Vespucci was sweating under his coat.
He wasn't cut out for any of this. He'd never been cut out for any of it, ever, but ever since one pirate crew had kidnapped him for his Devil Fruit and then all died from some horrible disease, he'd been stuck playing this role. From the moment that other pirate vessel had found him alone aboard ship, and the rumors had started (not helped by the fact he'd stolen one of the dead captain's coats to keep warm) he'd been forced to keep playing a part. Things hadn't been helped by the fact that the next captain had gotten eaten by a Sea King, and somehow the crew had interpreted Vespucci's being frozen in stark terror as him scaring the damn thing off with a glare, and made him the new captain!
He didn't even want to be a pirate, he just wanted to not die!
But no, he had to keep up the pretense, or this band of cutthroats would kill him in seconds.
And so he kept on a brave face as the so-called 'brain trust' debated just how best to go on their insane quest.
(No, Vespucci hadn't had any issues with Kid. The crazy bastard hadn't even touched him. But he'd seen the man block the Sun Logia's attack barehanded and then smack him into the dirt, and Vespucci wanted no part of a man who could do that).
"Keeping any kind of formation will be borderline impossible. Tartarus might have a current leading to it that we can reach, but the Grand Line is still the Grand Line, and forever treacherous," the albino in the military uniform said flatly. "We'll be lucky to arrive at roughly the same time. And if we don't coordinate..."
"Eustass can pick us off one by one, I know, Turing," the scar-faced madman said. "I'm honestly kind of pissed he figured out how to make a railgun with his powers. Makes our job difficult."
"A night approach would be best," a mustachioed captain in fur and riding leathers said, sun-tanned features squinting. "Approaching under cover of dark, he wouldn't see us coming."
"I suppose we're assuming everyone in the city itself is dead or dying?" the pale, emo-looking captain rasped.
"If they aren't now, they will be by the time we get there," Grigori said. "Only reason I know Kid is going to be there is he's waiting for me." The pirate grinned. "He thinks it'll be just my crew showing up."
There was a round of evil chuckling, which Vespucci dutifully joined in.
"The problem with us keeping formation and arriving at the right time remains prevalent," Turing said. "Until we solve that…"
"Well, if anyone has a Devil Fruit or something that helps with navigation, speak up," Grigori said with a grin.
Wait, what did he know? What was he implying?
Vespucci very carefully did nothing as his mind raced. He'd worked so hard to keep his Devil Fruit secret, his own crew wouldn't tell a soul, how had Grigori figured it out?
Fuck. Time to face the music.
"Actually," he said, straightening his spine as two dozen pirates (and one statue and one transponder snail) glared at him. "I can plot a timely course. Quite easily, even," he said slowly. "There's somewhere in town that makes Vivre Cards, right?" Please let there not be a place, please let there not be-
"Actually, yes," the mustachioed captain said. "One of my crew is skilled in the art. She also does fortune tellings."
"Reading palms?" Turing scoffed.
"Blood magic, actually. Dead animals, lots of chanting. Would be doing more of it, if someone hadn't decided to turn the goat herds we purchased into sausage."
"I confess to nothing," Grigori said, face carefully blank. "But, yes, Vivre Cards...ah, I get it. If everyone can follow your course, we can keep together with minimal issue."
Vespucci nodded, not trusting himself to say anything.
"You realize, of course, that'll put you on the front lines."
Shit.
"I wouldn't have it any other way," Vespucci lied.
"We need a name," the transponder snail said. Everyone's attention pivoted to the mollusc, which flinched.
"For what?" Turing asked.
"This...alliance, of ours. Is it going to end with Kid, or is it going to be something else?" the snail asked. "Grigori is entrusting us with his creations, Drake with his secrets and a key to his location...are we going to trust each other, and work together, or does this end in betrayal once Kid dies?"
"I, for one, would rather not be stabbed in the back," the sallow-eyed doctor muttered, shifting his sword on his shoulder.
"Same here," mustache added.
"I expect to anyway, but I will be pleasantly surprised if I am not," the emo albino deadpanned.
"This is my point," the mollusc declared. "How can we trust each other?"
Mustache chuckled. "Bold words from a man hiding behind a transponder snail."
"You know what, Drogos Attilla? You've got a good point."
The head of the statue crumbled.
There was a tiny person standing there.
Vespucci didn't let his shock show on his face, which was more than could be said for most of his contemporaries. He heard Grigori laughing over the rising noise of panic.
"QUIET!"
Vespucci grabbed his poor, abused ears, and glared instinctively at the shouter, before his brain caught up with his face and registered the fact the man had coal-black skin, glowing red eyes, and the stature of a part-giant. The big man locked eyes with Vespucci, and nodded.
"The tiny man wishes to speak," the green-armored giant said calmly. "Let us let our friend have his say, yes?"
"Er, right…" Vespucci said softly. "Go ahead, little guy."
The tiny person, a black-haired person whose only distinguishing feature (apart from his size) was his shaved, ratlike tail, bowed. "I am Erasmus Yeager, known as the One-Man Company, and a member of the Tontatta Tribe of Canaan. Hiding within my golems gives me the ability to go unnoticed...now, does anyone else have similar secrets? Any captains or crewmen want to step up?"
"My first mate has an unparalleled store of information due to his origins," Grigori noted. "Quite a few interesting secrets there. Also, I'm pretty sure my family has been working as mad scientists with the World Government for at least three generations."
"Anyone who isn't horribly terrifying?" Yeager asked.
There was a moment of silence, and then everyone started trying to talk at once again.
Vespucci slunk away without looking like he was slinking away, a skill he'd honed over years, and waited for the ridiculousness to end. He really didn't need to know any more secrets. He had enough of his own.
He couldn't be entirely certain, but he was pretty sure he saw the sallow-eyed doctor knee the scar-faced one in the balls during the ongoing discussion/argument/bragging rights contest. It was probably a trick of the light, because Grigori continued laughing as if nothing had happened.
Eventually, though, the madness died down.
"So," Grigori said. "Bound by secrets and gifts given, what should we call our sorry lot?"
"There is a legend among my people," the Tontatta began. "About a host of spirits that goes hunting for specific people who offend our gods. Traitors, kinslayers, people who mix fabrics - you know, heretics. It is a terrible thing, an army of monsters and the damned, that knows no rest, no remorse, until their target is erased from existence entirely. We call it the Wild Hunt."
Grigori's grin seemed to shine. "Well, then. That seems a name that fits. To the Wild Hunt!"
"TO THE WILD HUNT!"
Bob was a hospital orderly at Gold Roger Memorial, who'd just seen a long series of highly traumatizing things, which included, in chronological order:
A long parade of horribly maimed pirates.
Then about a month later the exact same thing.
Then the person who'd cured the first batch and brought in the second looking at the half-machine, half-person pirates, cutting off his own foot to replace it with one of the mechanical feet, laughing all the while.
Then being conscripted to implant glowing golden hearts into all the half-machine pirates while said crazy-ass captain babbled about genetic adaptation.
AND THEN being ordered to watch several dozen unconscious robot pirate people, all of whom looked like the spawn of robot Cthulu, until they woke up.
Bob, in his highly informed medical opinion, was just about done with the universe's shit.
Still, the possibility of getting blamed by an obviously insane pirate captain if he left and something went wrong was ever-so-slightly more concerning than the deep boredom he was experiencing.
Even if the steady, rhythmic breathing of the ward's unconscious occupants was extremely creepy.
Something stirred in the corner of Bob's vision.
The orderly sighed, and put down his book. "What the fuck do you want?" he asked flatly.
"- ... . - .- -.-. ... .. -. . .- -.-. - ... -··- - ... . - .- -. -.-. - - .-. .-. . ... . -. -.. ... ·-·-·- - ... .-. - ..- -. ... - ... . ..-. ..- ... .. - -. - ..-. -... - - ... .- . .- .-. . - .- -.. . -. .-. . .- - . .-. ·-·-·- .-. .-. .- .. ... . -... . ..- -. - - - ... . -. - -.. - ..-. -.-. .-. . .- - .. - -. ·-·-·-" came a sequence of buzzing noises from his left.
Great. The Cthulu-bot-people were starting to wake up.
Bob turned his head, and just as quickly turned it away. "For the love of God, put some fucking pants on."
".- ... .- - .. ... .- .-. .- -. - …"
There was a rustle of cloth. Bob waited for a moment, and then judged it safe to look.
Well, it wasn't pants, but it sufficed. Robot-Cthulu The First had put on a ragged red robe - probably one of his personal effects - which covered his body...with the unfortunate exception of the clockwork tendrils protruding from his back. His eyes glowed in the depths of the robe's hood.
One of the clockwork limbs, tipped with something sharp and spinning, pointed itself directly at Bob's head.
Bob just glared at the creepy clockwork fucker. "You got a problem?"
"..-. ..- -.-. -.- -.- - ..- -... .- .-.. - .. - - .-. . -·-·- .. ..-. -.- - ..- ·-· .-. . -.. ..- - -... . -. - ..- -. ... - - -... ..- -.- .- -. . .- -.-. .- .-. - ... .. ... .- . . -.- . -. -.. -··- -.- - ..- ·-· .-. . .- -... .. -. . -. - ..- -. ... ... -.-. ... - ..- -.-. -.- - - -.-. - - . - - -... .. -. -... .. .-.. .-.. ... . .-.. .-.. ·-· ... -.-. .- .-. ... -·-·- -... .- -.. -.. . .- .-.. ... -··- -.-. .- .-. ... - ... .- - -... .-. . .- -.- -.. - .- -. -··- - ... .. . ...- . ... -·-·- .. ..-. -.- - ..- - ... .. -. -.- -.- - ..- .-. -. - .. -. -. - - ..-. .. -. -.. .- -... .- .-. -. .- .. -. .- - -... .. -. -... .. .-.. .-.. ·-· ... -··- -.- - ..- -.-. .- -. -.- .. ... ... - -.- .- ... ... -·-·- .. - ·-· ... - ..- .-. -... . .-.. .. . ..-. - ... .- - -.- - ..- ·-· .-. . ... ..- -.-. ... .- ... - ..- .-. .. -.. - - - ... . .-. ..-. ..- -.-. -.- . .-. - ... .- - -.- - ..- ·-· .-.. .-.. ..-. .- .-.. .-.. ..-. - .-. - ... .. ... -... ..- .-.. .-.. ... ... .. - -. ..- .- .-. .- -. - . . -.. -·-·- .. ..-. -.- - ..- ..-. .. -. -.. .- -... . - - . .-. -.. . .- .-.. -··· ... ... - ...- . .. - ..- .-. -.- - ..- .-. ..- -. .-.. -.- .- ... ... -·-·- -.- - ..- ... . .- .-. -.. ..- ... .-. .. -. ... - -··· ... ... - ...- . .. - ..- .-. -.- - ..- .-. ..- -. .-.. -.- .- ... ... -·-·- -... .-. .. -. -. -.- - ..- .-. - .-. .- -.. . -··- -... .-. .. -. -. -.- - ..- .-. - .. - .-.. . -··- -... .-. .. -. -. -.- - ..- .-. .- .. ..-. . -··- .- . ·-· .-.. .-.. ..-. ..- -.-. -.- ... . .-. -·-·- - ... .- - ·-· ... .-. .. -. ... - .- . ·-· .-.. .-.. ..-. ..- -.-. -.- -.- - ..- .-. .- .. ..-. . -·-·- -... . -.-. .- ..- ... . .- - -... .. -. -... .. .-.. .-.. ... . .-.. .-.. ·-· ... -··- -.- - ..- ·-· .-. . ..-. ..- -.-. -.- . -.. ... .. -..- .- .- -.- ... ..-. .-. - - ... ..- -. -.. .- -.- -·-·- - .- -.- . .- ... .. -.- . - - -... .. -. -... .. .-.. .-.. ... . .-.. .-.. ·-· ... -·-·- ... - - . - ..-. -.-. ... .- .-.. .-.. . -. -. . .-. .. ... ... .. -. -. -··- - ... .- - ·-· ... .-. .. -. ... - -··- -.-. ... .- .-.. .-.. . -. -. . .-. .. ... ... .. -. -. ·-·-·- ... - .- -.. - . ... .. - .- - .-. -.- ··-·· .. ..-. -.- - ..- -.-. .- -. .-. .. ... ... -... ..-. . . - .. -. - ... . .- .. .-. ... - .-. .- .. -. ... - ..- .-. .- -. -.. -. - - -. . - .- . - -··- -.- - ..- -. . - -. - -.. - .- -. .-. .- -.- - . -. - ·-·-·- -.. - -. ·-· - .- .- .. - -··- -.. - -. ·-· - -.. . .-.. .- -.- -··- -.. - -. ·-· - ..-. ..- -.-. -.- .- .. - ... ..- ... - .-. .- . ·-· .-.. .-.. .-. .. .-. -.- - ..- .-. -. ..- - ... - ..-. ..-. -·-·- - -. .-.. -.- .- - -... .. -. -... .. .-.. .-.. ·-· ... ... . .-.. .-.. -··- - ... . - -. .-.. -.- -.. . .- .-.. . .-. - ... .- - - . .-.. .-.. ... -.- - ..- - - ..-. ..- -.-. -.- - ..-. ..-. ·-·-·- ... ..- .-. .-. -.- ..- .-. -··- .- ... ... ... - .-.. . -·-·- - ... .. ... . ...- . -. - . -. -.. ... - ... . - .. -. ..- - . -.- - ..- .- .-. .. - . ..- ... .- -.-. ... . -.-. -.- .- -. -.. .. - -... . - - . .-. -. - - -... - ..- -. -.-. . - .-. -.- - ..- ·-· .-. . .- -.. . .- -.. - - - ... . .-. ..-. ..- -.-. -.- . .-. ·-·-·- -. - - - ... . .-.. .-.. ·-·-·- -... .. -. -... .. .-.. .-.. ... . .-.. .-.. ·-· ... -.-. .- .-. ... -... .- .-.. - .. - - .-. . ·-· ... ..-. .. .-.. - ... .. . ... - .- -. -.. . -..- -.-. .-.. ..- ... .. ...- . ... - - . - ..-. - ... . - . .- -. . ... - ... - -. ... - ..-. -... .. - -.-. ... . ... .. -. - ... . ... - .- - . - ..-. - .- .-. -.- .-.. .- -. -.. -··- -. ..- .- .-. .- -. - . . -.. -·-·- -·-·-"
There was a moment of silence, and then Robot Cthulu the First facepalmed.
".. ... .- ...- . -. - .. -.. . .- .- ... -.- .. ... .- .. -.. - ... .- - -..- -. - .-. .- ... .- - .. ... -. - .. -. -. - -. .-.-.- "
"Yeah, I didn't understand a word of that, so I'm going to assume you want to know what the hell is going on. You want to know that, get your unconscious idiot friends up and go find Grigori Vinci, because I honestly couldn't give two shits about whatever toaster-fucking weird crap you've got going on, but he's the one who hauled you all in and shoved glowing organs into your collective chests."
".- .- .- -.- . -. -..- - -.- -... .-. . - ... .-. . -. .-.-.-".
The hospital ward emptied in seconds.
Bob decided it continued to not be his problem, and went back to his book.
If any coherent thought was running through LXVI's head, it was this:
Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit.
This was the worst of the worst-case scenarios. Vinci was going to lead everyone against a common enemy, including people who were incredibly dangerous in the eyes of even the top brass. That he'd survive and thrive was obvious, and any crews that did would end up joining his cause.
More islands would end up like the Archipelago.
LXVI couldn't allow that.
"It was time to call things in, burn his cover, and hopefully get out of the way after the brass decided to order a Vice Admiral - or, given their opposition, three - to clean house
The undercover agent slipped on board the Phalanx silently, avoiding the watchman on board and making for his cabin. He'd have to kill the man on the way out, but doing so now ran the risk of alerting others. And he needed time to call things in without being undisturbed.
His cabin was pitch-black as he opened the door silently and crept in, fumbling for the snoozing transponder snail largely by touch. Then he froze, suddenly overcome by the overwhelming feeling that someone was in the room with him.
LXVI straightened, placed the mollusc on the tiny desk his cabin had, and slowly opened the shutters on the equally tiny lantern.
There was nobody there.
LXVI let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, and turned back to the snail, which by now was grumpily awake.
"Don't give me that damn look," he told the snail. "Connect me to HQ, pron-"
Someone knocked on the door, and LXVI stifled a curse, whirling towards the entrance and pulling out a pistol. After a moment's thought, he hid the weapon behind his back. "Come in," he said, keeping his voice even.
LXVI didn't recognize the man who entered - a slim, dark-haired man with painfully obvious cheekbones, wearing a dapper suit that cost more than most men could make in a year - and his fingers tightened on the pistol's grip. "Black sparrows in distant halls," he challenged.
"And yet the wolves below never know," the man replied without missing a beat.
Sign and countersign exchanged, LXVI tucked the pistol into the back of his trousers. "Why are you here?" he asked.
"Calling things in. And it's too difficult to do on my ship. Too many eyes." The thin man took a seat on the edge of LXVI's cot, and produced a bottle and a pair of glasses from somewhere. "Drink?" he offered.
"Please," LXVI said calmly, watching as the man poured, and very carefully waiting for the other man to drink first before downing the fiery alcohol.
There was silence in the small cabin for a moment.
"Fuck," the thin man said, somewhat despondently.
LXVI nodded as he sat down on the cabin's sole small stool. "This was far beyond what we expected."
"Damn right. If the Marines don't move quick enough, we'll get a front-row seat as Grigori burns half the Grand Line to ash. Or worse."
"You've seen 'worse'." The other CP4 agent must be one of those embedded in the Nightmare crew proper, then.
"Yes. There's things worse than death, and Grigori looks pissed enough to start putting them to use." The thin man smiled wryly. "But, then again...that isn't your problem anymore."
"What do y-" LXVI froze, his body suddenly locking up. What on earth-.
"Ah, finally. Was starting to wonder if I'd messed up Bertram's instructions." The thin man's smile turned sharklike. "Just a paralytic. And before you ask, of course the bottle was poisoned. I'm just immune."
LXVI tried to scream, but his vocal cords wouldn't obey him.
"There's a lot more of you than I expected. This is going to take a while," the thin man said, standing and drawing a very large knife. "It's a wonder pirates get anything done if their crews are so filled with spies." The knife flashed out, and a stinging line of pain carved itself across LXVI's cheek.
"Ah, well. At least nobody will notice the disappearances. Plenty of reasons for crew to leave, where these crews are going." The thin man trailed his fingers along the bloodied knife, then stuck the scarlet-dipped phalanges in his mouth, sucking noisily. Was he trying to intimidate LXVI? That was pointless, Cipher Pol Four training burned out real fear as one of the first-
The thin man's flesh rippled. Black hair turned to brown, shrinking into the skull, and the man put on bulk and muscle in seconds. Bright green eyes dimmed and clouded until they became hazel, and the man's face broadened, becoming...becoming…
Becoming a perfect match to LXVI's own.
"Ah. That's a bit better."
The suit still fit perfectly, somehow.
"Now, little deceiver...time to say goodbye. It's been a nice talk. We'll see if I get tired of breaking your kind by the end of the night."
LXVI stared at the man. He couldn't speak, but he needed to know.
"Ah. Why? Simple."
The knife moved closer to LXVI's eye.
"For a better world."
Cold and dark claimed him.
There was a very large man in green armor. He was on a very large goat.
"This creature does my bidding now," the black-skinned...whatever he was, proclaimed.
The Dragon gaped for a moment, staring at the gigantic, obviously evil goat for a moment. "I swear I just got rid of that thing," he said after several seconds of silence.
"Yes, but I befriended it," the man declared.
"You know what? Not my problem. Just don't trample anyone."
"Of course not. Onward, my friend! We must find a crew."
The giant goat-thing made a noise like rocks in a blender and clopped down the street past Six. The Dragon turned to keep it in view, and spotted him. "Huh. Something eating you?"
"I am unharmed," Six replied. Then he paused, considering whether clarification was needed. "So, no," he added.
A corner of the Dragon's mouth ticked upwards. "Doesn't really answer the question I was implying, Six."
"Ah. The Oni sent me to keep an eye on you. C was distracted by a pirate captain with a monocle and preposterous accent. They judged me an acceptable replacement."
"And they aren't coming themselves because…"
"They were concerned you would imbibe espresso again and put another one of their members through a wall once more. Also, they all appeared to be various degrees of intoxicated, so perhaps they thought it amusing."
"Eh, fair. You managing?"
Six tilted his head slightly, considering again. "...Yes. Though it would be easier to see things from afar."
"Uh...why?"
"Most of the captains are out in the open. Watching all of them at once would allow me to use my Devil Fruit with maximum efficiency, and therefore understand all their roles at once without risking straining myself too greatly."
"Oh, so the vibrating thing you did when you first met the crew. That...what, lets you foretell things?"
"Somewhat correct. Everyone has a role to fulfill. They push on the universe in certain ways. Ways my Devil Fruit can understand. Some roles are lesser, but all matter." He paused for a moment. "It is how I understood what the captain was. What you are. Your...song."
"Song?"
"Poetry. Wave function. It is...difficult to encapsulate."
"So that's why you called me the Dragon, earlier. Not being metaphorical?"
"No. It is an abbreviation."
"Interesting." The Dragon was silent, for a moment. "Alright, Six, I'll trade you. I'll get you the view you need, you tell me a version of me that's a bit less...abbreviated."
Six paused. "You would have given me the view anyway."
"Yes, but this way I feel slightly more like I'm making a bargain, and I find that satisfying."
Ah. Another layer to the role. The Unbound Physician did not bargain - he declared, or fought, uncaring if others followed or opposed him. The Dragon did care, and tried to harness others to him with those bargains, adding them to the hoard.
Intriguing. Six felt...pleased, that the Dragon considered him an equal to bargain with, rather than someone part of the hoard already. Even if the truth of the matter was that Six was his, in every way that mattered, the Dragon still offered that choice, to accept or deny.
"Your wager is acceptable," he replied.
Kaneki grinned. "Right then. Hop on," he said, as a tendril burst free from his back. The scarlet appendage coiled in on itself and bent upwards, forming a makeshift seat. Six took the invitation for what it was, and sat. The tail had an odd, slightly rough texture to it, and was very warm, warmer than Six had expected even considering the sheer amount of body heat Kaneki seemed to produce.
"Hold on," Kaneki warned.
The world blurred, and Six found himself on a rooftop.
"This work?" Kaneki asked.
Six considered for a moment. Whatever building this was, the rooftop offered a perfect view of the street...and all of the people in it, a small army that, at Six's guess, numbered at least two thousand people.
Two thousand.
But, all in all, Six thought that perhaps only thirty or so would matter.
He inhaled, then exhaled, blocking out the sounds of the world around him.
"Trembling Harmony."
For the briefest of moments, the boundaries between himself and the universe stopped existing. He saw everything, because he was everything. The universe sang an endless song that he was part of, singing along with the same wavelength-
Then he stopped, and the walls came crashing down, leaving him the Cook once again. Six.
He straightened, breathing in the awareness of twenty more roles...in addition to the dozen and two of the Nightmares, still insistent and present...and stronger than the last time. More potent. Not changing, but enforcing themselves far more…
"Six, you with me?"
Ah. He was still drifting. Six shook his head, clearing it of cobwebs of metaphor to focus on the here and now.
"Yes," he replied. "My apologies. It is...very complex. More so with more people."
"Anything of interest?"
"Many things." He paused again as he scanned the crowd.
The green-armored man with the...goat. "Vulkan Lives. The Forgemaster. He will arm and armor us."
A black-haired, pale man, shoulders hunched. "Manson Havran. The Lord of Crows. Master of emotion."
A mutton-chopped, squat man, quietly assembling a palace of cards. "Makaik Kammak. The Castellan, who will fortify what we take."
A monocled man, whom the Hunter was patiently stalking. "Vickers Wellington. The Gentleman. He will tip the scales where swords cannot."
Fractions of names, barely more than their original abbreviations, but once started he couldn't stop. His finger swung from person to person, the Dragon's eyes watching and tracking.
The man in steel plate, the first to join them. "Mavros Thorakis. The Champion, loyal to a cause and a dream."
An enormous dark-skinned man in golden robes, flanked by twin bodyguards as he stared blankly into space. "Diceros Keita. The Wandering King, wealth and power and fame, and yet empty inside."
A man with a cone-shaped head, yelling with his fists raised. "Tyson Crockett. The Fool. Always a joke, never to be disregarded."
An ambulatory diving suit, heavily armored. "Rapture Bubbles. The Protector. A shield for all under his aegis."
A man wrapped from head to toe in bandages and a trench coat, leaning against a wall. "Ellison Carver. The Thief, who snatches dreams."
He let out a breath. That was all of them out in the open and unknown. More than enough.
His hands shook. He ignored it.
"A lot of personalities to juggle," the Dragon noted, lighting his pipe. Smoke wreathed his face. "A lot that could go wrong."
"Unlikely."
"Oh?"
"They will follow. At least for now. They have to, to get revenge. After...after, maybe it will be a problem." He cocked his head. "But it is not for me to handle the problem."
Kaneki snorted. "Fair enough. Wouldn't ask you to, anyhow. Wetwork's my field."
"This is true." Six was silent for a moment. "Would you like to know what you are?"
The Dragon paused. "That sounds like it would take a while."
"Yes. I would not be able to complete a full recitation. At my best estimate, I would perish from thirst before completing ten percent of the complete description."
"That's...vaguely horrifying."
"Presumably. Nobody has informed me until now." He cocked his head. "Then again, nobody has inquired about the concept until now."
"That's because the only one who'd be curious enough to ask outright would be Vinci...and he already saw you do it, so I suppose he understands it perfectly, can replicate it on demand, and will probably be making some horrifying offense to the laws of nature and sanity so he can let other people do it. As per usual."
"This is true. And you have not answered the question."
Kaneki sighed, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "I know my nature, Six."
"And what do you believe it to be?"
Kaneki smiled. "Like you said. I am the Dragon, and my path is that of slaughter."
Six felt an unfamiliar expression tug at his face. "Yes," he said, "and more."