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Reconstructed as of 05/01/2013 with thanks to Creative Advisor and Beta-Reader Brunetta6.
His Days of Insomnia
Day 3
Day 3 – 6.30am
It seemed that whenever the swordsman took watch, it could almost be equivalent to having none at all. He would most likely be fast asleep throughout his entire watch.
That's what he arrived to find when he was asked to call the swordsman for breakfast. The swordsman snoring.
He is slightly jealous. Sleep seemed so peaceful, and cruel. Cruel enough to tempt him with something she knows he won't receive.
He squats down, his bones slightly heavy from fatigue. "Zoro-san, Sanji-san is calling for breakfast," he says, adding a hint of amusement into his tone.
The swordsman blinks. "Brook? Morning already?" he asks drowsily.
He nods. "Yes, Zoro-san," he replies, standing up.
He yawns. The swordsman blinks, then stares at him with narrowed eyes. "You're still awake?" the green-haired man asks, staring intently.
Would the swordsman be asking about whether he's been awake throughout the night, or would he be asking about whether he supposedly woke up early? Most likely the latter. He isn't sure how to answer that.
Why would it matter to his imagination anyway?
Moving toward the trapdoor, he bends over to push it up. He glances back. He smiles. Yes, it mattered not.
The swordsman frowns.
He yawns.
And he climbs down.
Day 3 – 3.00pm
It seems the archaeologist was right.
He watches as the captain's twitching body sinks slowly to the aquarium bed.
Somehow he is not surprised.
"...Ah, Robin-san, Franky-san? Luffy-san seems to have fallen into the aquarium again..." he states, watching as the sea creatures seem to ready themselves to attack the captain. Maybe in revenge for the captain always eating them, he muses.
The shipwright glances up from the pile of machinery before him, and his eyes scan the aquarium's glass walls, before falling upon the captain's slightly twitching body, then dropping back onto his work, wrench twisting the screws. A splash resounds.
"Leave it to haramaki-bro, skeleton-bro," the shipwright says passively, eyes not leaving the wrench. The swordsman once again swims toward the captain and drags him out, sending glares toward the sea creatures.
He stares, sipping his tea as he vaguely hears the flip of a page by elegant fingers, as well as tinkering sounds from dexterous hands. He hears the captain coughing, the swordsman sighing about idiot captains, as well as the archaeologist's nearly inaudible "fufufu~" as another page is flipped.
He doesn't feel surprise anymore. What he does feel is the care, the joy, the friendship.
The heart-wrenching hope.
The terrible hope.
This is a beautiful dream.
He remembers that.
Day 3 – 10.30pm
"It's going to be foggy for a few days," the navigator sighs, eyes squinting through the thick fog that had fallen. She turns to face the crew. "We're gonna have partner shifts instead, to be on the safe side. So pick a straw!" she adds, holding out a bundle of straws. The crew gathers around, and after a "che" from the swordsman and a "Hai, Nami-swan~!" from the cook, each person picks a straw.
"Okay, Brook and Usopp are on first watch, Chopper and I are on second watch, and Sanji and Zoro are on third watch. Got it, everyone?" the navigator says, holding up and examining the straws. The rest of the crew, excluding him, as well as the cook and swordsman growling at each other, nod and give sounds of agreement.
He lifts his teacup, sipping gently as he stares at the foggy surroundings, non-existent eyeballs searching through the fog.
He remains still.
Torture.
This is what it is. His mind's brilliant idea of how to destroy him.
Or maybe it's a reminder. That he has yet to escape. That he is still within that dark fog, wandering aimlessly around on his broken ship, with his crew's skeletons watching him… depending on him to bring that shell to Laboon.
Their last song.
Is this a reminder? That he should enjoy this dream while it lasts? That soon he would be back to wondering, waiting on his broken ship until he managed, by some miracle, to escape that fog?
Didn't he already escape that fog? With this crew? His previous crew's bones laid to rest in the beautiful grave?
Did he really?
"Brook?"
Noticing his lack of reply, the navigator turns toward his seated form on the bench of the main mast.
He stares back, still, unmoving.
"Brook, got it? Yours is first watch," the redhead says, eyebrow raised in question. The rest of the crew turns to stare at him, glints of worry seeping out of a few of them. He stares, completely silent.
Poot~! Buuuurp...
He holds the teacup steady. "Ah. Excuse me."
The navigator stomps toward him, fist held up menacingly, leaking murderous intent.
"Don't be so rude!" she screeches, pulling back her fist and delivering multiple, beginning-to-swell bruises on his bones. It's a wonder how his bruises managed to swell to enormous proportions, even though he was 'just bones.'
He did feel the pain.
"Oya, oya~! How harsh~!" he screeches in return, both palms cupping his bony cheeks as his jaw dropped low for dramatic effect. He could hear muffled snickers from the crew, as well as loud, untamed laughter from the captain.
"I wanna try it too!" the captain shouts enthusiastically, shifting his rear end up and attempting to squeeze some farts out. His efforts were thwarted by none other than the navigator.
"Don't you dare! One person doing that is more than enough!" the navigator screeches with a stunning likeness to a banshee, fist landing very heavily onto the captain's head.
"OWWWWW!"
"The rest of you, go sleep already!" she orders again, jabbing a finger in the direction of the men's cabin.
Sometimes it seemed as though the navigator were the captain of their little band of misfits, not the rubber boy. Murmurs of agreement were heard as the male portion of the crew began shuffling their feet toward the men's cabin. The archaeologist had already retired into the women's cabin, and the swordsman to the bird's nest. With a creak of the closing door and a thump of wood against wood, the door to the men's quarters was closed… almost as if leaving those stuck outside to their fate, in a slightly foreboding sense.
"Usopp, wake me up later for second watch," the navigator yawns as she tells the sniper. She rubs her eyes and turns to head up the stair toward the women's cabin.
"Got it! Leave it to the great me!" The sniper replies, punching a thumbs-up into the air, grinning widely. With a mumble of acknowledgment from the navigator, the door shifted open, then pulled shut.
That left the two of them there. Skeleton and sniper.
"So... Just you and me..." the sniper starts, awkwardly scratching a hand at the nape of the neck.
"Wanna keep watch together?" he finished, glancing at the skeleton with just a wee bit of fidgeting. Said skeleton looks up, dropping the teacup to his lap. Apparently the sniper's fear of skeletons has not fully disappeared. Being alone, in the sight-obscuring mist, with a moving skeleton is, of course, very much frightening.
He understands. He fully understands.
Drifting alone had allowed him to understand. Skeletons, ghosts, and spirits were something he was very much fearful of. He understands the sniper's fear.
There was a reason for staying out of the bathrooms.
He supposes the fact that the sniper's fear of skeletons had been toned down to mere fidgeting should actually be considered a real accomplishment! Having to see a hollow pair of eyes on a surface of pale ghost-white bone staring back is – how would you even know if they were looking at you? – quite frightening. The fact that the sniper even dares to stand so near him is admirable. He still hasn't overcome that fear himself.
There was a reason for a lack of mirrors.
He now has a hint of respect for the sniper, accomplishing what he has not, even if the credit still belongs to his mind.
His bony finger hooks onto the handle of his teacup, and he lifts it. "Yohohoho~! Certainly, Usopp-san."
Day 3 – 11.55pm
The night breeze chills, as though a slick knife was gently slicing a thin piece of flesh off his cheek. Not that he had any.
Yohohoho~! Skull joke~!
The fog seemed to be getting thicker, his outstretched fingers seemingly blending into the pale, smoke-like fog. Much like Florian Triangle.
That dark, dark place.
The fog seemed to be swirling around him, dancing and jeering in circles as he stood there, still. The surrounding brown railings faded into the mist, sealing him within its clinging, clutching fingers. The sniper had gone to the bathroom, after trying and failing to convince him to follow along.
He stood alone. Again.
He stares.
The fog faded off again, thankfully, and those brown railings reappeared, fading into view.
He stares.
That doesn't seem right.
Those brown railings. They don't seem new. Not golden brown.
He stares.
It's not new? Not light brown, but faded, black, rotting.
Old.
Broken.
He flinched, frozen. Those brown railings... Are they of his ship? Has he returned to his reality? His broken ship drifting in the dark, dark sea? His dead crewmates hidden away - but always around - almost as if watching him, waiting for their song to be delivered.
Is he back?
He stares.
The floorboards were rotting, the railing on the verge of breaking, the ground creaking with each subtle movement.
He stares.
It was true then - the beautifully concocted crew was but the fault of his own vicious mind.
It was all but a dream.
He smiles.
It was all but a dream.
He felt as if a large weight was lifted off his chest, and in its place a sharp stake - piercing.
Has he awakened?
The fog continued swirling around him, the railing mocking, the floorboards sneering. He had hoped the dream would last longer. Or maybe prove real…
It was true. This was all simply his own active – repulsive – imagination.
They weren't real.
He could feel his smile fading, a numb pain within his hollow eyes, screaming of tears that could not – would not – be shed.
They weren't real.
He couldn't move.
His limbs felt numb, frozen. His smile remained, stuck.
But… why? he wonders.
He had already accepted it. They were not - are not - real. Why did his nonexistent heart feel shattered into broken pieces?
Why?
The mind was merciless. Cruel. Terrifying.
Why?
He stares. It was all a lie.
He could feel his non-existent lips curling painfully… and he couldn't stop the laughter. So he didn't try.
"Yoho-Yoho-YoHOHOHOHO~~!"
He got out of that dream! That worthless, hopeless dream! That painfully hopeful dream! He was alone again! How interesting! How funny!
"YoHOHOhohoHOHO~!"
"Oi, Brook, are you alright?" a wary voice floated by from the side, slicing through the thick fog and rotting wood.
He blinked.
He must be hearing things again. Fifty years in a fog would do that to you.
"Oi, oi, Brook, what are you doing laughing to yourself?"
"Yohoho…?" his laughing trails off as he stares at what his imagination concocted solely for his sake. A long nose had appeared within his line of sight, flopping obnoxiously in his face.
To torture him.
He stares.
"Hey Brook, what's so funny?" the sniper's face appears within his vision, eyebrows furrowed and eyes curious with a gleam of – concern, no – fear.
What's so funny?
He stares.
It's hilarious how determined his mind is in destroying itself, how his mind had tricked him into thinking he had finally escaped~! It's hilarious how much hope his mind managed to build up before shattering it, then piecing them back together, leaving the cracks visible~!
It's hilarious how much longing his mind can conjure up!
It's hilarious how easily he fell for this dream!
"Yohohoho~! It's nothing, Usopp-san," he smiles, watching the sniper raise an eyebrow in suspicion.
It's hilarious how easily he falls for this dream…
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