered drake that she was - couldn't stand her squadmates sarcastic goading.

She let out an angry shriek worthy of her breed, the enormous stone chamber they were in only amplifying its piercing peal.

Sometime later, after the unholy sound tapered off, more than a dozen wings and claws slowly pulled away from smarting ear-holes, and a dozen or so highly exasperated eyes turned on Allanon, each gaze sharp with accusation.

"Don't look at me? She started it, I'm only hungry." The Black Marrow shrugged amidst annoyed growls and hissed reprimands, that provocative grin still slashed over his guant features.

"Actually," intoned a pretty Purple dragon from Gyderon with long, yellow tendril-like horns - the tips a pale celery green, "now that I think about it, I haven't eaten in… say, two-three weeks? Hmm, I could definitely go for some life mana right now."

Stratonice whipped her antlered head toward the Purple female, copper face set in a dark, irritated scowl. "Nalani! Don't encourage him! It's bad enough that we've been cooped up in here for so long, Spirits, if they don't come in the next seven hours I'm leaving," she snarled, ferocious red eyes glaring at her purple comrade, wings partially flaring outward, distinct red eye markings peeking through the many folds of thin, brunette webbing.

"Calm yourself, Stratonice," the male Falconiform wyvern to her left - Nivalis of Nosreiddian - soothed. "Snapping at every comment will not turn time faster, it only compounds the tension everyone is feeling, what with the situation being as it is."

Stratonice hissed through her fangs at his condescending tone, earning an appreciative appraisal from a Spitfire male sat across the chamber among his Magi brethren. Who just happened to have a thing for aggressive, high-strung females.

"I feel a lot of us could benefit from an intermission right about now," Kamala of Elmeldale, a Black dragon suggested, sultry voice calm as it sliced through the tension in the war room.

"I think that'd be wise," exclaimed a big, green Terrae dragon dryly, pale jade gaze sweeping over the stiff, restless bodies of Sentinels who were busy either glaring at each other, clawing their stone seats out of boredom, or even dosing off. A huge difference when you took in the Magi who quietly conversed amongst themselves and the Scribes who conferred over whatever scrolls they'd brought for the council.

"Shut up, Atarim! You think everything is wise now that you've turned traitor and joined the Scribes! How dare you leave me alone with Sk—"

"Finish my name, Ebbier of Raal'haya, I dare you…" came the low, drowsy voice of Skydril of Urda'noth, resident Skywing dragon and fastest flyer in the Sentinels. She sat on Kamala's right near the entryway, long sinuous body curled up in tight circles - much like a snakes; her sleek, brightly colored turquoise wings, both fore and rear sets, unfurling away from her head as it rose from her coils to glare over at a shocked Nocturne male with rich, navy blue scales.

Ebbier blanched in the face of Skydril's menacing - cobalt - stare, utterly taken aback by his squadmates sudden entrance into the conversation. To his left, Allanon sniggered, ridiculously entertained by the grave his friend was digging, even more so because - this time - he wasn't right there beside him. The blue Sentinel mouthed wordlessly, powerful frame cringing under the weight of Skydril's animosity.

"I-…" he floundered, amber eyes wide and panicked, his voice an octave higher than usual. "Weren't you… I thought… you were asleep!"

The Skywing's gaze turned venomous, a hint of fang showing when her lips began to quiver. "So I nod off for a couple hours and what? That's your cue to hiss behind my wings? You grog-snarfing snake lover! Oh, if I wasn't so comfy right now I'd fly over there and tail-whip you so hard Ebbier, you'd be seeing Spirits!"

"C'mon, not now, Skydril. Not in the Hall of Deliberation! You don't want another tongue-lashing from the Elder because she caught you with too many coils wrapped around Ebbier's neck. Again." Nalani sighed lightly, the devil-may-care tone in her words at odds with the words themselves.

"Ah, let them at it, Nalani! Don't you want to see some bloodshed? Plus, a good fight always calms the nerves." Stratonice sassed with a brazen smile, claws curling against stone in wistful delight. From his seat, Nivalis shook his head, idly wishing he'd taken a seat with the other Magi. "Stratonice…" he warned again, the quiet note of reproach evident as he caught and held the brash Howler Drake's agitated gaze. A charged moment sizzled between them before the restless female slumped down in her seat, muttering to herself mutinously.

Everyone privy to the sight shared the same thought: Oh, mates and their crazy-weird dynamics.

"Spirits, I'm so glad I'm not mated yet," Skydril huffed, wiggling her head side-to-side with a distasteful grimace; the universal sign for yuck!

Allanon and Ebbier shared a sly look, gazes gleaming with ribald mischief. In perfect unison they crooned, "We wouldn't mind taking that sweet hide of yours out for a spin. What say you, pretty dragon, up for a Ménage à trois?"

Skydril's expression scrunched up in horrified disgust, a wing coming up to cover her face as she mimed puking. "By the Spirits, please kill yourselves at my earliest convenience."

At her muttered, pleading retort, Allanon and Ebbier broke out in raucous laughter. But they weren't the only dragon's amused by the reply; Nalani giggled pervertedly, a naughty glint beaming in her eyes and even the tranquil Kamala couldn't stop the wicked smile from stealing over her face.

Most, if not all, the Magi just shook their heads at the antics of Sentinels. It was usual behavior for the warrior class: Aggressive. Surly. Vicious. And utterly salacious.

The Scribes, however, being not as vigilant of their mage counterparts, either ignored the banter or simply didn't notice it because they were too immersed in conversation. Although, one Scribe - Atarim - did share in the levity, a snarky, lewd smirk spread across his face.

On the opposite side of the spectrum, Skydril's expression was livid. Allanon saw the combative you-better-zip-your-howling-screamer look in her eyes and slyly remarked, "Sweet tail, I'd let you kill me any day of the week if you let me show you beforehand just how exciting it is to be under these hips. Keep all claws and wings inside for the remainder of this ride, please. You must be this hot to enter," the Black Marrow dragon crowed loudly, throwing the Skywing a flirtatious wink.

"By the balls of Baran himself," Nabiros - a skilled Magister and Ultraviolet dragon - groaned with a shake of his head, eyes trained on the rowdy Sentinels. "This isn't going to end well."

"I'll rip your spine out your ass," came Skydril's murderous response.

Ebbier chortled loudly. "Mmm, I like it rough."

"Eat me, you spineless cur," the angry Skywing snarled.

"I'm talented at oral–"

"She meant it sarcastically, Ebbier. Plus, it's doubtful you two could handle her," Atarim noted with a certain perverse spark in his jade eyes. Allanon and Ebbier stiffened, male pride called into question, and glared at their old Squadmate.

"Are you sayi—"

"I could defin—"

"SILENCE!"

Every Gifted present froze, conversations halted, staring contests ended abruptly, and scrolls were sent rolling.

"Is it impossible for you Sentinels to wait without trying to provoke each other?" Scribe Master Aivern bit out, two yellow claws rubbing at his aching temples. How they were all Second Generation born was beyond him - they bickered and snapped at each other like unruly Fledglings. Sentinels… Obstreperous, the whole lot of them, the Swallowtail dragon told himself with an inward huff. Glad I decided early on that I wanted to specialize in Intelligence.

Aivern's mental tangent came to an end when his attention was ripped rather abruptly by a loud, acerbic assertion.

"Well, well, look who finally decided to show up! I was beginning to wonder when your slowpoke ass would get here, Azracon. Better late than never, right? Oh, don't worry, we'll forgive you!"

"SHUT YOUR MOUTH, SKYDRIL!"

Aivern pressed his claws harder into his skull and groaned. Sentinels. And the meeting hasn't even started yet.

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Twenty minutes later...

The atmosphere was completely different to what it had been.

There was no playful banter. No impatient snarling. No provocative commentary.

Nothing but grave seriousness.

"Chiyo of Elmeldale, Last Daughter of the Four Great Sea Spirits, High Elder, Magi Emeritus, Scion of Ancient Blood."

The words echoed from the vaulted ceiling high overhead, resonating along the sweeping stone arches of the vast Hall of Deliberation. Intricate, meandering veins of natural mana spider-webbed through the walls, sending a mosaic of colored light streaming across the polished obsidian floor, alternating with bands of dank shadow.

The chamber itself was a peculiar thing, triangular in its shape and carved deep into the heart of the Zuraakhul Mountains. The perfect war room. Parallel to each wall ran a crescent line of nine throne-like chairs, each on a raised platform with a cushion of stuffed gold for comfort. Twenty-seven seats in all, nine for the High Magi, nine for the Master Scribes, and nine for the Head Sentinels. Each seat represented one of Raftel's nine territories, and each territory was presided over by one of each section called The Three.

Like any assembly filled with different classes, each section - Magi, Scribe, and Sentinel - had its own distinctions. Something that alluded to their station and practice. For the Magi, each Gifted seated along the right wall wore an array of mana crystals - in all affinities - set in elaborate headdresses and circlets that twined around horns, frill-rings with delicate chain work, complex necklaces and chokers, shiny, twisting anklets and bracelets. Interesting enough, no adornment worn by a Magi was ornamental, each piece of woven metal and every mana crystal played a part in bolstering a Magisters sorcery that was only known to the highly secretive sect of Magi.

While the Magi were distinguishable by their powerful but mysterious mana jewelry, the Master Scribes were recognized by the Hyphi vine satchels that curled around their sides, phosphorescent green tendrils snugly wrapped around several scrolls. But the unique thing about a Scribes satchel was the material it was made of; the Hyphi vine was a quasi-sentient plant found in the forests of Ranglai that, when cut from its tree, did not die, instead it continued to grow, and anything it touched it latched onto with a possessive vigor that did well to assuage a Scribes paranoia over losing his or her scrolls. Though, it did take quite a bit of time and patience to train the Hyphi vine to let go when you wanted it to.

For the Sentinels, neither jewelry nor flora was worn; as any warrior in any race, they wore armor. Corestone armor. The mark of the Sentinel. But unlike most races who utilized metals like steel or iron to protect themselves, the Gifted used a special minerial that only formed beneath the soil of Raftel. Corestone, a substance that came into being when the carbon of a still hardening diamond and a mana crystal mesh, mix, and eventually become one. Beautiful like black opal, durable like sheet metal, flexible like cloth, and harder than a diamond; it was both light-weight and indestructible, perfect for the protectors of Raftel.

Beyond the question of appearance based on station, the individual variance among the three sects was striking. Chiyo recognized the Royal Blue dragon, Valadar of Gyderon - broad-shouldered and solid as a rock, a Sentinel turned Magi; egg-shell white Master Scribe Eburnean, his smooth hide pale and pigmentless as all Albino dragons were; and serene Shyaat of Urda'noth, brilliant pink scales shining beneath the natural mana light. Truly, there was not one Gifted in that room Chiyo didn't know; they were the offspring of the First - her kith and kin - and she could remember each hatchday like it was her own.

Now those little hatchlings were mature, full-bodied Gifted, and they were ready for war. They had answered her summons, from every corner of Raftel, they had come to a place that had stood empty for centuries. A rare and impressive gathering, indeed.

The Gifted who was speaking - who had announced her titles - sat among the proud Magi, the third dais from the last. Magister Sethaius was a formidable Spitfire, physically impressive even without all the mana and metal, doubly intimidating with them. His voice was strong - filled with the restrained aggression of his breed - and authority as well as respect echoed in its depths. Chiyo had met him twice when he'd became a Wingen, once when he was first anointed as Magi, later at his coronation as one of Myranor's Three.

The Spitfire had impressed her and that was saying a lot; the Last Daughter of the Four Great Sea Spirits was not so easily impressed.

"You have called us from the Nine Territories of Raftel," Sethaius pronounced. His tone of voice sounding austere, with just a hint of challenge at its edges. "A long flight for some, yet for all, a necessary one. Now we are here, to attend upon the issue of vessels and war. What words would you speak involving this matter?"

The formality of the challenge was not lost on Chiyo, rather it came as a surprise to the old Bronze. Enlightening, too. Because she knew Sethaius did not seek a verbal confirmation of her sins… In reality, he was asking her to lead in the discussion - an honor that no one refuted, therefore her actions weren't being called into question. Something tugged at her Hearts-Blood and Chiyo had to clench her jaw till it physically ached to keep the sigh of utmost relief from slithering out her lips.

After telling them everything on the flight over, laying her erroneous judgement out for their perusal and censure, they had chosen to…

…not denounce her standing in the summit.

They were choosing to forgive her.

It was the greatest gift she'd been given since the dawn of the Gifted.

Brimming with elation and love, Chiyo stared at all those gathered in the Hall of Deliberation, the emotion in her gaze projecting what she could not voice out-loud.

Thank you for offering forgiveness. Thank you for not condemning me for my mistakes. Thank you for showing the same consideration the Spirits gave to my generation when we foolishly traversed the sea.

Now that she knew her position, therefore her input, would not be disparaged, it was time to get down to the core of this meeting. Fluidly, with experience, Chiyo's whole demeanor hardened, grass-green gaze glittering with flinty determination and the need to write her wrongs.

"Esteemed Gifted." She bowed her head respectfully, but not too deeply; she still had her pride as an Elder, as the last Elder. Respect aside, there was no written statute for determining the balance of authority between a High Magi and his Elder, and thus no precedent to guide them. And since this marked the first second generation war council, it really was a touch-and-go policy for everyone until lines were drawn for certain. Right now, everyone was testing the waters of their new positions, establishing placement and power. Hierarchy in the Hall. The only constant was Chiyo whose knowledge and experience in such matters would act as a shepherd in the ongoing proceedings.

"Blood of my blood," she said, "I thank you for answering my summons. On this day, the Three Nine's are bound together in the spirit of continuity and common purpose. May the Spirits of Shin, Baran, Kin, and Kaiket look favorably upon our discourse, and if our cause be worthy, bless us with inevitable victory." She could see the lips of each dragon, as they caught on, moving slightly, and she could hear the whispered benediction: Amen.

It mirrored her own. Amen.

"Earlier this week, as you all know, a courier returned to Raftel with intel on the movements of the Human Realm. Marineford is in the midst of full mobilization, as we speak the mortals prepare themselves for war. But we are Gifted, we do not care to involve ourselves in human politics or struggles, however, evidence has shown the marines to be amassing an alarming number of Haki users, an offensive response to a perceived threat. From past records we know that marines only fortify their ranks if they believe an attack from our vessels - the Wyvern Sisters - is imminent."

"We do not yet know the motive behind their interference, nor do we have a viable reason as to why the marines seem to expect an attack from Jineiia and Sklestia. What we do know is based on speculation but it is possible that there might be a connection between the captive, Portgas D. Ace, and the vessels, by which their motive would be rescue since he is to be executed for reasons unknown. That aside, our mission is retrieval. That is our purpose in this; the vessels must be safeguarded."

Bronze wings furled tight against her back, a weary sigh bubbling in her throat as she chose her next words carefully. Chiyo shifted, restless, edgy, agitated. "The one who made the report, a Magister-turned-Sentinel, sensed a shift in the Fade when he flew over Marineford. It is not Jineiia; matters concerning her Shadow Walker blood are beyond her knowledge as of now, so it is impossible for her to enter the Border State."

Murmurs of caution and … Him.

Chiyo let loose a gusty sigh through her nostrils, claws curling against smooth stone and gold—and looked away and spoke, tone morbidly grave. "The shift was accompanied by the cold stench of decay."

…Silence…

…

…

"X-xanthir…" someone choked out in whispery horror.

Chiyo nodded, expression stony and grim. She met the gaze of each dragon and allowed the hard, dour glint in her eyes to elucidate the utter gravity of the situation on their hands. It was something easily understood by those in the Hall of Deliberation, like an inside joke, they grasped the danger hidden within the encroaching war. And it wasn't the marines.

It was the unseen snake in the grass that constantly slithered towards its prey. Every time its prey became visible so to would it. Xanthir's sick obsession with Jineiia and Sklestia was a known fact amongst the Gifted and it was also common knowledge that wherever they were, he would be close behind. They could not allow him near that which was precious and sacred; could not condone the intentions of a twisted abomination that lusted after the unspeakable. A mated pair was made up of two Gifted. Not three, that is, if Xanthir could even be counted as Gifted anymore. His wish was both impossible and unnatural. Vile. A thing of impurity.

"For safety measures I want the retrieval team to consist of only those who have already come into contact with Xanthir. They will fair better, armed with a first impression, than someone flying in blind. You know who you are." She aimed a pointed look at Azracon, then at Valek.

Jineiia's Watcher straightened under the stare, words only he (and Azracon) could hear whispering into his head, before his dark, turbulent gaze swept over every inch of the chamber and everyone seated within it. Glancing back at his Elder, he nodded at the Bronze, acknowledging her silent request.

His words were crisp and pragmatic, edged in a smooth growl that smoldered at the end of each pronunciation. "I have been at the forefront of the effort to locate Xanthir"–the room erupted with snarls and low, guttural hisses as he spoke the name–"and to gather the information needed to cast him into Verdaron, so that he may wander the wasteland of white torment until the universe itself expires."

"You are all privy to the intelligence Raftel's double agent, Dracule Mihawk, has recovered. Savagery in Tefilat that transcends the barbarity of humanity. Something other has ripped the souls of the living out of their shells, leaving lifeless, mutilated husks behind to rot. Though, not for long; recent reports say that Tefilat is barren of corpses and the docks stand empty of ships when they should've been full with forsaken structures of wood and canvas."

Valek allowed the assembly some time to digest what that meant. Xanthir is up to something. Something to do with souls and reanimation.

"Those who have encountered the Skeleton King in battle will do so again," he continued, cunning mind whirling with stratagems. "Those with artifacts of power will pool their sorcery together in both offense and defense. Those who possess vast knowledge will utilize their intellectual acuity to strategize our operation and all possible variables that will no doubt arise. Just as the mortals prepare, so shall we." Valek pointed his stare to Master Scribe Aivern, silently giving him the floor to speak his piece.

The elegant Swallowtail dragon sat prim and proper in his seat, a hand rising to idly tap a vine into stillness with a yellow claw-tip. "Our timetable for devising a sound strategy is short. We only have forty-eight hours to formulate an attack plan, gather the Gifted that are necessary for the mission, and debrief them without causing mass panic throughout Raftel's populous."

One of Aivern's claws rose to tap a vine near his elbow before seamlessly sliding out a scroll from its loosening grasp. With a snap of his wrist the parchment unwound, rolling down several feet to reveal a wealth of Dragai Glyphs. Vibrant midnight blue eyes scanned through the notes swiftly, mentally compiling a list of points to mention that were relevant to the cause.

"Mortals do not favor conflict if the weather is not on their side; the season of war is brief in some lands, contrained by tempestuous seas or unpredictable storms. However, the geographical archives support the fact that Marineford is, essentially, a spring island with little to no climate change. Hence, the weather will not avail us nor can we depend on the power of the Gray dragon to impede their progression. Such an endeavor would be too costly, in both time and anonymity, and we can not afford to waste either."

Aivern's smooth translucent wings rustled against his back, the two distinct tails his kind was known for wrapping around his feet, the movement almost resembling that of a cat. The Swallowtail sighed deeply, a curtain of weary bemusement and resignation falling over his face, the emotion causing something in his navy eyes to shutter. In a reluctant mutter, he whispered, "I do not know how we are to keep our anonymity in this."

Azracon snorted, lip curling up in disdain. His heavy, cantankerous gaze met the Scribes from across the room. "Then we don't. It's as simple as that." He shrugged in the wake of Aivern's wide, horrified stare.

"Are you mad?" the Swallowtail burst out furiously, wings fluttering in agitated disbelief. "Do you not realize that it is our anonymity that has kept us safe from the scourge of humanity! If we willingly caste away our greatest security, than what are we as protectors, if not those who are so desperate for success that they cut off their own limbs to reach it! Nay, I will not see it come to pass; the Gifted race must remain in shadow, away from the destructive clutches of mortals." Aivern spat, livid eyes glaring into a dark orange glower.

From her seat, Skydril shook her slim head at the males and their constant need to provoke and challenge each other, even if it was instinct, it was still annoying as Verdaron. Though, Azracon did have a point…

"Oh, would you both knock it off! Spirits, you're acting like rutting males around a female, without the female." The saucy Skywing proclaimed, expressive slit eyes rolling in their sockets. Males… She caught Aivern's hot, angry stare and held it with a long-suffering sigh. "We've been safe, yes, because we've stayed hidden, existing outside the realm of humanity, but Azracon is being - for once - sensible about this. If we want to save Sklestia and Jineiia it can't be from the shadows, the situation has escalated too fast and there is no time—we have to prepare for a frontal assault."

Skydril's plea was both firm and coaxing, meant to soothe and persuade and it would've succeeded too had Aivern not been stuck in the old ways of safety and seclusion. Like a riled badger the Master Scribe bristled, a growl thundering up from his belly to echo his opinion around the stone chamber. The Swallowtail glared, more infuriated than before, at the Skywing sitting coiled in her seat.

"What she says is truth, no use fighting it, Scribe. If we sit here debating over approach, all we'd be doing would be wasting time. Let it go. Maybe it's time we reveal ourselves to the world, ever think of that?" Kazrael, Gold wyvern and Magister of Raal'haya, said with the same earnest, easy-going tone that he was famous for.

Aivern did not look impressed as he slanted an irked scowl the young Magi's way.

From her spot amongst her fellow Sentinels Skydril rolled her eyes and settled down to watch the proceedings. I said my piece, not my fault if he's too damn blind to see what has to be done. Stupid Scribe - been reading too much about the old days. She shared a collective look with her squadmates, knowing they'd heard her thoughts. Then as one they all glanced at the incensed Swallowtail and rolled their eyes. Stupid Scribe, they echoed each other.

"I… I know how you feel," entered a voice and it was new and feminine and, to everyone's surprise, scared. Aivern's head snapped to the side, his gaze jumping two seats to land on one of his own. A diminutive Scribe with an arresting hide of orange scales seemed to shrink in on herself under his heavy, accusing regard, however, as if empowered by some secret inner will the female slowly rose up to meet Aivern's nonplussed expression.

For a time the belligerent Swallowtail seemed to flounder, some part of him thrown off by the fact that one of his own colleagues could actually stand to disagree with him. The action gave him pause, and he gathered his wits about him, before growing confused and angry. Confused because Rinkari of Myranor couldn't possibly understand how he felt and angry due to her ignoring his point. Because, as a Master Scribe, she had to grasp the gravity of what they dared propose; it was suicidal and the ramifications… He shuddered, eyes narrowing as they locked with the soft pink gaze of the Pyralspite dragon.

Never in the past had he had a problem with this particular female; she was both passionate and diligent as a Scribe, though quiet and shy in character, especially around dragons with bigger, more abrasive personalities. Like every single Sentinel. Hardly confrontational, Aivern couldn't quite understand why such a bashful Gifted would speak words she knew would garner his irritation.

And, oh, was he irritated.

"No. No, I don't think you do," he snapped with sudden aggression, fangs gnashing in contempt as he twisted to face the Spessartine properly. His voice echoed around the room a second time, filling everyone's ears with a mixture of frustration and steely anger which had the shy Rinkari lowering her head, eyes shimmering with insecurity. "Don't you dare humor me, Rinkari of Myranor! I do not want nor do I need your sympathetic nonsense. Certainly, it doesn't belong in the Hall of Deliberation." He snorted and it was a scornful, haughty sound; hurtful and mean and something twinged in Aivern's chest the instant he saw the small female flinch because of it.

But he felt so angry, so fe—

"You feel lost and afraid," Rinkari's soft, subdued tones feather into Aivern's hearing a short charged minute later, his complete attention centering on the quiet, melodious words. "You feel as if everything is spinning away from your control."

The Swallowtail blinked, hesitated, and froze, the anger draining from him abruptly. Gossamer wings once held aloft in fury drooped against his sides and Aivern slumped down in his seat, weary and tired and ancient. The aura of agitated intolerance sputtered out, fading like morning mist. The tension in the chamber lessening to a level that was more manageable to deal with than hair-trigger aggression.

A pregnant pause lengthened between the two Scribes, a silence that went on uninterrupted, everyone simply watching the proceedings, waiting, contemplating what would happen next. And then Rinkari seemed to unfurl herself, an inner strength seeping out through her determined gaze as she raised narrowed pink eyes to stare somewhat reproachfully at Aivern. "I know because I feel the same way and I can… I can relate. See, there is a part of me that is… is terrified of being exposed to humanity. Just thinking about it intimidates me, makes my scales shiver, and I can't help but feel insecure and anxious. But I also know the unknown is frightening and dangerous and a part of me - a small part - accepts this because we have to face it regardless."

Rinkari trembled in the wake of her words, faltering under the heavy, shrewd gazes of her audience. "They did. Without hesitation," the Spessartine breathed softly, peering up through her lashes at an inscrutable Aivern, "they left us for the unknown. To protect us. And I know their… m-method wasn't right bu-but don't you see"—her large pink eyes, imploring and shy and strong, roved the faces of her fellow kin—"they did it to keep us them there was no choice and they must've been so scared, so scared… Yet, they still went off into the unknown, off into the… Human World, despite their fear and uncertainty." Tears welled, brimmed, slipped over and down orange cheeks to drip from Rinkari's chin to the stone floor.

Every Gifted in that room sat riveted, their attention caught, held fast by the little females soulful words. No one had the strength to look away, not that they could or would even want to.

Rinkari sniffled, the slim end of her tail discreetly wiping away her tears. She continued, bell-like voice ringing with clarity and a plea for everyone to understand, "Now… now they're out there and they're in trouble. They are going to suffer if we don't help them. Please, Aivern, you have to understand! Please! They did it without a thought, so why… why can't we give them the same courtesy?"

The question, the heartfelt plea ricocheted off the high vaulted ceiling, rebounding and echoing within the Mind Flow's of each dragon. Though, it was directed at only one. A Swallowtail male whose dark navy gaze locked seamlessly with an over-bright shimmery pink stare.

Minutes ticked by. Breathes were held out of sheer anticipation. Some wondered if this was the calm before the storm. Would Master Scribe Aivern explode again?

Then, much to the surprise and relief of his kin, Aivern relented. His answer came out solemn, cautious, but contrite. "I apologize for my… lapse in control. I allowed my emotions to influence my perspective and failed to stay objective with the current situation. Strategy takes an astute, unbiased mind and today I did not exhibit that mentality." He sighed, a claw rising to rub gingerly at his aching head.

Rinkari tilted her head and smiled at him. "You do not have to apologize. I'm sure everyone understands given the circumstances." Pink eyes turned to land on a certain Brimstone dragon with a pointed, expectant look. Azracon, who'd been adrift in his thoughts, felt the sensation of someone staring at him, and true to his gruff exterior, immediately whipped his gaze around to glar—

—and blanched instead, orange eyes popping wide under the sweet yet warning expression staring him down from across the Hall. Any misgivings he had died instantly underneath Rinkari's subtle smile and feminine diffidence. Flustered, Azracon snapped his head to the side, gaze wandering to the polished floor, a big yellow paw waving behind him.

Skydril, Kamala, Nalani, and Stratonice shared a look and nearly cracked up because of it.

Meet Azracon, the shy brute!

They sniggered mentally, careful to school their thoughts so said Brimstone wouldn't hear.

On her end, Rinkari nodded, happy to see the confrontation resolved. Now the meeting could proceed, hopefully without any more snags.

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Wednesday morning, 8:09, June 7, Impel Down...

They stared.

Numerous Okama, their hands held aloft with food, stood frozen. Wide-eyed.

In horror. At their own hope. In disbelief. Because what loomed in front of them had to be an illusion. In awe. Because they could see something.

A silhouette.

Strangely misshapen. Oddly rotund.

And currently digesting food at a rapid rate.

Monkey D. Luffy.

Alive. Alive!

After a risky procedure to save his life.

Save him from Magellan's poison.

…

An inhale; shaky; weary; focused.

Everyone continued to goggle.

As Luffy reclaimed his former vitality, limbs stretching to the rocky ceiling, fingers spread wide and shaking with renewed purpose. Determination.

The Will of D.

The Strawhat captain and son of the Revolutionary Dragon suddenly threw back his head, white teeth bared in a grin so wide it seemed to concave his face and exhaled.

"I'M BAAAAACCK!"

Only this time there would be no stopping him.

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Somewhere in the ocean...

Deep. Deep down. They swim, dive, their bodies undulating like eels, their wings propelling them away from sky and sun and into the Abyss. Yet still they go deeper, their powerful tails pushing them forward – down – straight down, through water darkened by depth and pressure unendurable to anyone but them. They descend – plunge – headlong into an anaerobic environment without mercy, light or warmth.

To man the Hadopelagic zone is a hostile, desolate place, riddled with nameless dangers and unattainable mysteries. To man it is an undiscovered enigma; unreachable; unknown; ignored. For man in its present state had not the technology to breach the bottom of the ocean. Therefore, the domain in its entirety is disregarded, seen as unimportant, an unnecessary venture at best.

For the Wyvern Sisters it is different.

It it home. Safety. The sea.

The birthplace of their race.

And it will always call to them – to come, to return – just as something – inside, buried, awake – is drawn to it.

So they move as one, in tandem, deeper into darkness, the motions of the Hellfire in synchrony with those of the Tri-horn. Together they delve, searching, seeking, hunting, keen serpentine eyes missing nothing as they roam the underwater world, the whole of their senses spread wide and straining for a scent, for a glimpse of that elusive food source they want but strangely do not crave.

For they feel full. Energized. Draconic bodies brimming with synergy; strength; power.

But how can that be possible when they hadn't eaten in weeks?

The conundrum puzzles Liberty who doesn't look the obvious if weird gift-horse in the mouth; straight up baffles Jillian who is tense and thrumming with irritable energy because she can't seem to see it the way Lib does.

'Will you let it go already! You're giving me a headache!'

Sonneillon B. Jillian's scowl darkened, a bit of fang showing beneath the curled lip. 'No!' zipped across the Bond like lightning, the volume and force behind the one word clawing its way through Lib's poor Mind Flow. Ouch.

She flinched. Growled. Bubbles of methane gas warbling up from her nostrils, the water around her head vibrating with the sound of her annoyance. Jill did not look back, did not catch the flash of dark teal threat. Her. Mistake.

Crunch!

Immediate. White hot. Stabbing. Pain! In her tail. What the-

"FUCK!"

Smooth, effortless motion faltered. Muscles seized, quivered. Eyes blew wide in their sockets. Blood roared, steamed, streamed.

Jillian floundered, mind blank – buzzing, burning – with pain. It didn't last long. Once the scent of her blood met her sensitive olfactory nerves…

She stilled, lunged, whirled back on herself, the teal claws of one wing surging forth with intent, with the fierce wail of her blood, calling for blood.

—And collided with seawater.

Liberty - who knew what she had provoked - had seen the beast rising in blue-teal eyes, felt the wave of something dark and primal bleed into the mind connected to her own. Smartly, with a riotous giggle she darted away, clothed in scales and anticipation. Like a torpedo the Tri-horn sped fast between two massive rock formations, disappearing into the deep, a snicker on her lips. The hunt was on.

The Hellfire freed the snarl that had been lurking in her throat all morning, let it traverse the planes of her face, let the predator rush up and flood her eyes, let the ravening beast into her claws.

'I'm going to peel your scales off one by one,' hissed through the Bond, Jillian snapping her jaws to further emphasis her point. The answering laughter – savage and wild – incited her excitement, spoke to her in more than just words to come get her; see if you can catch me! I dare you.

And she dared with reckless abandon because down there, down in the deep, it was only them and their instincts and the feeling of oneness with the sea. Overwhelming it was, that tug inside them, wanting out, wanting control; they didn't resist. They. Let. Go. Became something other, something ancient, something primordial.

Diamond-sharp claws flexed, clenched, released and Jillian breathed - in, out, in - the water of the ocean, pulled into her lungs everything it carried. Tasted what was hidden, the scent that whispered of familiarity and kinship. Nostrils flaring, Jillian honed in on that one scent, ignoring all others and with flashing eyes – teal, all teal – and fangs the Hellfire pursued it.

In one smooth, fluid motion she swam off. Prowling through the heavy currents, arcing around great, hulking mountains of rock. She covers the distance easily, a liquid blur of color that lights up the darkness reigning supreme on the seabed.

Speed. Rush.

Perceive – react – respond –

Don't think; led instinct guide you.

Faster. Faster. Faster!

Jillian listens. And suddenly her motion accelerates…

Underwater sounds become muted, slowed and the water sluicing down her sides prick her hide like a million tiny blades. She is encompassed by whirlpools the moment she beats her wings, twin gyres of disturbed water in response to her movement through the currents of the Hadal zone; she moves in a new phenomenon of speed.

All this, in one wing-stroke – one movement, one intention focused more by something than by muscles, movement by instinct and not power. Grinning, Jillian throws herself into the chase, a mere flicker now—

Eyes widen. Narrow.

—There!

The barest glimpse of a tail vanishing behind a wall of stone. Not for long!

The Hellfire swiftly cuts through the space between them, between her position and her destination, whipping around that wall like quicksilver to land on kin; her blood, her sister, her friend.

Skulley J. Liberty stood, claws against the floor of the sea, the very bottom of the trenches, waiting. Staring. Watching. The glint of fierce joy in her gaze.

Teal eyes meet their mirror then and a new game begins, a new instinct coming to the fore to guide them both.

Jillian and Liberty follow it, unknowing that it is not their instincts leading them, connecting the essence of their beings to the ocean.

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They exist in silence, watching – always watching – the Vessels – their living temples of flesh and blood –

They hover – unseen and voiceless – their large spectral bodies humming with anticipation – soon, they will be able to commune – but not yet, not yet…

They… influence, reaching out with phantom claws to brush – souls, instincts, and essence – against the very edge of their beings—the contact coloring the two amorphous flames of teal with pin-pricks of rich lavender, electric blue, ice blue, and a blistering orange. For perhaps the first time the touch – their touch – actually changes something. Affects the tangible.

This only stokes their elation higher, their excitement roused now that the day when they could properly connect loomed ever so near; the yearning to be one with their vessels is a constant, raw pain upon their senses; it will end, the other two will come, they need only wait.

Soon. Soon.

They will all be together again.

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The Four Great Sea Spirits peer at Sklestia and Jineiia with eyes that are young and ancient—wise yet still learning—divine but earthly; within the starlit gazes unfurls a new emotion, one not felt for centuries. Purpose. They feel a… sense of purpose…

To protect. To guard. To awaken. Fully. To become whole.

This is good. Very good.

Though slow – so slow it is almost painful – they are Waking. Already there are pieces of themselves that have awoken from quiescence, flexing to life with a fervor to think… to feel… to communicate… to touch…

As it is, they can only watch and reach out but slightly, but it is enough. For now.

To nudge them from within to commune with their domain. Their kingdom. To feel the Sea as they did; to be one with it; apart of it; an extension of its existence, not just an outsider, but as an intrinsic native of the ocean.

To the Spirits inward delight both Sklestia and Jineiia embrace the connection without reservation.

Shin, Kin, Baran, and Kaiket rejoice in the wake of such acceptance.

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Ever watchful. Always attentive. Forever vigilant. They never stop observing the two that hold within them their slumbering souls. Nothing escapes the scrutiny of the oceanic gods. They see everything, even when they are not whole, not awake, they still see the ebb and flow of Life; the end and rebirth of Death; the hand of Fate; the whispering sands of Time; the subtle chisel of Change.

So they don't miss a thing when they behold Sklestia and Jineiia, both on the ocean floor with all the wildness of the sea raging in their overly bright, completely feral eyes. Nor do they miss the going-ons in the world above…

They see the meeting, the discussion, and eventually a glimpse of the Lost One.

The Sea Spirits can see the gentle threads of the Fade reaching out to Jineiia, curling around her but unable to connect; the four deities know there won't be a connection until, like them, a part of Jineiia awakens.

They can see an island… Tefilat. Tefilat…

The air felt different there in Tefilat, heavy and familiar. A strange blanket had been laid over the autumn isle. Eerie quiet loomed. Scents… There were no scents. Every olfactory sense came back blank. The island, which should've teemed with life, was bare and empty in comparison. Even the sea surrounding Tefilat seemed odd, beside the obvious feeling of home, there was something not quite right about the water. It, and all it encompassed, felt dead. Hollow. As if all the life had been siphoned off and carried elsewhere.

The Four allowed their concentration to lift and wander, and then they sensed something within the Fade, a presence that hissed and bubbled like tar in their minds, the edges of it reaching out greedily but finding nothing. They had no souls for it to snatch, safe as they were ensconced in Jineiia and Sklestia. Other souls weren't so lucky.

What. Was. This!? This… abomination hidden within the Fade? Like an ambush predator! The Fade was the Borderland between the Living world and the Void; it was meant to be a safe haven for departed souls to linger until they entered the Void. A place of crossing.

Anger. Fury. Rage. Seethed like poison inside them at this desecration. Who would dare!? Who would have the dark power and an even darker soul to allow such malignance to pass? They knew the answer and it deepened their wrath beyond comprehension. Filthy, twisted bane! How dare he carve himself a cavity of rot inside the Fade!

Worse, they could not enter it, this recess of pollution. It was not their creation, though they'd had a hand in creating its creator. No longer was Xanthir theirs; the Gifted; the Gold dragon; he'd cast that piece of himself away centuries ago, even in slumber they'd felt it, the agony and loss of a parent stripped of its child. Xanthir of Ranglai died that day so long ago, and in his place stood another – sordid, distorted, corrupt – wearing the same name but with a sick agenda that instilled in them more horror every time they dared think on it.

But though their horror was great, so was their determination to stop it. And they would, they would bend Fate if they had to, to see Xanthir's will fail. The four deities in their semi-wakefulness were now aware of his dastardly mechanisms; aware and ready to combat it. This time, however, Fate sided with them, now they only needed to wait for all the pieces to align themselves correctly.

Then. Then they would have blood. They would have it.

Reprisal. Revenge. Retribution.

They would protect their own.

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The instant Jillian landed – taloned feet impacting squishy, hard ground – every instinct to chase, to catch, quieted. Simultaneously, the urge to flee, to evade died in Liberty just as suddenly. In its place came something wicked, playful; the urge to fight and clash and connect. Like waves against a shore. And like before the Hellfire and the Tri-horn did not refuse the innermost calling, that strange whisper bubbling up from their souls to act, to lunge, to claim first blood.

With great abandon the Wyvern Sisters threw off all restraint and relinquished control; order, caution, composure, and cogitation ceased. Only emotion – bestial and primeval – remained, unfettered by organized faculty. In that instance, instinct and something else ruled them, stripping away complicated thought and leaving only sensation and feeling, reaction and response. Both could sense it - whatever it was - blooming like pale mist between them, inside them, around them.

Steadily. Steadily it rose.

Skulley J. Li… or perhaps it was Sklestia—the real persona and not the mortal facade—that felt deadly intent swell in Sonn… Jineiia and responded to it fully, surrendering to the pulsing beat of battle. In both of them, masterful instincts of combat swam up to take control of mind and movement, tightening muscles, sharpening razor-senses, adding an explosive edge to the snergy surging within.

Sklestia gnashed her fangs, wings flaring tauntingly, and flashed Jineiia an odd, bloodcurdling smile.

"Are you just going to stand there? You must be very confident," purred the Tri-horn. Her voice slithering out through fangs, sounding deeper, darker, its tone tinged with that of another. A second presence. A secret influence.

The other Gifted, the Hellfire, registered the goad but did not move from her crouch. Still, motionless, ready; the whole of her body coiled up tight, she waited patiently for an opening, for an opportunity to attack. Dark lips peeled back wit slow menace, revealing white fangs in a full blown snarl.

"Confidence has nothing to do with it." Cool and raspy, a serpents hiss. Jineiia's voice dripped out like thick, viscous lava; wholly different, yet inherently the same, overlayed as it was with a deeper androgynous growl. "Now come, Sklestia!"

She lunged with the words, struck inwards, reaching down. The edge of her blow catching only the whisper of scales as Sklestia reeled and whirled backwards, but the perilous glint of her claws moved from another direction just as swiftly, taunting, and then in again with more deadly force. In the quick span of a breath, Sklestia was behind the Hellfire, returning blows just as vicious, drawing first blood.

A hiss of pain and bubbles ripped itself from Jineiia's jaws, anger welling at being caught unawares. Blood floated away, resembling wisps of smoke, from a granite shoulder and Sklestia darted away from her, watching with a wide, ferocious grin. There was no hesitation in Jineiia's retaliation, nothing but the undiluated savagery in her blood surging up, calling, shrieking for restitution. Deftly, the Tri-horn danced out of reach of the teal claws, swiping back, and heard the deepening of Jineiia's growl as the thick scent of blood doubled, flooding the water around them; tinting it with luminescent plasma.

Sklestia sought to press her advantage, but the Hellfire moved too fast, a monstrous blur whose shadow would not come to rest. She felt the water brush across her scales the moment before the claws sank into her flesh. Pain lanced through her shoulder, a matching wound to the one she had first inflicted, and then dragged down her back as she turned to catch Jineiia's wing in her powerful maw and shove herself away from the appendage.

They paused then, standing meters away from each other, panting and growling. The water had become full of red ribbons. Red scents. Red emotions.

…Passion. Love. Energy. Danger. War…

Incorporeal and omnipresent, though only possessing a fraction of their power and presence, the Four loomed, watching from two different perspectives. Outward: the mere sliver of their subconscious minds they'd sent - searching, seeking - into the world; the part of themselves that retained their true appearance. And within: the small piece of their awareness watching through eyes not their own, feeling the clench and release of muscles not their own, and experiencing the rabid joy of oneness that came from them but flowed through two Mind Flow's and not four.

It was a curious duality they'd never known before. Being split down the middle, balancing their focus between two different points of attention. The sensation felt similar yet dissimilar to being omnipresent, an ability they barely had control over in their dormant state. But, at least, they were awake enough to see and watch; one of very few comforts allowed to them since returning to semi-consciousness. So they looked on, seeing their two Vessels squaring off, playing as they once did, feeling the intense emotions burning through them like wildfire. Pulsing. Seething. Drumming. Coalescing into something. Words.

…Passion. Love. Energy. Danger. War…

Echoed inside them. In the space between them. Through every inch of their souls. They felt it whisper, hum, sing, and snarl. Like a mantra, like a prayer; they could not deny the urge, the need to think it themselves. Passion. Love. Energy. Danger. War.

As they thought the words, both Gifted felt a strange tingling sensation spread outward from their Hearts-Blood; the deepest, most purest piece of themselves. In synch, they mirrored each other as their lips parted, jaws opening, to breathe more deeply, tasting sugared metal in the water, utterly oblivious to the happenings going on around them and inside them. Wholly blind to the mighty beings who monitored them like protective parents. They did not see the eyes that followed their dance of combat, motions blurred with speed that seemed too fast, too alien, and then Sklestia was caught, wounded, pinned, and power rose - crackled - between the Tri-horn and the Hellfire in pressure and intensity and the sounds of guttural, blood-chilling growls.

Strong, corded muscles and smooth scales came together, and the Spirits saw Sklestia land a blow that stung, and forced a snarl, a grimace, across Jineiia's

countenance. A second ticked by, a second of stunned stillness. Then movement. Quicksilver and blinding. A claw flew, slicing the watery currents in an arch to its target with deadly accuracy. Sharp talons met their mark, drew bright blood, before retreating; clenching slowly, dangerously. Jineiia let loose a ragged breath, a storm of bubbles curling up from her flared nostrils. The action looked normal, the quick withdraw a wise move, but the Four had seen the shift – felt it tick-tick-tick away like a bomb – and the thick red mist in the water reached deep, deep into them and clawed at the Seal that bound them, silently begging for that surge of synergy that would usually be at the Vessels disposal.

But because of the seal… Nothing. Jineiia received nothing.

No connection. No power. No stability.

The Hellfire didn't even register that she was reaching for something; she remained blissfully unaware and empty; she knew nothing else, having never known what it felt like to be a true Vessel with a strong, healthy connection with only one Spirit and not just an unknowing container for two.

Sklestia caught the familiar motion, finger-fanning whispered in an odd feminine voice that sounded much like her own only… weaker? Hollow? Smaller? Human?

Horned head tilting forward, the Tri-horn focused on the glowing teal claws, taking a cursory glance at Jineiia's face, and was immediately distracted by the glazed darkness of her visage, the near-flicker of always glowing slit eyes. It was a costly distraction. An opening.

Jineiia knew no such distraction and surged forth with a snarl—with an empty sort of pain that did not stem from her numerous wounds—and reached down with crushing force to open a wide slash across Sklestia's chest, and then again, deepening the angry wound.

The breath flew out of her; by a slim margin, and with the last bit of that breath, Sklestia dodged away from the third strike and stood back, wings shuddering against her heaving sides, retreating, touching the gore of her chest with wide teal-brown eyes. Blood welled to the surface, ran free like a spring. Sklestia… or was it Liberty… stood still, frozen, blinking. Blinking away the teal, the secret influence cutting itself off. She floundered.

Every step taken backward, Jineiia matched moving forward. Stalking. Prowling. The influence taking its time to abate. Too long for some.

"Come back to yourself! Come back, little one!" The voices whispered fervently, their tones colored with regret and tension; pain at not anticipating this latest surprise; this development of rage nurtured by the gaping pit of emptiness that should've been a scintillating star of limitless energy and soulful harmony. Connection. A connection that hadn't there when it needed to be, thus leaving a darkness in its place. In despair, the Sea Spirits wept.

The agony of losing a piece of yourself you never knew you had. Harrowing.

The shock of waking up when you're already awake to the thick, cloying scent of blood. Paralyzing.

Not understanding your own actions and emotions. Disorienting.

Sonneillon B. Jillian felt like she'd been sundered at the seams and restitched with electric wire. W-w-wha? W-hat? Drawn back out of whatever the fuck that had been, Jillian stared forward, blue-teal eyes dazed and blank. Shell-shocked.

A sudden bout of dizziness assailed her, and she staggered, head shaking in acute confusion. W-what is…go-ing on? Something red glimmered at the edge of her vision, standing out against the deep blackness of the sea floor, drawing her hazy, stilted gaze. Jillian focused on it, honing in on the color, hoping that doing so would stop the sickly spinning in her head. A second of study later; slit eyes widened.

Oh—oh Spirits!

It clung to her claws. Little beads of crimson.

It floated like red mist. All around her!

It smelled like her own; familar and… terrifying. No!

Liberty's blood.

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Two different gazes locked together, meeting, speaking, communicating their reactions.

One glittering with blatant horror; the other shocked incomprehension.

"What the-"

"O-oh Spirits, I'm sorr-"

Awkward silence. Staring.

Then.

In perfect unison, even down to the same frantic inflection. "What just happened?"

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Some time later...

They were trying to puzzle out the intriguing, slightly suspicious, but not quite threatening, and somewhat eerie phenomenon that had left them both feeling partially schizophrenic, exhilarated, spooked (out of their minds), wary, energized, and, of course, confused as all get out as well as utterly horrified, at least, on Jillian's side of things. So far neither Gifted were close to finding an answer to the mystery since they were stuck wading through other emotional problems.

And, oh, was it driving them nuts. The Tri-horn in particular.

"…now I did! I saw my claw-tips, damn it! They were covered up to here! Do you know how deep that is? I know! I know! It's a stupid question but seriously who fractures their best friend's ribs! Who? Don't tell me! I already know; a kins—"

"Shut up!" Liberty growled with near rabid annoyance, fed up and done with Jillian's infamous conscience where she was concerned. Spirits! They weren't even wounded anymore and she was still freaking out. Ugh.

"But Lib!I attacked you! Attacked! You know, the use of deadly force, assault, offensive action; stuff like that! Oh, what is wrong with me! How could I, damn it!" the hysterical Hellfire bemoaned miserably.

"Jill. You didn't attack me. We were just… playing…" Liberty furrowed her brow at the use of that last word. It had slipped out unconsciously… But it oddly sounded right. Felt right too. Weird.

Apparently, Jillian felt the same way if the contemplative glint in her eyes meant anything. "But I still inj…"

Lib narrowed her eyes. "But. Nothing. And you didn't fracture my ribs, you sliced clean through them; I would show you but they're already healed." Jill froze, wings stuttering in the water, hissing, irritated by the high-handed sarcasm. Why wasn't she taking this seriously!

A moment of tense silence. The Wyvern Sisters continued to swim.

"You're a lizard-licker Lib," she muttered, sulking. All she got was more tense silence. Bitch.

The Tri-horn threw a glare over her shoulder. 'I heard that. Legless gecko.'

'You heard nothing. Deaf groundling.'

Liberty nearly, nearly snorted at that one. If only she had something to swing or—wait! Oh that was good. That was clever. She liked it. Oh yes, that would do nicely. Her tail was longer than Jillian's…

An evil smile curled her lips, showing off pearly white fangs.

"You're not the only one who managed to land a hit, y'know," she stated randomly, sinister grin well hidden. "Did I get anything vital?"

A flash of guilt flickered across Jillian's features – she couldn't bare the thought of hurting Liberty, not when she'd taken so much from her in the past – so it burdened her to hear even the slightest reminder of their… spar? Fight? Duel? For the life of her, she could not call it play. Even if calling it that brought a sense of warmth and connection; she didn't deserve it. That feeling of security and ebullience.

"Not really. Just my shoulder, right wing, left hip, and my tail."

Liberty smirked. Ha. Tail.

"So nothing is wrong with your face?" she asked carefully.

"No – why?" Jillian said slowly, tone and expression teeming with confusion. She hadn't been hit in the face.

BAM!

Skulley J. Liberty gripped her tail like a whip, turned, promptly whipped her in the nose and knocked her into a nearby wall of rock. The Tri-horn flexed her wing and glared at her best friend.

"OW FUCK!" said bestie roared in pain, teal claws cupped over her throbbing snout even as she reeled back from the disorienting hit.

"Stop with all this guilt shit! Okay, I'm fine, your fine, everything is fine! Now stop it! Because I can feel it and it's driving me insane!" Lib growled dangerously, gnashing her fangs out of sheer agitation.

Not one to sit back and cower nor one to back down; Jillian got angry. And anger always overshadowed guilt.

"You're a fucking snake," she bit out through grit teeth, grimacing darkly; every word sending a pulse of pain through her nose. Spirits damn it that stung! At least she wasn't bleeding, but damn it to verdaron if it didn't hurt like a bitch. Infuriated blue-teal eyes locked with incensed brown-teal and they glared, unblinking, fed up with the other. Fed up with the phenomenon-thing hanging over their heads like a big, fat, white elephant. And what do they do when they are fed up with something? Take it out on each other.

"Better than being a cowardly little worm who internalizes every fucking thing she thinks she does wrong, instead of accepting that it's okay and in the past!" Liberty hissed, the scales of her hide quivering with indignant emotion.

By the time she finished saying her piece Jillian's eyes had turned to mere slits of apoplectic outrage. She snarled, the sound ripping itself from the deepest pit of her stomach; guttural and spine-chilling. Lib didn't flinch but she did raise a taunting brow in retaliation. Snap! The Hellfire lunged suddenly, snatched a wing, spun, and shoved her into the wall of stone she'd rammed into beforehand.

Liberty had a teal wing-spike trained to her head before they even heard the thump of their colossal bodies clashing together. As usual, Jillian completely ignored the lethal appendage.

"Think, you say?" Jillian snorted derisively, a sneer curling her lips. "I don't have to think I've done something wrong; it doesn't work that way, especially when I've already done it." She shook her head, nostrils flaring, a strange expression Lib couldn't read flitting across her features.

"You didn't do it."

A grim sort of mockery bled into Jillian's eyes and she growled, "Who doesn't matter; it was still my body, my hands, my claws that slaugh–!"

"Don't you dare say it doesn't matter!" Liberty exploded furiously, wings flaring wide, tail lashing sporadically. "Because it does and you know it! Spirits, Jill, why do you do this to yourself!? Huh? Why? If I can overcome the past so can you, but you have to let it go! You can't keep doing this every time you draw my blood, okay? It's not healthy for either of us! I forgive you, I did so long ago, you know that. Now, you need to forgive yourself. Accept it and move on, Jill. Stop. Stop torturing yourself over every little thing that reminds you of it." It wasn't quite a plea nor a demand, but it was softly spoken in a tone that ached.

And Liberty did ache. For herself and for Jillian because talking about it wasn't easy. Seeing Jill withdraw behind one of her masks wasn't easy. It was torture; of the soul; of the mind; of the spirit. It needed to stop.

She didn't want to remember. Ever.

Yet, for reasons beyond her understanding Jillian did and she couldn't understand it. What was the motive? What was the drive? Why did Sonneillon B. Jillian feel the need to revisit a memory that only brought both of them terrible pain?

Skulley J. Liberty did not have an answer.

But her best friend did.

Jillian shivered, the whole of her body shuddering and she backed off, turning away, head shaking side-to-side. Conflicted. So conflicted. But Lib had seen the blank gleam of inward focus in her too-wide eyes, so she had let her go. It was down to a waiting game now, down to whatever Jill decided.

Liberty waited and watched in a state of quiet, impatient, anticipation.

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It was inconceivable. There was no way.

Accept it and move on?

How?

Stop?

How?

Forgive herself?

She didn't dare.

Was it even possible for someone like her to accept such a thing? To let it go? She didn't know how. Was too steeped in her ways to want to know how.

Has she ever accepted anything before that night? Could she accept anything at all? Was it currently a dormant ability that could potentially emerge if provoked? Or was it lost just like all the other pieces of herself, trapped underneath the scar tissue of her sins. Would she handle herself differently if she used those captive feelings, dug them up, dusted them off, and tried them on for size? Jillian honestly didn't know if she could.

Acceptance: the antithesis she knew nothing about, had forgotten about. Didn't dare claim for herself; she didn't know how. Not after so many centuries of self-condemnation.

Jillian came to a disturbing conclusion. She voiced it out loud.

"It's all I know."

It's all I can do to repent.

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Liberty heard both whispered confessions and slowly deflated. Shoulders slumping, wings drooping, features crumbling even as they lit up with realization. She swam forward, gently pushing off from the wall to wheel around her distraught friend. "Hey," she called to the Hellfire coaxingly, "We're in this together. We've always been in this together; don't keep shutting me out Jill. Don't use the mask to shield yourself from me, let me help, you stubborn lizard. After all, that's what friends do."

Jillian gave Lib a hard, penetrating stare, as if compelling her to understand the gravity of her own words. She shook her horned head, sighing tiredly, a growl of frustration bubbling like lava in her throat.

"This mask I wear doesn't shield anything. It merely hides my scars. Wearing it doesn't alleviate the pain, doesn't put my soul at rest, and it doesn't absolve all my sins either. If anything, it stirs the memories - the nightmares - even more. I… am a masochist, in a way. Remembering that night is the most agonizing thing in the world, but I want to. Iwant to, but I don't want to." Her voice broke and she turned from her again, breathing heavily.

Liberty felt the need to reach out, to comfort, to share in the pain she could see gleaming out from sad glowing eyes, hear in that hoarse, forceful tone that belonged only to Jill. A pain that burned much like her own. As confused as she was, there was a small part inside her that, in a round-about way, understood where the Hellfire was coming from, but still…

"You feel like it's your responsibility to remember. You really think haunting yourself like that helps?" Liberty was unsure of her own words, unsure whether it was the right thing to say, but it came out anyway. Her voice ringing with bite and that bigger part of herself that refused to remember, refused to fathom Jillian's way of thinking.

The Hellfire's mouth twitched into a small empty smile and seeing it sent a cold shiver streaking down Lib's spine. "I don't deserve help. I don't want help. Because in this I can at least repent if only by my own suffering. It's painful, of course, for me and I don't have to remember… but I do. Running away from the memory, forgetting that night, accepting that it's in the pastwould only be adding more fire to my funeral pyre, and it would be the greatest dishonor to your family, so what's the point in running? In moving on? I wear this mask, Lib, to keep the horror of my repentance away from good people. People like you. And…I… I remember because I loved them once. Like a family. And I don't want to forget that. I can't."

The Tri-horn was shaking, but no longer with anger. She was moved by the desperation in Jill's voice, and frightened by the words that had left her lips. Though she knew the cool indifference she so often displayed was just a mask, a facade, Lib hadn't realized how deeply Jillian was affected by the past; by that night. Now that everything was out on the table, it really was foolish of her not to have noticed, but she always seemed so calm and in control (mostly) that it was easy not to look beyond the facade. She could even say she'd gotten used to staring at the mask, so used to it, in fact, that she could no longer see the weeping soul hidden behind it.

And this was the result. She'd been so busy shoving her skeletons into the proverbial closet, and ignoring them, that she'd forgotten about Jill's own demons. Demons that were in a way worse than hers, depending on how you looked at the situation. Guilt was a gut-wrenching feeling and Lib was old pals with it. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry… "I'm sorry," she murmured quietly, putting every ounce of sincerity in her voice. "I…" She swallowed, brain suddenly going blank. "I…"

One pained gaze rose to meet its mirrored partner and there they stayed. Staring. Speechless. Unsure of how to convey in words what they felt needed to be said.

So they spoke without sound. A spiritual conversation.

Communicating through pure emotion what they could not say in words.

…Sadness… Grief… Despair… Trauma… Loss… Rage… Terror… Desperation… Confusion… Clarity… Pain… Reluctance… Assurance… Daring… Hope…

An understanding bloomed between them. Slow, hesitant, with a lot of misgivings. But it was a step.

A step. The first one of many to absolution.

It was a start.

They would push for no more. Other things mattered. Present things. Ace.

Because.

Skulley J. Liberty knew Jill wasn't quite ready to forgive herself yet.

And Sonneillon B. Jillian knew Lib didn't want to stop running from the past either.

It would take time.

Thankfully, they were Gifted, they had time, plenty of it. Thousands of years of it, in fact.

Oh yes, they had time.

Portgas D. Ace, however, did not.

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Wednesday morning, 11:56, June 7, Impel Down...

"Luffy-kun, so you made it?"

It was chaos. It was panic. It was everything that was terror, desperation, and clock was ticking, the air was suffocating, and everywhere they ran that sickly sweet smell followed. The scent of nightmares. The scent of death. The scent of poison.

"I'm here. He's still chasing us, though!"

One touch, one drop, and you were done. Paralyzed, caught, dead.

"We're gonna hit a dead end at the exit!"

They had to keep running. Closer, closer, closer. To freedom. To Ace.

"Forgive me. We've stolen a ship, but we're too far away from you. But don't stop moving."

"Jump straight into the sea!"

Only Jinbei wasn't making it easy for them.

Not at all. Everyone heard, everyone blanched; a collective jaw-dropping movement of surprise and disbelief.

"WHAAAAT!?"

Cue an onslaught of shouts and shocked exclamations.

"What did he just say?"

"The ocean!?"

"Is he crazy?"

"He's out of his mind!"

"We'll die if we jump!"

"He'll catch us for sure!"

Hopeless sobs ricochet off the cold gray stone walls of Impel Down.

"Don't give up, you dancing fools! Luffy is with us!" Bon Clay shrieked while doing an échappé sauté, a move that lacked its usual grace and coordination, though none of its outré vigor. Not that anyone noticed, occupied as they all were with running and balking over Jinbei's insane directions. There were more than a few Devil Fruit users amongst them and, safe to say, they were not thrilled to hear what Jinbei had to say about their escape plan.

Luffy included.

"But I'll sink! We'll sink!"

Coal black eyes stared down at the baby Den Den Mushi with dubious child-like censure. But this was Jinbei… He could trust Jinbei. No, that wasn't right. He did trust Jinbei.

Because Ace trusted him. And he would to.

"Get everyone to jump into the ocean!" the little snail spoke, Jinbei's familiar baritone growl issuing from the mouth. "You can leave the rest to me!"

Determination and trust sprang up inside him and Luffy being Luffy acted on it immediately. Never thinking. Never faltering.

Heels digging into stone, he slid to a stop. Body whirling to face the menace dogging their steps, face tense and focused, jaw set and strong; he could do this!

"Do as he says!" Luffy shouted over his shoulder, fists up and ready for action. Pin-striped prisoners and Okama alike gawked, squealing and shrieking their confusion.

"WHAAAAAT!?"

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Thirty seconds later...

Two things happened simultaneously.

One: Galdino and Luffy combined their devil fruit powers which resulted in Magellan going down. Long enough for them to escape, they hoped.

"He pushed him back!" Stolen swords and pistols waved through the air in ecstatic enthusiasm.. Cheers thundered and bounced off the walls.

Then someone noticed the poison - like lava - seeping, crawling creepily towards them. Happiness withered instantly and dread reached up to choke off startled screams; everyone panicked. Much like a herd of frightened animals, they turned tail and ran, hundreds of feet stampeding across stone flooring that turned to wood planks. A pier.

Two: Luffy's ability recoiled back on him and he shrank. Air whooshing out of him rapidly, the force of it propelling him backward till Iva-chan's enormous head and hair put a stop to his wild momentum. For a second or two he lay there, gasping for breath, spread eagle, inert.

The sudden cacophony of screams and steps had Luffy popping his eyes open. Alert, mildly disoriented, drained, and eyeballing the lurid wave of poison spewing closer. And closer.

Instant adrenaline rush and he was up but Ivankov was not; the poison crept closer. He freaked. "Iva-chan! Iva-chan, wake up!" Luffy's squeaky voice echoed as he flailed and jumped in full panic mode. "We're in trouble! Iva-chan, wake up!"

No response.

"Hey! Hurry and wake up! Iva-chan!"

Nothing. Ivankov's eyes remained blank.

"IVA-CHAN! WAKE UP!" Luffy bellowed. Nevermind the fact that he sounded like an angry chipmunk…

But it worked. Finally. Extravagant eyes – marked by pale blue eye-shadow and flamboyant eyelashes – snapped open, staring at nothing.

"Hmm? Vhat?"

Relief ignited but it was quickly quashed beneath a stronger emotion. Urgency. It was howling through Luffy by way of his instincts, telling him to go go go!

"Iva-chan! We gotta hurry!"

He leaped, he jumped, he wailed. Arms flapping like a bird out of some need to get moving.

Ivankov blinked languidly, dazed gaze slowly coming in to focus on the erratic Strawhat captain. Luffy kept squeaking.

"Hurry! Hurry! Use that move of yours! The Wink!" he hollered, shrill voice ringing as if he were on helium. The Okama Queen met this demand with no outward reaction, his gaze remained dazed and somewhat vacant. Nevertheless, he answered, "Okay then."

Those on the pier became absolutely hysterical, limbs flying every which way, eyes bulging wildly, jaws lulling open in alarm. They were so going to die! And they said as much.

"Hey, wait a second, Iva-sama!"

"Oh God! Don't! I c-can't swim!"

"This is impossible! We're all going to drown!"

One of Ivankov's eyes suddenly widened—

"Here ve go!" he said, voice oddly jolly.

Pop! Luffy, normal once again, turned to the prisoners and shouted hurriedly, "Everyone, grab onto his face!" Despite garnering strange looks, no one disputed him. And seconds later a veritable stampede of Okama and pin-striped men rushed towards the collapsed Iva-chan, hands grasping both flesh and hair.

—A moment before it slammed shut.

Using the power of the Horu Horu no Mi, Emporio Ivankov sent himself - and everyone hiding in his hair - flying.

Away from Magellan's grasping claws.

Away from the dank, dark stone walls of imprisonment.

Away from Impel Down.

And into freedom.

Or, more appropriately, into the air.

"WE'RE FALLING!"

Ivankov, indeed, started to plummet.

Down. Down. Down. To the sea.

Eyes clamped shut, stomachs flipping between throats and ankles, the free prisoners of Impel Down held their breath. Hearts pounding, some frozen from the terror, they waited for that frigid touch, that cold, shocking brush of icy seawater.

Plunk. Thud.

Loud, deafening splashes. Not them.

A strange moaning call. They were still screaming.

The familiar sensation of rolling across waves. Jinbei had the boat, though…

What?

Cue acute confusion.

Luffy and a dozen brave, daring others cracked open their eyes. Goggled. Choked. Wailed.

"W-WHALES!?"

They were being carried away on the backs of blue whales.

In the midst of raging elation and abrupt caterwauling, Monkey D. Luffy grinned.

He was one step closer to saving Ace.

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Wednesday evening, 1:00, June 7, Somewhere near Sabaody Archipelago...

Edward Newgate…

Captain of the Whitebeard pirates.

One of the New World Emperors.

Strongest Man in the world.

…Felt decidedly proud at the moment.

It wasn't for any obvious reasons and he doubted anyone would be able to grasp the 'why' behind such an odd emotion - given the grim circumstance - or even fully comprehend said feeling in light of the situation he was observing. No, this emotion was his and his alone. For no one else stood equal to his unique position, not even Red-Haired Shanks, nor Kaido or Big Mom.

They did not have sons and daughters to protect, they did not have a son to save, they did not - could not - understand the incredibly warm sensation of familial pride he felt upon seeing his many children working together in preparation for war. Yes, he shared not one drop of blood with any of them, but in the long run it mattered little - to him and to them. Because in the end, every single one was either a son or a daughter to him, and he their Pops. That special bond was perhaps stronger because they weren't related by blood, but by the sea itself.

"Pops?"

Whitebeard surfaced from his reverie with a slow blink, one keen amber eye slanting sideways to land on the deck by his shoulder and the son who'd spoken. Marco. His First son.

"Ah. It is done then."

The First division commander hopped up on the balustrade beside his captain, legs hanging carelessly, arms crossed out of habit. He 'hmmed' and nodded, black eyes watching the proceedings down below - the well oiled cogs of a war machine turning, warming up - with casual acuity.

"Good. We leave as soon as our allies are counted for."

Marco the Phoenix glanced down, eyes trailing over the glossy sheen coating the banister upon which he sat, before smoothly pushing off to land on the lower deck. Rising from his crouch the devil fruit user walked away. He had allies to find.

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Ludivina Bay was known by Thatch's crew, now her crew, to be cool and blithe; patient to a fault. Yes, she did possess an extraordinary amount of patience (she'd had to deal with Thatch's antics for years) but, oddly enough, she felt none now. In hindsight, she could understand why she was feeling resentment; she was sure everyone felt it in some instances. Portgas D. Ace, a brother, a crewmate, a friend, was scheduled to be executed in a few hours and all she was doing was… a whole lot of nothing… It was severely frustrating.

The Fourth division commander sighed quietly and decided silently that that wasn't quite right.

She wasn't doing nothing, it just felt that way because she had to wait. Usually, she enjoyed waiting; the serenity of it always helped her to focus her mind. Now, it was just plain aggravating. Or should she say…

"You're late. I was beginning to get frustrated White."

The figure on the famous "Icebreaker" mirrored her own lazy posture; slender body resting nonchalantly against the Forcastle railing, arms leaning over the banister without a care in the world.

The familiar relaxed tones of her younger sister crossed the span between their ships, carried on the wind to her ears. "Late, Lu? I don't think so. Oars isn't even here yet, so I'm not the last one. And really, since when do you get frustrated?"

Ludivina "Snow Witch" Bay straightened from her bent pose, hip cocking in that signature stance that both sisters shared, and stared down her nose over at her sibling. A pale blue brow hitching up in answer to her retort.

Whitey "Ice Witch" Bay rolled her eyes at the look, right hand signalling for her men to drop anchor. "Icebreaker" was close enough.

"So…" she began confidently, voice tinged with curiosity and danger, "who's all here? And why is your ship coated?"

Ludivina gave a sly, razor-sharp smirk, cobalt eyes dancing with anticipation as she glanced over her shoulder, the sight of multiple ships anchored behind her only widening her wild grin. She turned back slowly, never rushing, always somewhat languid in movement, to stare back at her sister… who shared the same exact expression: charged and rearing to go.

She shrugged, long powder blue tresses weaving in the high wind. "Almost everyone now. Squard came in about an hour ago, followed by Epoida and the Decalvan Brothers. Some fifteen-twenty minutes later, Kinga, Doma, Wallem, Brew, and Andre all arrived together; probably were sailing in the same area. Hm, then McGuy and Ramba pulled in behind me earlier and I think I saw Palms' flag somewhere."

A pale, well-manicured hand idly caressed the hilt of a sheathed blade and Ludivina shifted, instinctively moving with her ship when it rolled, the action completely unconscious and automatic after a lifetime on the seas.

"As to why my ship is coated… Pops' orders. Rather clever actually, this plan of his. I can't wait to carry it out." She smiled, chuckling darkly.

Whitey laughed huskily in response, a crooked grin turning her full lips up in an expression of shared fervor.

Then.

Ludivina spun on her heel and sauntered away, gait smooth and rolling, and headed for the opposite side of her command ship. She threw over her shoulder, "C'mon White, let's go track down Marco. Pops wants a head count of all our allies and we can't leave until he has it. So get your arse over here!"

Whitey Bay calmly ascended the heavy, fortified balustrade of her ship, braced, muscles tensing, before lunging forward through the icy ocean air. With quiet grace she landed, as agile as a cat, on the white banister her sister had just been leaning against. Sending a loaded look back over her shoulder at her men, she walked off after her older sibling.

Almost time. Almost time.

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Somewhere in the ocean...

A perplexing, utterly baffling conundrum had made itself known. At first it had only lingered in the back of their minds, a curious puzzle to gawk at in passing. Something to wonder at as an afterthought. Now, however, it was staring them in the face, a mystery that simply couldn't be ignored. And when one mystery surfaced to the forefront, others were sure to follow.

"I swear, something is wrong with us! This is not normal, Jill. We just beat the crap out of each other, don't you think we should be hungry? Ugh, how can I not want to eat? Look at all this mana! I feel bad not eating it! Do you know why? Because I feel full! How weird is that? Full! And we haven't had any mana in weeks, so we should be stuffing our faces like Ace during dinnertime! Grrr, I hate being confused! Shit, fuck, fire! I have a headache! Jiiillll!" Skulley J. Liberty ranted, whining at a frowning, stolid Hellfire wyvern with furrowed brows.

"Don't Jill me, Lib! I'm as clueless as you are!" Sonneillon B. Jillian snapped waspishly, lips peeling back in a silent snarl of fervid annoyance. Though, most of it wasn't aimed at Liberty but at the vibrant, pulsating mana crystals nearby. It hadn't been but three minutes since the two of them, silent and musing, had swam upon the shimmering food source. Relief and eagerness had, of course, swelled beneath their scales at the bright sight until… their elation died because their stomachs decided not to cooperate. Oh yes, something was definitely wrong and it only took them mere seconds after their discovery to nail the problem.

They weren't hungry. At all. Nada. Zilch. Or, more appropriately, they still weren't hungry. Seeing as this was the second time they had pondered their lack of appetite, the first being when Shakky had asked about their eating habits and that had been hours ago. Even back then, they hadn't felt a lick of hunger; it was both strange and worrying.

Strange, because their synergy reserves remained brimful, the flow strong and healthy. Unchanged. Which simply didn't make sense to either of them. A Gifted using its body, exercising its energy output always drained its reserves. Just like any normal living creature. You moved, you used up energy, you ate to replace said energy. It was a known law of nature. But right now they were breaking that law and they didn't understand how it was possible. So damn confusing!

Worrying, because they should've been starving out of their minds. Only, they weren't. And after nearly eight weeks without sustenance, how could their situation not be worrying. To make their odd quandary even more peculiar, there was something inside, some nameless instinct, telling them that it was normal!

That all was well.

To say they were confused beyond anything would be the biggest understatement of the century. Period.

"Ugh! This is weird!" bemoaned the Tri-horn dramatically, flopping down on the seabed with a thud and a giant puff of sea-dust. Miserably, she threw a wing over her horned head, nostrils flaring out a huff of bubbles and methane gas. From under her webbed appendage a giant, glowing eye narrowed, glaring somewhat petulantly at the inert mana crystals. Die, die, die!

Observing this bahavior with a very bored expression, Jillian said nothing, blue-teal eyes rolling skyward silently. Lib was just being Lib and for the moment the Hellfire saw fit to ignore her best friend's antics; there were other things that needed attention.

Like, for instance, that abnormal instinct whispering inside her soul, telling her things that shouldn't be possible…

"Why does this have to happen to us now?" Liberty lamented in the background. She went ignored.

This isn't the first time either, Jillian mused, expression distant and calculating. We've felt this before… This instinct, this feeling… It was there whispering to Lib and I during our pla- no! Why do I want to call it that!?

Jillian exhaled heavily, mildly frustrated, mostly confused.

Why did she feel like calling it that? Why was she drawn to that one particular word? Playing. Were they really playing back there? More like sparring. More like fighting with all the wounds they'd landed; bloody, painful things meant to hurt and weaken. That was not playing. And there went that feeling again; whispering to her, always whispering whenever her thoughts focused on the… play-fight? Roughhousing? Whatever.

For all her questions, she had no answers, only idle speculation and guesswork. Nothing concrete. It was aggravating. With the tips of her claws Jillian rubbed her forehead stiffly, growling low in her throat, the sensation of a migraine coming on. Damn it.

Why did this have to be so complicated? The Hellfire sighed tiredly, the weight of the world seemingly held on her dark shoulders.

Okay. Okay. Facts. Look at the facts, Jillian muttered mentally, eyes shutting in concentration and slight pain. Stupid headache.

Obviously, there was something odd about their situation. I know that. Lib knows that. She nodded to herself, eyes glancing at her friend, a friend that was currently making derogatory, rude gestures at the mana… She snorted.

Odd being what? Odd in the fact that we're not hungry, our reserves aren't drained to the dregs, and we had an underwater battle royale that felt completely natural.

Jillian focused on the last one, and thought why? Why did she think that? Why was it natural?

The answer came to her immediately.

Because the experience itself aroused none of her prickly suspicion.

Only acceptance and, she remembered suddenly with a gasp, that startling sensation of oneness with the sea.

But there was something else too. Something buried beneath that breathless feeling of unity. Something other. Something she couldn't quite name.

Determined to unearth some insight on the phenomenon, Jillian delved deeper into her memories, metaphysical eyes narrowed as they analyzed and prodded each image and emotion with meticulous assiduity.

What she found mentally staggered her, outwardly causing her body to stiffen like a board. She couldn't stop the reflexive exclamation of, "Spirits! Shit!!"

Which, in response to her unexpected cry of shock, had Lib's head snapping up, attention ripped from her own train of thought. "What! What's wrong! Jill?" she yelled out, wings flailing, eyes blown wide in alarm. To further her surprise, the figure of her best friend whirled on her, the move so fast, so abrupt that Liberty felt herself flinch back, the look she observed on Jillian's face deepening her sense of bewilderment.

"Jill? Jill, what's wro—"

Heart pounding a strange tattoo in her ears, the mind-boggled Hellfire wyvern cut in, spewing a wealth of rapid-fire words that nearly tumbled over themselves because she was saying them so fast.

"—Lib! T-the memories! No! O-our memories! The phenomenon! There was something there! It's coming from inside us. Both of us. It was going off our instincts; using them as a sort of- of smokescreen. Hiding behind them. Check your memories of the play-fight, it's like there's something else there, overlaying all the emotions we felt, influencing them almost! You can feel it if you focus on it! It's like we have dual feelings, but only-one-set-belongs-to-us!" The breath whooshed out of Jillian and she panted, big barrel chest heaving in big gulps of sea-water, scales shivering, adrenaline racing like fire through her veins.

She sat there at the bottom of the trenches, in the deepest part of the ocean, shaking from her discovery, and stared, waiting - the very water charged with her emotions - for Liberty to come to the same conclusion. Feel the same dizzying revelation.

And she did. A stillness, a shrill shriek, and Skulley J. Liberty stumbled to the side, brown-teal eyes going impossibly wide, gaze unblinking as she came reeling out of her mind back to reality. "W-what the verdaron! What the verdaron! WHY DO I HAVE TWO DIFFERENT FEELINGS? I'M ONLY ONE GIFTED! ARRGH!" It was a confused bellow of incomprehension and it echoed for miles upon miles.

When her reaction finally tapered off the Tri-horn flopped back down, pouting, still wide eyes pinned on her visibly befuddled companion. "Jill… Jill, why do we have…" she trailed off, swallowing, not quite sure how to word her thoughts. "How is it that we can feel two different things about the same situation? Like- like we're two people in one body… How is that possible?" she whispered, all soft and flustered.

Jillian stared back at her friend, gaze blank and unseeing, eerie in its nonplussed state. Then she seemed to shake herself out of it, at least, a little. "I… I don't know." she said simply, blinking as if dazed, as if she were waking from a dream. "I've never heard of something like this happening before. But, you know, I don't think it's bad… Dangerous. Yeah. I don't think it's dangerous, Lib."

Retort on her lips, Liberty made to open her mouth, however, Jillian beat her to the punch, head shaking in the negative. "Think about it, Lib. I know what you're going to say. Something is wrong with us, right? But think about it. Really think about it. We're still whole. We're still ready to fight and save Ace. Nothing bad has happened."

'Yet'

"Oh shut up. I'm trying to be optimistic here and you are not helping!" Jillian huffed grumpily, glaring at a smirking Tri-horn.

"Pfft, since when were you the optimistic one? That is my job. You're job is to be dark and cynical." Liberty snarked second later, scoffing playfully.

Jillian's eyes narrowed slowly, a whisper of violence flickering across her features, and for an instant, Lib thought she would lunge at her, but the occurrence of an epiphany startled them both to stillness.

It was happening again!

The whispers, the sensation of other feelings welling up from deep within them; they could sense it happening, now that they knew what to look for. It was just the barest touch of alien sentiment - alien… influence - but they could feel it brushing up against their own emotions, the edges blurring like two different color paints meshing together.

"It's almost…" Liberty murmured thoughtfully, eyes wandering as she grasped for that elusive descriptive word dancing on the tip of her tongue. "Like a… a…"

"A presence." Jillian finished softly, blue-teal eyes rising to meet with brown-teal in shared mystification.

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Some time later...

After a quick, heated debate on the possible pros and cons, they'd decided to forgo the mana, since, well, they weren't hungry and their reserves were plentiful enough for a fight. So they left the glowing cluster, snouts pointed northwest, and headed straight for Marineford.

Side by side the Wyvern Sisters swam, no longer in darkness, but in the sun warmed waters of the Epipelagic zone. Unlike the black, lifeless depths of the Hadopelagic zone, the sunlit surface of the sea was a lively, all around noisy place. Crowded too.

Already they had seen a dozen pods of Island whales, raced a hoard of Cheetah-sharks, rescued a baby Deer-dolphin from a Panda-shark, and had nearly swam right smack into a herd of angry Sea Kings. The ocean certainly was a busy place, that was for sure. But not so busy that they couldn't continue their conversation involving the phenomenon.

"So we're possessed. Is that what you're saying?"

"No! No! Damn it, Lib, I didn't mean it like that!"

"Well, you said–"

"I know what I said! Stop being annoying!"

A snigger.

A glare.

"As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted." An irritated growl. "I remember an old folktale one of the Broodmothers used to tell; do you remember it? The one about the Shadow Walker hearing voices inside her head?"

Random, pensive humming. "Oh! Yes! Yes, I remember it! But we're not hearing voices… And we're not Shadow Walkers, Jill. They're extinct and your blood is still dormant, so don't even go there."

That garnered a scoff. "Whatever. I was just throwing out ideas."

"It was a stupid idea…"

A low, warning hiss. "Fine! Then tell me your ideas! And stop smiling!"

"Okay, okay, I got one. The Broodmother you mentioned, her name was Namaya, right? The silver from Ranglai?"

A nod.

"Well, she was a second generation, only a few hundred years older than us. When it comes down it, Jill, our race isn't even that old. Yeah, there are some of us that have lived for a thousand years and then some, but it's not like our species is as old as time."

A sardonic eye-ridge arched upward. "What's your point?"

Muted growling. "I'm getting to that! Spirits, hold your fangs!" Hissing followed by a sigh. "Look, all I'm saying is that what we're feeling - the whispers and the weird link-bond-oneness with the sea thing - stems from something much older than us or anyone we know. I mean, seriously, don't you sense it! Whatever this presence is, it's old, maybe even ancient and what do we know that's ancient?"

Contemplative silence.

"Elder Chiyo. Raftel. The ocean. The… sky… Yeah, I'm not following you."

Brown-teal eyes rolled skyward. "Ugh, c'mon Jill! The Four Great Sea Spirits!"

An incredulous snort of epic proportions. "Lib. The Spirits!? Are your hearing yourself right now? Pfft, and you call my idea stupid! Ha! At least mine's realistic!"

"Hey! Don't you bash my idea! Haven't you heard of the vessels!?"

Another snort. "That old tale? You can't be serious. If they really did exist, they're dead along with most of the First Generation. Remember? It takes four Gifted and two mated pairs, and since it's just a legend, well, the Third succession definitely failed. After all, everyone knows the tale only tells of eight vessels; the First Vessels and the Second Vessels. There are no Third Generation Vessels."

Awkward, bitter silence.

Then. Softly. "It was just an idea, Jill…" A quiet sigh. More silence. "But it's a cool idea and you know it! I mean, can you imagine being bound to one of the creators of our race? A freaking Spirit! A God. Oh, it must've been awesome to be one, heck, just to see one!" Skulley J. Liberty spazzed excitedly, eyes filled to the brim with wonder.

Swimming beside her, Sonneillon B. Jillian allowed a small smile and murmured, "Yeah, it would've been awesome."

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Wednesday evening, 2:08, June 7, Marineford...

Meeting over Fleet Admiral Sengoku and Admiral Aokiji adjourned to his office, Admiral Akainu and Kizaru leaving elsewhere to go handle last minute matters that needed their attention. Along the way Vice Admiral Garp joined them, his countenance set in familiar stern lines with the usual levity mixed in.

When they were settled – Sengoku sat behind his desk, Aokiji and Garp on the settee – Garp's indomitable curiosity got the best of him; not that he ever tried denying its influence.

"Hmph, what is that on your desk? It looks like rub—"

SLAM!

Went the door, flying on its hinges to bang loudly against the wall as it opened, a frantic marine hurrying into the room, features pale. Wide, panicked eyes set in a sweaty face turned to a standing Sengoku who'd risen at he sudden interruption.

"Fleet Admiral! We've lost contact with the Sabaody patrol fleet! They were supposed to arrive fifteen minutes ago, and we've been hailing them through every radio frequency, but they haven't answered!"

Sengoku's expression tensed at the unexpected news and he nodded curtly to the marine officer who stiffened to attention. "Thank you for the report, soldier. You may return to your post."

The shaken marine turned on his heel and promptly left, leaving the Fleet Admirals office with heaps of renewed tension.

Still standing, frozen in surprise and readiness, Fleet Admiral Sengoku drew in a deep breath; to calm his nerves, to steady his mind, to think clearly about this newest development. But in all actuality he didn't have to think at all, his instincts were already telling him, hissing to him, what had happened to that patrol fleet.

And really he was sharp enough to guess the 'who' in the situation too, and he was not pleased.

But you knew it would happen sooner or later, his thoughts whispered and he sighed, a furrow between his eyes.

Eyes that rose a moment later, glinting with hard resignation and even harder steel. He met the gazes of his two subordinates and said a fact they'd all been waiting for.

"Whiteheard has made his move."

And so it begins.

---

A/n: Lots of plot and points and hidden stuff in this chapter. It was both fun and a bitch to write. Tell me, was it horrible? Cool? Anything confusing? God knows, even I get confused a little with Gifted culture. Lol!

Review, please. Tell me what'cha think!

Now for Shout-outs! Yay!

lawlover345: God, your enthusiasm made me smile. Thank you! Your review was totally unexpected but right on time. I needed it. Thank you so much for reading - and liking - my story! XD

Stray child: I always love reading your reviews. The fact that you keep coming back after all my erratic updates just inspires me to keep going. Thank you for sticking by me!

ArtRat: Oh, I love getting new reviewers! Welcome to A.D! I'm happy that you like my writing and my storyline. Thank you for reading my fic! You completely rock! XD

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ThexWhitexPhoenix: You're one of my longest, most regular reviewers which is just so amazing! I can't thank you enough for your kind words and support! And trust me, the war is where it really starts to go AU. Shit hits the fan. And the shackles are right in the center of it. *Sly smirk*

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