Chapter Summary: The Butcher never truly went away, she's merely been sleeping, waiting for the perfect chance to wake and rage, rage, rage at the world. All Shrike has left to do is embrace it.
Author Notes: Sorry, this took a long time. Life got busy.
If only the feeling of nothingness had stayed.
That, Shrike can handle just fine. She'd gotten used to not feeling much. To being empty. Becoming the Butcher had demanded nearly everything from her; dues that no one else had been willing to make.
No one else but her.
She'd thrown all the bits and pieces that'd made her human onto the Butcher's pyre, each and every one of them a sacrifice made willingly. She'd thought it noble at the time, grand offerings made for the greater good despite the monster it turned her into. The hurt of losing those pieces of herself, and of the guilt that'd followed… well, it all went away eventually.
The only thing left behind was the scar where her humanity had been, and a dull ache that throbbed when thinking of memories past.
Only... this new life tore all that scar tissue away. Everything's come back to her fresh and raw, like a reopened wound. Though as much as it hurt at first, the following days filled with warmth and comfort unburied those cast-aside feelings from the ash. They lulled the Butcher and all her ceaseless hunger into the deepest of slumbers, leaving Shrike with a sense of peace she never thought she'd ever feel again. She relearned how to smile and laugh, how not to live in constant worry.
She remembered what it meant to live and not just survive.
But it all came at a price.
For that sense of security bred in her a complacency.
It made her more trusting, more welcoming of those around her to the parts she'd tried so very hard to leave buried. It left her the worst thing she could ever possibly be, something she swore to never let happen again: vulnerable.
Vulnerable and so very, very stupid.
The door to Crocodile's office slams shut with a shuddering crack. A quiet thud of something small sounds immediately after, but any sympathy Shrike would've felt for the culprit died the moment they chose to side with him.
"You made your choice."
The words still ring in her ears, coherence lost with each echo. She doesn't even remember who they'd been meant for, though she'd uttered them only a moment prior. Both of them have hurt her in a way she can't even begin to find the words to describe. Maybe not ever.
All because she made a mistake. The mistake of trust.
Shrike flies through the hall and down the stairs with all the subtlety of a raging bull. The few boards she lands on shudder and groan beneath the force of her heels, her steps so heavy they might've cracked had she not been barefoot.
But the stinging pain surging up from her soles goes unnoticed. She doesn't even register the throbbing ache of her scuffed knees, the scabs there having long since cracked. The rage has blinded her to all but one thing: blood.
Any rational thought the dares blossom in her mind merely burns up in the fury smoldering white hot beneath her breast. It's a fire only that iron tang can quench, so powerful she wants nothing more than to sink her teeth into the throat of whoever dares cross her path first. Every last emotion that isn't some flavor of anger or hate turns to ash in the heat of that rage.
Empathy has no place in her heart this evening. Not when the vessel's been torn asunder, hemorrhaging the precious little motes of warmth and happiness it'd sheltered this past year. Now, it harbors nothing but the animalistic panic and rage that follow a fresh wound: painful enough to draw forth the adrenaline, but not enough to let her succumb to the numbing bliss of shock.
It's too familiar for that. The agony of betrayal is something she knows far too well.
And she had to go and be stupid enough to let it happen again.
'NO! HE did this. This is HIS doing!'
The voice in her head howls in fury, maddened she'd even think to blame herself as much as she knows she was a fool to have given him the chance in the first place.
'That coward! That BASTARD!'
It feeds on all the bloodthirst festering within, growing louder and louder, more and more bestial with each and every word.
'How DARE he?!'
Until it begins to sound less like her-
'Has he forgotten WHO I AM?!'
-and more like... someone else.
'HE WILL REGRET THIS!'
A dear, old friend. A voice she hasn't heard from in months.
'I'll MAKE SURE OF IT!'
The door to Shrike's room just about explodes off its hinges as she kicks it in with a feral roar. It swings on its hinges and impacts against the wall with a thundering crash loud enough to wake the whole ship over.
Not that she cares for the racket she's making. The late hour is lost on her, just as her concern is for disturbing the others. There's no point to, not when it's clear not a single one of them cares for her. No one on this ship does. No one on this ship wants to. The events of today have made that more than clear. She now knows for sure exactly where she stands: an unwillingly tolerated liability; some creature that's somehow both vile temptress and untameable animal depending upon who you ask.
Unwanted, unlovable, and a danger to everyone around her. How foolish to think she could ever be anything else. How foolish to think that the Butcher could ever truly be made to go away and let her live a life among others.
No, the Butcher will never go away. The trauma of her years starving and sick on the streets, and of the bloodshed she wrought, can never be undone. She knows that now, knows that even with food and comfort the beast born from that suffering can only be lulled to sleep. It will never truly be slain, merely lying in wait for the right time to reawaken and rage that animalistic hatred of the world until it physically can't a second longer.
All this time the Butcher's merely been sleeping, but now? Now it's awake, and it's fucking pissed.
The only choice she has left is to embrace it.
Shrike strides into the dark of her room with purpose, not even bothering to flick on the light. She knows exactly what to grab from where, and the meager light streaming in from the hall is more than enough to not crash into what little furniture she has.
Besides, it's not like she's planning to stay long.
There's precious little night left before the dawn. What time she has left to hunt dwindles, a candle wick just about burned down to the wax. She has to do this now, while the ruffians and criminals of the night still prowl the streets; people that deserve The Butcher's specific brand of justice.
Because what Shrike needs right now -what the Butcher demands right now- is a fight. A damn good fight. The kind that doesn't end until people are spitting blood, noses crumpled and broken with limbs left just the same.
The hunt is on, and she can't begin putting the pieces of herself back together until it's over.
But even as blinded by the Butcher's bloodthirst she is, Shrike knows how crazy it'd be to start a fight on this ship. She doesn't trust herself- the Butcher -enough to be able to hold back the killing intent she can feel vibrating along her limbs. If it came down to blood, the crew would probably turn on her gladly, finally given the justification for getting rid of the rabid stray always biting at them every turn. They don't have the same reservations about hurting her like their captain does and, hell, even though he might not able to do it himself, that's not to say he wouldn't stand by and let someone else do his shameful business for him.
Just like the coward he is.
Even Daz would join in. As much as he acts like he cares for her development and wellbeing, she knows it's all an act meant to appease Cro-the captain. She just knows it. Daring to hope otherwise would only be yet another foolish mistake, and she's made enough of those already.
'What's the matter, kitty? Finally bit off more than you can chew? That's too bad.' She can hear the mocking cadence in his voice already, feel his bladed fingers bite into her throat…
Except, a quiet murmur in her head says otherwise. The one that keeps trying in vain to make her remember what he said today, both during their scuffle and when she'd been eavesdropping.
"You're not a waste of time, Shrike. You never have been."
"If you do want what's best for her... then end this now. You aren't it."
Try as it might to surface from beneath the maelstrom whirling within her, it never finds a foothold. That voice of reason goes unheard, completely deafened by the hurt howling within her demanding more and more of itself until there's nothing left but it. She wants to hurt, it tells her. She wants to rage. Anything that makes her feel otherwise is a dirty lie, and she's been lied to enough already.
Whatever the anger and hurt say to her is the closest thing to the truth she's going to get.
The only truth she cares to believe right now, anyway.
...Regardless, as sour as her relationships with the rest of the crew are, they aren't the ones who've wronged her this night. Hurting them won't bring the satisfaction the Butcher craves.
And the one who did hurt her?
Shrike's dresser thuds against the wall as she aggressively yanks the top drawer open. Just thinking of him stokes the bitter hatred burning within, feeds her defiance of what cruel game he's played upon her. It has her digging through her clothing with an almost childish aggression, garments going flying over her shoulder or dropping to the floor until she finds what she's looking for.
Even as she pulls on her underwear, such an innocuous task, she can't stop thinking of how badly she wants to see him suffer the same as he's done to her. She steps into her socks like she's planting a foot on his neck. Imagines the snapping of her bra straps as her breaking it. Or, and better even, his fingers. Broken fingers won't kill, and she'd be able to drink in the pain in his features for days to co-
Her gut wrenches.
Nausea rises in her stomach. Coats the back of her tongue in bile. Her heart wrenches, too, as if she's witnessed something sickening.
Something about imagining his pained face, scar wrinkling about his nose as his dark eyes wince from the pain…
'NO!' Shrike wants to see that bastard suffer, dammit. Wants to see him hurting and tired and broken, suffering in the same anguish he's forced upon her!
...The only reason she doesn't do it right now is because he'd only be grateful for the pain, anyway! Physical retribution would only make him feel all the more absolved of the suffering he's wrought upon her. Just as he attempted to let her strike him, thinking that letting her hit him would make all this suddenly better. But she'd realized it for the dirty trick it was, and her fist had stopped just short of crumping his nose and delivering the absolution he so desperately desires.
That's why she doesn't march upstairs and just finish this. That.
And only that.
She'll never give him the satisfaction! Too much of a coward to get rid of her, too much of a coward to accept her, he needs to suffer a personalized torment just for him: her very existence. The unwanted object of his affections and desires, always present, ever there, close enough to touch and take and all the more agonizing because of it.
Just, her.
But that doesn't solve her immediate problem. Someone needs to pay. The Butcher demands it. For now, she'll just have to find different prey… someone else that deserves the Butcher's wrath.
And lucky for her, she knows exactly how to get what she wants. In a city like this? And at this time of night? It's almost too easy. All it'll take will be drawing the right kind of attention… as much as the idea fills her with disgust as soon as she dares think it.
There's something specific she has in mind, a little outfit she's employed more than once to great success. It's the one surefire bait she knows that'll guarantee a bite. A get-up that belies the danger just waiting for fingers to reach out and touch the seemingly defenseless woman, theirs for the taking…
She nearly gags. Just thinking about being touched that way ever again-by anyone-makes her skin crawl.
...and also makes her forget all about the middlemost drawer. How it sits a bit looser on its rails than the others.
Shrike gives it an aggressive pull, same as with the top one, only for it to come clean out of the dresser entirely. She goes stumbling backward, the same panic striking her as when one tips too far back in a chair, and while the drawer isn't exactly heavy, the unexpected weight is far too much and too sudden to brace against.
It goes plummeting to the floor.
...But not without first scraping down the front of her shin… and landing square on top of her unprotected foot.
Because of course it does.
"FUCK!" Her curse echoes about the narrow walls of the cabin, sounding more like a snarl than a coherent word. It's loud and almost feral, just as the frustrated, pained howl that chases it is. If anyone had come to investigate the racket she'd been making, just hearing that alone would have sent them running.
All except maybe Daz, the only one of the crew not wary of her and her aggression. But if he's listening, he doesn't bother to make it known.
Some fights just aren't worth the trouble. For all he knows, she's merely upset Crocodile took his advice and ended what was blossoming between them before it fully took root.
And not for the cruelty and cowardice with which he went about doing it. Because, surely, he isn't so arrogant as to infuriate an invisible assassin who lives but a few floors below where he sleeps. Surely.
Meanwhile, Shrike stamps the ground in fury, grinding her teeth as she works through the pain radiating from calf to foot. If that alone wasn't enough, the clothing that'd been stored within had exploded outward upon impact, adding only insult to injury. They now lay strewn about in a haphazard pile at her feet.
Of course, this would happen. Right when she has neither the time nor patience for such bullshit. Apparently, she hasn't endured enough this evening already.
A frustrated growl rumbles out her throat as she drops to her haunches and rifles through the pile for the pieces she needs. Her knees-still awfully tender-throb from the position, but the pain is merely more fuel for the rage burning a hole in her chest. She lets it fan that flame even as she feels her sense of control turning to ash in its wake.
It's only a minor price to pay. Control requires a sense of calm she cannot afford right now. Calm is the enemy. Calm will only let the fire sputter and die, and right now that fire is the only thing keeping the Butcher awake and raging.
For the Butcher is what's keeping the darkness at bay, the light of its flames purging the leeching shadows of despair and abandonment. Thoughts that make her want to crash to her knees in a mess of tears and end it all right here and now.
But so long as the fire burns, she refuses. She'll keep her head above the tide of darkness threatening to drown her, no matter what it takes. For enough tears have been wasted on him already, and he hadn't deserved even a single drop in the first place.
Shrike moves quickly now, her movements aggressive and sloppy. Clothing flies over her shoulders as she tears through the pile looking for the pieces she needs. It's a mess future her will have to deal with. When it's safe to be calm again. Right now, the only care she has is for her immediate well-being, and that involves satiating the Butcher enough to lull her back to sleep.
Luckily, she finds everything she needs after only a minute or so, gathering up the pieces needed for an ensemble she knows all too well.
And just like every other time she's had to dig it out, she struggles not to roll her eyes at the sight of it. Unfortunately for her, the damn thing isn't going to wear itself.
The leggings come first, and they take longer to shimmy into than they took to find. She'd bought them before putting on muscle, having been a perfect fit for her smaller, leaner self. Now though, the black fabric hugs too tight for comfort, and the silvery panels running up the inseam into her crotch and glutes are the opposite of subtle. The waistband even sits low enough on her hips to reveal where her hips begin to dip into that 'v', too.
Her top is next, not as bad but not something she'd consciously wear herself. She pulls the too-small tank on over her sports bra next, the white, ribbed garment exposing a bit of her navel and hip bones. It's the latter she finds more uncomfortable, just as with the leggings themselves. She's quite used to lounging about the ship without wearing anything over her sports bra or bindings. The lack of… assets… up top does more than enough to ward off wandering eyes from the crew.
Except his apparently.
"You are quite attractive, Shrike, I can assure you of that." His deep voice rumbles, knuckles absentmindedly stroking her che-
She cuts that train of thought off with all the subtlety of a headsman's axe. What he thinks doesn't matter. Not anymore and never will it ever again.
Except... she does kind of what to see him squirm. She can already imagine the look on his face, eyes immediately darting away as he does everything he can to not look at her, to not admire the figure of a woman he wants more than anything to not desire...
The thought brings a wicked grin to her face. Maybe she'll wear stuff like this more often, then. Just to see him writhe like the worm he is.
Sure enough, upon walking over to the standing mirror propped in the corner, she can't help but flush at what she sees; and, if she can't, he most certainly will too. It's the kind of style that's currently in vogue, what with the exposed midriff and bottoms riding low enough to tease the dip of her hips. This is the type of outfit she's seen women far more confident than her posing in on their wanted posters, and while Shrike would never shame anyone for dressing this way, it's just not… her.
Altogether, it's well and truly uncomfortable, revealing far more than she'd prefer and painting her in an overtly sexual light that makes her feel almost nude. At least it's not so tight as to restrict her range of movement, though.
Needless to say, she herself despises it, and its pieces would've long been tossed in the trash by now if she hadn't found a use for them. Her entire existence thus far has been about not drawing any kind of attention to herself, and this get-up does exactly that.
In fact, she hates having to go down the 'seduction' route at all for that exact reason, though she can't fault how brainlessly effective it is. Men-and the occasional women-all of a sudden find they have looser lips and more permissive boundaries when she's dressed this way. When paired with the right demeanor, usually a hint of coy demure, it's the perfect bait to coax those of weak morals and even weaker inhibitions right into her claws.
If only it didn't remind her of those whose hands have already been on her, and of all the little pieces they've stolen away.
But it's a small price to pay so long as it lures out her prey. Targets she can beat to paste without feeling bad about. Men who think they can use and cast aside whoever they want without consequence.
Users.
Liars.
Cowards.
A crowd forms in her mind, silhouettes of potential targets. At least one of them has a distinct face, his scar as familiar as the back of her hand. The realization makes a growl rumble in her throat.
He'll get his comeuppance in time, and with dividends too.
Then, another thought crosses her mind, entirely unbidden and unwelcome as soon as she realizes what it is. What if… what if she took the outfit out for real? How would he react if she brought someone else back to the ship for the night? Forced to hear her cries echoi-'ABSOLUTELY NOT.'
The very thought nearly makes her retch right then and there. Just thinking of someone else's hands on her… Hell, she would prefer never being touched that way ever again for so long as she lives.
Too many have taken too much from her already. No more.
No. More.
...Yet a part of her fights to be made known, its quiet little whispers dangerous in her ears.
It's that humiliating side of her that swoons and sighs upon remembering the fiery heat of his hand on the small of her back-'stop'-the way he cupped her face so warmly with a smile equally so-'please'-how that was the first time she enjoyed being touched-'stop!'-and actually wanted mor-"STOP!"
Her command cuts through the silence, shattering it like glass beneath her heel. The sound of it bounces and echoes about the walls though she doesn't consciously hear it. She's too deafened by the war inside her own head, a battle waged against her own traitorous heart and feelings.
A terse growl rumbles through her teeth. Her mind races, imagining each of those memories as photographs being burned as she aggressively demands the insidious feelings lurking beneath her breast to leave her. Leave her now and never, ever return. She has no use for them. Anything that still feels something for him besides contempt or scorn is nothing more than a cancerous growth that needs to be excised.
The only feeling he deserves from her is her wrath.
She forces herself instead to think of how he hurt her, of his lies and cowardice. Anything to remind her stupid heart of just how much she should hate him. Her thoughts go to his painful words and callous glares, of how he called her a 'stray' and nothing more than a 'useful body'. To how he pushed her boundaries further and further until she was forced to put a stop to something he himself was too much of a coward to do himself.
That is all she cares to think about regarding him. That is all that she should think about regarding him… Even as much as a tiny part of her still dares to crave the few moments of affection he's lavished upon her.
...She needs to get out of here. The flame is beginning to die, her wrath started to be doused the little droplets of despair.
She needs to hunt. The Butcher needs to hunt.
Shrike strides back over to the dresser now, having wasted enough time warring with herself in the darkness of this bedroom.
Luckily, the rest of her preparations go far less… explosively, than before. Though her heart continues to burn, still incensed from pain both emotional and physical, a rather eerie calm has settled over her. It has her moving with a controlled purpose, calmly seeking out the last few things she needs before heading out and into the night.
Her knives and holsters she finds safely tucked away in the bottommost drawer. Thanks to the noble sacrifice of its middle sibling, it hadn't been subjected to her destructive fury. She puts far too much pride and care into her tools' maintenance for everything to have been destroyed in one careless moment of aggression.
Though that would've been just like her, wouldn't it? A bitter, scorned woman burning everything down around her just to make sure not a single speck of filth remains.
Even as much as the fire burns her own flesh, too.
...The knife holsters.
She pulls them on with a familiarity that speaks of years of practice, though in actuality she's only owned them for just short of a year. Strapping each one about her figure-thighs, waist, biceps, and ever her calves-has been a part of her pre-mission ritual ever since officially starting work for Croc-'the captain'.
His name no longer deserves a place in her mind.
The last of her holsters come on with ease. She's grown so accustomed to wearing them, in fact, that not having them on while ashore now leaves her feeling almost naked. Something about being armed to the teeth brings a level of comforting security that nothing else can quite compare to. An arsenal for any situation, the perfect tool for any job just a short reach away. Especially as each of her blades- eight in total -all vary in shape and length.
You never know what might happen out there. Just because she's looking for a brawl doesn't mean she shouldn't be prepared in case things take a turn for the lethal. Even so, she rather hopes it doesn't.
Dead men can't learn their lesson.
But they also won't approach her looking so blatantly armed and ready for a fight. She needs to look more harmless. Helpless. This is a song and dance she knows all too well.
Shrike bends at the waist, quickly snatching up the hoodie at her feet before pulling it on over her head. It's a rich, navy colored garment with white, fluffy trim and lining. Slightly baggy in the tummy and arms, it's perfect to hide the danger strapped about her body. The added protection against the night's chill will be more than appreciated, too.
There's not much to worry about it detracting from the allure of her trap, either. The 'goods' up top aren't the kind salacious men with loose morals go for anyway, and her lower body is still more than uncomfortably accentuated.
The only thing left is her boots, and then she's finally free to get the hell out of her and prowl the streets. Knee-high and constructed of sturdy, blackened leather, they perfectly conceal the stilettos holstered about her calves without making it too difficult to retrieve them. One quick dip and she can have one out of their sheath and sailing through the air before her prey can even realize what's happening.
This is a little trick she knows all too well from experience, and a rather vivid memory crosses into her mind at the thought.
A nasty storm's rolled in, leaving them landlocked until morning. But, rather than spending it miserably aboard the ship, Daz somehow managed to convince the captain to spend it in one of the nice taverns ashore. Something about it being good for the crew's morale.
Though the fact that his newest toy has brought him quite a surprise may also have something to do with his unexpectedly tolerable mood. She's proving herself to be quite the lucrative investment.
Yet, she sits alone, staring sourly down into her cup. A heavy sigh pushes past her lips as another round of raucous laughter sounds from the crew's table. They're playing a game of dice she's never heard of before, and the mere thought of asking them to teach her puts her on edge.
Their laughter would immediately die, replaced only with awkward silence. Just like the first, and last, time she asked. They'd give it a few goes, but the hushed whispers around her told her how they really feel about her. An unwelcome intruder sucking all the fun out the air.
She knows not to bother trying again.
The only other person that at least tries to talk to her has opted to stay on the ship tonight. Dr. Ellia mentioned she'd like a peaceful night, and that it'll give her plenty of time to work on replenishing the medicine stores.
Daz and the captain, meanwhile, have their own booth separate from everyone else. They too have their own dour expressions, though they're born of concentration rather than loneliness. The stack of trade documents and letters before them-potent blackmail dutifully stolen by her this morning-is more massive than Crocodile had anticipated. They'll have plenty to work through before the storm eases up.
Meaning, Shrike's only company tonight will be her cups and the liquid within them: the strongest, cheapest booze her bonus from today can buy. She's never been one for the fancy stuff. Whatever gets her buzzed the fastest is good enough for her.
And yet, her second cup's barely been touched. Something else has caught her eye instead, something the others have been too preoccupied to notice.
The waitress.
A rather warm looking woman, looking to be in her mid-twenties or so, walks past the bar where Shrike's sitting. There's a little sashay in her hips as she does so, outshone only by the overly saccharine smile pulling at her lips.
And by the glint of the knife tucked beneath her apron.
Though she tries to move gracefully, her limbs move with a certain stiffness. She knocks a glass over with a shaking hand only to quickly laugh and brush it off as being clumsy. The men laugh, too, and ask for another round to which she hurries off to fetch.
But the expression on her face contorts the very second she turns away. Shrike knows the aura radiating off the woman as familiar as the one she'd had mere months ago: barely restrained hatred.
Someone isn't happy too have such guests in her establishment this evening.
Shrike watches her over the rim of her glass, yellow irises tracking her as minutely as a starving predator's. This woman plans to attack one of them, that much is obvious. Who, though, is another question entirely.
Luckily, it's one that's answered sooner, rather than later.
'...She can't really be that stupid, can she?' Shrike's brows raise a tad, watching as the waitress saunters over to the table where Daz and Croc sit. Apparently, she is.
For as she sweetly asks the two men whether she can get them anything else, Shrike watches with rapt attention as her slim fingers slip beneath her heavy, ale-stained apron. Neither of the men give her much attention besides shooing her away, completely unaware. How very like them to overlook the danger such an innocuous person could possess. That's a lesson they should've learned well enough the night fate brought the three of them together.
Such arrogance. Shrike shakes her head, already working out in her mind how exactly to deal with this situation.
The waitress hesitates for but a second, Shrike sees the tendons in her wrist tense as her knuckles squeeze about the knife handle. She hovers at their tableside for a few seconds too long, something Daz would've picked up on had he not been a bit flushed in the cheeks. And Croc is both too busy and too arrogant to give her a second glance.
Another second passes.
And then one more.
Before the woman finally finds the courage to strike.
She draws forth the knife with a shaky roar, raising it high into the air as the nicked blade poorly reflects the light. All it does is reveal just how much of an amateur she is at this whole 'killing' business. The last thing you want to do before taking someone by surprise is make a whole 'lotta noise.
Daz starts at the commotion, though it takes a moment for him to register what's happening, and even a few more at that to catch up. He's been pretty deep in the barrel this evening, now quite a bit soused. Trouble hadn't been expected tonight, not in a town as far away from a Marine outpost as this. These places tend to sympathize with pirates more than not.
Clearly, several mistakes have been made.
Crocodile doesn't even move, and from this position Shrike can't see the expression on his face. It should infuriate her-so arrogant as to not even turn a cheek towards someone trying to kill you?-yet all it does is spark in her a terror.
As much as she despises him, she isn't going to let the only person who gave her a chance die right in front of her. Not if she can help it.
"Damn you to hell!" The waitress yells right as she begins plunging the knife downward, aimed straight to pierce right into whatever heart Croc has. "Pirate scum-AHGH!"
The knife falls to the floor as her shout cuts off into an agonized scream. For in the hand her weapon fell from now rests a new blade, only this one's buried itself deep in her palm. The stiletto pokes clean through the other side, its expertly honed edge glinting crimson with blood in the light.
She begins falling to her knees only for Daz to finally grab her. As sluggish as he is, it's mere child's play for him to wrench the woman's arm behind her back, forcing her to submit lest her break it right then and there. Shrike can't help but notice how there seems to be a pattern with how he goes about introducing himself to murderous women he's just met.
"Fuck you! Fuck you pirates and everything you stand for!" The waitress spit-screams the words in between sucking gasps. The tone underlying each one is one Shrike knows all too well. She used to speak that way herself, so full of burning anger and hate. Bursting at the seams with it, aimed at the very world itself.
Now, she just feels tired.
"Oh shit! What just...!" Ulrich's-a grizzled man already turning grey in his forties- voice carries over the commotion the woman's making, signaling that the men have finally taken notice. They've all since leaped out of their seats, or have tried to, at least. Ezra and Volt tripped clear over their bench, and the two idiots now lay sprawled out in a tipsy puddle on the floor.
"Sir! Are you alright?"
But Crocodile doesn't answer, not with words anyway. A low puff of laughter, sounds, his shoulders shifting as his head tilts slightly. It's only then that he turns, and Shrike can finally see his expression.
It's like a bolt of lightning straight to her heart.
He grins at her, an almost warm amusement lighting up those dark eyes of his. His scar wrinkles about his nose as he beams at her that smile that suddenly makes her uncomfortable in a way she can't describe. She's never felt this before.
"My, just full of surprises today, aren't we?" His rich voice rumbles out, and Shrike's not sure if it's heavy from the whiskey he's been nursing all night or from whatever is causing that unusually warm expression on his face. It's alien on him and doesn't belong there in the slightest. "Seems like you're just trying to impress now, aren't you, Ms. Butcher?"
Being addressed finally snaps her out of whatever hazy fugue she'd fallen into, now making her painfully aware that every pair of eyes in the room are aimed only at her. Her cheeks flush red from the attention, both it and the praise still quite foreign to her. She can only stammer something about him having been fine-the knife being wet nor seastone-before casting her eyes back down to her glass.
Only now does she retract her hand back close to her body, fingers now stiff from being pointed outstretched from how she flicked her dagger. Her leg relaxes, too, the boot she whipped the knife from returning to rest back on the stool beneath her.
"And yet you moved anyway, agent. Are you that concerned for my safety?"
A quiet wave of laughter passes among the crew, knowing how humorous it is for someone like her to have attempted to save someone like him. It only makes her cheeks burn even hotter.
"Just… doing my job." She mumbles, but it's more into her drink than to him. "T'was nothing, really."
It was not nothing.
What was once such a cherished memory now brings Shrike nothing but regret and rage. To think that she'd ever do anything to save his life- whether it was actually in danger or not- fills her with disgust.
If only that knife had been seastone, if only it had been wet. If only she'd let it plunge straight down into his chest and kill him right then and there.
There's been a lot of "if-only's" in Shrike's life. Too many regrets.
And tonight might have been the biggest of them all.
Finally, though, her preparations are complete, and she can get the hell off this ship and into the refreshing night.
She turns to leave, eager to head out, only for her body to move out of habit. Right as she gets to the door, her hand reaches for a particular something propped against the wall. The texture of it's wrapped hilt familiar as the day it was given to her.
Given.
Shrike's hand snaps open like it's been burned, and a gasp whistles through her still-tender lips.
Her saber falls to the floor with a hollow clang.
No.
Not her saber. His.
She just about kicks it away in disgust before stopping herself. Chasing after it would only be a waste of time and energy better saved for the hunt. It needs to be returned, lest he think he has any ulterior power over her. All the 'gifts' need to be.
Later, though. She doesn't have the time to gather them all up right now, nor the energy. For now, the saber is a good enough start as any.
She leans down, bending at the waist to retrieve it. Yet, right as her fingers about touch it, they just… stop. They hover, just within reach, but move not a centimeter further.
'Why?!'
The sheath appears so inviting, as it always does, the dark leather supple and obviously well cared for. Its silver basket hilt, too, speaks wonders to the love and attention the weapon has received while in her care. The metal gleams so lustrously despite the low light streaming in from the hall.
But for some reason, she can't bring herself to touch it.
'It's just a sword. It won't…'
Even thinking about her fingers brushing against it preemptively fills her with a profound sense of dread.
As if… As if the idea of returning it is the nail in the coffin to all this. The final death knell to what… to what could have been.
A message that cannot be taken back.
"...Why? Why do I even care?!" Her murmur comes out quiet, strained from a pain clearly causing her great suffering. "He ended this. It's over already! Done!"
She wills herself to anger, but what finally does spur her into motion only makes her hate herself all the more: a teardrop.
It falls, unbidden and unwelcome, a small blemish that soon stains the leather of the saber's sheath. Only to be joined by another.
And another.
And then more so still.
For as much as holding on to the blade would only be a victory for him- some small amount of power held over her- she's grown quite fond of having it at her side. Both for the protection it affords, and for what it's come to represent: a physical token of his affection.
Returning it would be the true end to all this. A disavowal of the truth lying there in her hands, the physical proof of his adoration in spite of all the lies he dared utter this night.
"Stupid. You stupid, stupid girl." She hates how her voice sounds; bitter and angry and so very close to the edge of being broken. "Be mad! Be angry! Anything but… but this!"
It's only then that her fingers find the will to move. They dip, slowly and gently retrieving the fallen sword. Its weight feels so familiar in her grasp. The balance, too, is exactly as she remembers.
But it feels so foreign now. Detached from her, like the memory of a once dear friend now no longer on good terms.
The blade itself has realized it's been betrayed. Used for a time only to be cast aside when it became a liability.
How… appropriate, she muses. "That makes two of us, then."
The fire within her has died down a bit, fury making way for the smothering ash of sorrow. A profound sense of mourning suffuses her very being as she holds the once beloved blade across her open palms. The realization hurts far more than she can quite bear at the moment.
Rather than stoking the flames of her rage, it's only begun to stifle them.
Though it only makes sense that it was never meant to be. Such a graceful weapon should never have hung from the belt of a stray like herself.
Now it's time it found its way back to its original master. And she back out into the familiar embrace of the night. For as much as the sadness has begun to haunt her, there's enough flame left yet to keep the Butcher live and awake.
The trip back up topside is uneventful. If anyone had been awoken by her outburst-and she doesn't know how anyone wouldn't have been-they don't dare come out to check as she pads up the stairway. The silence is broken only by the sound of her boots and the creaking of each wooden step.
She crests the landing of the final step to the top deck in only a few seconds, zero hesitation in her stride. Though she's really only been downstairs for half an hour at most, it feels as though hours have passed.
Each of those minutes had been precious time wasted, and she can't afford to lose a second more.
Hesitation is the enemy.
The silence abruptly shatters with a metallic clatter. She unceremoniously tosses the saber down the hall without pause, knowing that if she did she might not ever let it go. She doesn't even dare look down that way, continuing the opposite direction as she hears the blade skid across the floor before coming to a halt at his door with an aggressive thud.
The bandage has been ripped off. Relinquishing the blade leaves her with a resounding sense of loss both freeing and demoralizing. From now on, it's just her and her own devices. Gear she's purchased herself using only appropriate compensation for work done. No gifts.
She won't allow him to have any sort of power over her again. Their relationship will purely be business from now on, though even she can't deny her presence is meant solely to torment him until the day either of them days.
There's no way he hadn't heard the noise. Even from his personal quarters-through the door on the other side of his office she's never been through-he would have heard it. But she doesn't stay long enough to find out, soon reaching the exterior door and bursting through it into the night.
The briskness of the air feels good on her flushed skin, her heated cheeks sighing in relief under the chill. The moonlight brings a certain serenity as well, the pale goddess herself hanging high in the sky, turning what should've been the night void into a rich navy.
It puts an unexpected pep in her step, and she strides across the deck with a renewed sense of purpose before dropping down and onto the dock in no time at all.
She lands on the balls of her feet with all the expertise of a trained acrobat, immediately sinking down to her haunches as the force disperses through her legs. Only the slightest of thuds sounds, quiet enough to pass off on the rocking of the ship's hull against the dock's mooring, or of the ropes going taut as the breeze goes by.
Even without her shroud activated she moves with an eerie silence, the muffled care of a cat on the prowl. The goal is to be seen, eventually, but for now all that's needed is a little care and a light step.
Not a soul should have heard her.
That is, not unless she was actively being watched.