Chapter Summary: Zoro doesn't take the news well, so Mihawk helps him blow off some steam with another spar. The Justice League makes plans.
It's hardly a surprise to anyone when Roronoa stalks out of the room with a muttered curse, though that doesn't stop the one called the Flash, the one Roronoa befriended on the way to the Watchtower, from calling out to him. When the door slams shut, Mihawk releases a tired sigh, and stands himself, grasping the hilt of Yoru and sliding the oversized kriegsmesser into the holding loops attached onto the back of his coat. "Apologies," he says, and it's odd to be apologizing on Roronoa's behalf, but seeing as they both will be in the care of these people for far longer than expected, it is best to keep something of a good rapport between them and their hosts. "He has… people that he cares about, back home. As interesting as your world is, he was eager to return to them. They have a great number of enemies, and while they can take care of themselves, he is their best fighter. He is most likely worried for them."
"You are taking the news relatively well," Batman points out, voice neutral.
Mihawk's eyes flash as he answers the unvoiced question. "I do not have anyone waiting for me back there, like he does. Only he and one other would count, and as far as she is concerned, I am dead and have been for a long time." Perona, after all, is guarding his grave, or so Roronoa claims.
"Hn."
It's like looking in a mirror, not that Mihawk will ever admit it. "I imagine there is much else to discuss, but it will need to wait until Roronoa has had time to process the news. Until then, I will keep an eye on him." He turns to leave. If he leaves Roronoa on his own for too long, the boy will get hopelessly lost and, in his current state, just as frustrated. A frustrated Roronoa could only lead to disaster, Mihawk knows from experience.
He lets the door slide behind him without pause and immediately goes about locating his former student's aura. Unsurprisingly, the boy is wandering on a random floor, and Mihawk closes his eyes and focuses a touch harder on his Observation Haki, crystallizing the outline of the Watchtower from fuzzy lines to hard constructs like a map. Third floor down from my current position.
The elevator ride is quick, and he locates Roronoa quickly enough, speaking in hushed tones with one of the other staff next to a large, extended window. Mihawk frowns and goes over to him, glancing at the window with a cursory look. It doesn't show the outset of space, like he originally assumed it would, but another room that resembles a control center of sorts. It is dim, but he can make out the outline of a control panel, and there's another door there, though where it leads not even his sharp eyes can see.
Roronoa is done speaking with the tech and is now looking his way, a fierce scowl on his lips and an even fiercer look in his eye. Even so, his voice is calm when he speaks. "They say we can fight here."
The fact that they will be fighting barely registers any surprise in Mihawk. Violence, after all, is the best way to blow off steam for men like them. "Oh?"
"Yeah," Roronoa confirms, nodding towards the door. The window lights up, revealing that the room is, in fact, a control room like Mihawk originally assumed, where the tech is operating the panels. At Roronoa's gesture, they follow through the door and into another elevator. This one smaller but big enough to comfortably fit the two of them.
Unlike the other elevator, this one only has two destinations — the one where they came from, and another below it. When they exit the cart, Mihawk pauses to stare, as does Roronoa.
This room is big. Much bigger than any other room in the Watchtower, bigger than even the conference room and the cafeteria. The ceilings rise high, the walls far, and it's all colored a dull gray with a number of lines running criss-crossed on it, like a dull, uncolored checkerboard. What kind of room is this? Mihawk cannot help but wonder, that hint of confusion briefly flickering across his amber eyes.
Then, to both Roronoa's and his shock, the room glows. It glows and transforms right before their very eyes, the gray squares transforming into asphalt and concrete and all other sorts of materials. Buildings, shaped like vertical cuboids, rose from the ground and dotted the landscape, covered in windows and reflecting light from a false sun. This time, Mihawk can do nothing to mask the surprise on his face. He thought after decades at sea, through the New World beyond, nothing could truly shock him again, and yet this world proves him wrong once more.
Maybe it really won't be too bad, staying here for a couple of years, he muses to himself. Perhaps everyone in this world is weak, but any folly to be found in that is mitigated by Roronoa's presence. And there is more to living than just fighting, and Mihawk is well-versed in that. Literature, music, food, wine… it wouldn't hurt to sample it all.
"Oye, Hawk-Eyes! Are we going to fight or not?"
Roronoa is already standing on the opposite end of one of the streets, stretching out his bandanna and wrapping it around his head. Mihawk notes that he doesn't bother removing the top of his coat, instead opting for already drawing his swords. Serious, but also recognizing that is not so much a duel as it is a spar, he concludes as he draws Yoru in tandem. "First blood?" he asks out loud.
Roronoa gives a confirmatory grunt as he places Wado between his teeth. Mihawk holds Yoru in a readied stance, eyes glinting in barely-veiled eagerness. Roronoa allows himself a small grin in return. The moment holds…
…and then, they're off.
Zoro is not like the others. He never has been. Usopp, Nami, and Chopper all shy away from battle. Franky, Brook, and Jimbei all like to fight but prefer to avoid unnecessary combat whenever possible. Even Robin, the only other killer on the crew, only ever kills because she has to, not because she wants to.
Luffy, the cook, and Yamato are the closest to understanding. They all love to fight. But even they are not like him in the end. Because Zoro doesn't just love to fight — he lives for it. The sounds of battle, the clashing of weapons, the weeping blood from flesh, nothing else in the world makes him feel more alive than that. Even training has only ever been a poor substitute for the relentless fire that courses through his veins when in the midst of violent conflict. Roronoa Zoro, at heart, is a cold-blooded killer, and he has long since made peace with that.
That is why, despite their rivalry, Zoro had managed to build such a close rapport with his mentor during his training. Because for all his arrogance, for all his sophistication and cutting insults, Mihawk understood. Beneath all those layers, that pervading aura of mystery, was a swordsman cut from the same cloth as Zoro. A man who thrived in strife and struggled in peace, who had shed gallons of blood for the sake of satiating that endless thirst. Mihawk lives for fighting as much as he does, he is just better hiding it.
No, Zoro corrects, even as he goes in for a slash that is soundly blocked by his opponent, he didn't hide it. It just manifested differently.
Zoro didn't really understand that until he had killed Mihawk and claimed the title of World's Greatest Swordsman himself. After years of blood, sweat and tears, he had reveled in the accomplishment, had been excited for all that would come after. When his first challenger had staked his claim, Zoro had faced him with all the ferocity that exhilaration afforded him, drawn all three of his swords at the very beginning.
The guy had barely lasted thirty seconds. It couldn't even be called a fight.
To say he had been disappointed would have been a severe understatement. That feeling had only grown when the next challenger had barely lasted any longer. And the next one. And the next one. He had tried to diminish the difficulty of the challenge he posed by downgrading to two katanas, and eventually to one (usually Sandai Kitetsu, and later Shodai Kitetsu), and even that had done little to remedy the problem.
It was only then that Zoro had begun to realize the cost of his dream. To stand at the top of the mountain, to stand above all others who pursued the same path as you, sounded nice on paper, but the reality was entirely different. For Dracule Mihawk had existed on an entirely different level of swordsmanship that only one other man besides Zoro himself had ever managed to reach, and had tarried on that level alone after that man had lost his arm. He had experienced everything Zoro was experiencing, lived that reality for years if not decades by the time he had finally crossed paths with the boy that would one day become his successor.
Mihawk had lived to fight, and yet hadn't had a real fight in a long time. The occasional thrill, perhaps, such as when the Marines sent a fleet after him after the Warlord System had been officially abolished, but nothing that could truly bring him to life. It was only in hindsight that Zoro realized that. That he had never seen Mihawk really living until that fateful duel that had ended in the man's death. It was a sobering thought that bode ill for Zoro's own future, because now, with his mentor dead, there was no one else standing with him on that level.
But there was Luffy and the rest of the crew, and that fear had passed into nonexistence as their adventures remained as wild as ever. Perhaps he would never have a duel like that ever again, never feel the thrill of a difficult one-on-one battle once more, but fighting in itself had not left him completely. Life with the Straw Hats was never boring, had never been boring. Zoro would've never had it any other way.
Except now, he thinks, and this time his thoughts are dark with worry and anger. Except now, because he is separated from his crew, in an entirely different world, with no known way back except by putting his trust in strangers. Strangers who tell him that it will take years for him to go home. The mere thought of it enrages him in ways that few things do. They're alone, on their own. Without me.
Without Luffy.
They can take care of themselves, he knows. Sanji is almost as strong as he is, can handle anything short of an Emperor, and all the Emperors are on relatively good terms with them. But it doesn't stop that ugly feeling in his gut, the same feeling that causes him to throw almost everything he has into this one spar with one of his two greatest rivals.
Zoro has been separated from his crew before, but that was different. They had all been separated from each other — not quite on their own, but still with no contact. And yet, they had known they would meet again one day, had set a date to reunite. They had known that all of them were alive.
That is not the case here. Here, the separation is not, in any way, voluntary. Here, there is no way to send word that he is alive. Here, there is no way to know if he will ever see his crew again.
Zoro is too strong to give into the despair. But he is not too strong to not give into the anger, if only a little bit. It is only natural.
That, perhaps, is his biggest mistake.
He is distracted, Mihawk notes with little inflection. It's not surprising, considering why they are sparring to begin with, and with any other opponent it would hardly be a cause for concern. At the level Roronoa is on now, only a handful of people at a time will ever be strong enough to force him to focus and go all out.
Unfortunately for him, Mihawk is one of those people, and the teacher in him is angling to make his once-student pay for it. He had trained this boy to be the best, and Roronoa is the best, but that does not mean the man before him is allowed to slack or falter for even a moment. No matter how many years pass, no matter how much Roronoa grows, he could never, ever afford to get complacent. Complacency dulls the sword, and this is the one sword Mihawk refuses to ever let dull.
He sees the opening, and he strikes. Roronoa notices just a touch late, and while he deflects enough to avoid losing just yet, it is enough to jolt him out of whatever thoughts are darkening his mind. "Do not get distracted," Mihawk intones with a hint of severity. "Lose yourself like that again, and I might as well take back my title right now."
Roronoa glares at him, the grip he has on the hilts of his katanas tightening just so, but he keeps himself in control. Mihawk is impressed; even back then, the boy had always been so emotional. Now, his control is almost a match for Mihawk himself.
The fight continues, but it is more impassioned. Roronoa has always learned quick, especially in the heat of battle, and this, this is what Mihawk yearns for. He thought that he would ever have this feeling once more in his life, when Roronoa finally came to take his head, and now he has had it thrice and the joy has yet to fade. It is for this that he still lives, despite the mark on his honor, the shame of his defeat. Like a wave, it swells and ebbs and swells again, until—
"First blood," Mihawk declares, with just a hint of satisfaction.
Roronoa lifts his hand to touch the small, thin cut on his cheek. It's even smaller than the one he had landed on Mihawk during their last fight, but it draws blood, and that's all that matters. He sighs. "I concede," he admits grudgingly, sheathing his swords and reaching to remove his bandanna from his head.
Mihawk sheathes Yoru in turn, and crosses his arms. "I assume you are no longer angry?"
The other man sighs once more. "I'm fine, Hawk-Eyes. I know it's not anyone's fault — well, except for the bitch that sent us here — but I'm not going to throw a tantrum and demand the impossible." He rubs his arm, a nervous tick. "I just need a little time to… process, you know?"
The teacher nods absentmindedly. "You've matured," Mihawk observes.
And that, for whatever reason, is what sets Roronoa off again. The green-haired swordsman glares at him, his one eye narrowing dangerously. "I'm not a child anymore," he responds in a flat tone. "I've sailed all across the Grand Line, to every corner of the world, with the greatest pirate to have ever lived. I've crushed tyrants, toppled gods, defeated you. I might not be as old as you, but I'm not some frog at the bottom of a well." Not anymore.
At that, Mihawk meets his glare, and the two stare hard at each other, the tension ratcheting up several knots. Memories, unbidden but as vibrant as ever, course through Mihawk's mind, memories reflected in the countenance of Roronoa's face. For a moment, he can see the shade of the boy Roronoa once was, cut down by the man he sees before him now. Kill the boy, and let the man be born, indeed, he thinks.
"No," the older swordsman finally says, his hawk-like gaze sharpening and piercing. "You're not."
It is more than a simple admission, a simple observation. It is an acknowledgement. A compliment. And even though a decade has passed for Roronoa, Mihawk can see through the brief flicker of disbelief the happiness on the other man's face, that his words still affect his student deeply. Even after all this time, Roronoa holds him high in his regard, his respect.
The feeling that pervades through him with that realization is not happiness. Though it is certainly close to it.
"They're going to be trouble," Wally announces the moment the face-off commences.
The Justice League had been duly summoned to the Holographic Simulator Room once the tech in charge of the room had been accosted by Zoro. They had arrived to the monitor room a little after the fight had begun, and had observed the battle to its end, up to the that final cut on Roronoa's cheek. Even now, the sight of such skill and power being so effortlessly wielded by these two men unnerved them all.
"So much trouble," John agrees, crossing his arms with a serious expression on his face.
"But according to Doctor Fate, we're stuck with them for at least the next five years," Diana points out, her eyes slightly glittering. Now that the two of them aren't causing massive property damage and putting the lives of countless civilians at risk, she could properly appreciate the skills of both men.
I've never seen someone brandish a blade so well, she thinks to herself, and that includes herself, the greatest warrior Themyscira has ever produced. Not her mother, or Phillipus, or even the countless Amazons that dominated her childhood could compare to such power and grace. It makes her eager to test her own skills against one of these men, to see where she measured up. Perhaps she can convince one of them to face her in a spar, once they have had time to acclimate to their situation.
"So how are we gonna do this?" Clark asks, turning to his best friend. The rest of the Justice League turn to Bruce as well. They all know their friend well enough to know that he already has a plan in place for this possibility, and now that it is an eventuality, they are all eager to hear it.
Bruce narrows his eyes, and says nothing.
Well, Zoro can't win all the time, can he? Even though Zoro defeated him, Mihawk is still on his level. Zoro has improved since they last fought, no doubt, but again, they're at a plane of swordsmanship that few others have ever reached. Without a serious rival, they both plateaued there. Now that they're both alive again, they can now improve upon each other.
Next chapter, we're finally getting into the plot. Things are moving! I hope you'll all like it!