(Chapter 43: HEY ALL! I'm back! :DD So again there was kind of a long break…but that's just how it goes. Sorry. School and all that. But I finally responded to all of your lovely reviews! Sorry it took me so long! I don't think I missed anyone, but if I did, I apologize.

Anonymous Reviews:

Rio (chap 41): Thank you! I'm glad you're still liking it! I'll certainly do my best. C:

E (chap 41): Hahahaha I certainly hope I'm not THAT crazy. XD Yeah, the nightmare was pretty awful. I'm not sure I quite did it justice in writing, but I tried.

Panda Bear (chap 41): Question1: That's alright! It comes from a creepypasta called . Question2: Nice! That's a nice image! Someone else actually mentioned something similar, which I find quite interesting! Glad I managed to creep you out! Always an achievement for an aspiring horror writer! C: Well…I'm considering (and I use that term very loosely) actually rewriting Kill the Rabbit in a form that could be published. Maybe. We'll see.

HMP (chap 41): Hahahaha I'm on sleep deprivation and stress. But trust me when I say you don't want any. XD Wow! Glad you liked it that much! Heehee…funny, you're the only one to solidly get that. Oh just you wait. I've got quite a few more jabs at our favorite phoenix planned.

Guest (no signature) (chap 41): Really? Huh. Well, I'll keep trying! Don't lose too much sleep! XD Sorry the update took a while! Oh no worries! It's actually very helpful when people comment on how different chapters affected them – it gives me stuff to aim for/avoid in the future!

PeppermintPatty (chap 41): Cool! I like that! Love me some creepy smiles! And I like the bit with the abnormally small pupils, might have to keep that in mind for later! ;) Well…I currently have two future projects planned. One is a one-shot, so I'm not sure if it entirely counts. The other is a multi-chaptered story, and it falls more under the angst and drama categories. Perhaps in the further future, if I get an idea that I feel is worth writing, I'll write another horror story. But I'm not sure how it would measure up to Kill the Rabbit, after all the work and growth that's gone into and come from this story. C: Sorry for the bit of a wait on the new chapter!

Guest (no signature) (chap 41): Glad it creeped you out! Sorry for the bit of a wait, but the chapter's here! :D

Felixsk1 (chap 1): Thank you! I'm glad you're liking it this much! I'll definitely see it through to the end! C: It is a bit like the song, though I must admit, that style of music isn't much to my taste…^u^; Sorry for the wait on the update!

Guest (no signature) (chap 41): Of course! I'd never abandon it! We're too close to the end for me to give up now! :D

Guest (no signature) (chap 5): It is in the One Piece world. :p (I do hope you don't find this offensive. It's just that everyone in the whole world of One Piece speaks the same language, so I kind of assume that all other languages are dead or mostly unused.)

OfficerNarwhal (chap 41): Sorry it took so long! It wasn't writer's block so much as being buried alive in tasks much less exciting and entertaining than writing. XP But I do hope you enjoyed chapter 42, when I finally posted it! I'm glad you like the story that much! I hope it lived up to your expectations after all of that… O_o Thank you! Well…in the two stories I have planned, one is Horror (I guess…? It's kind of hard to quantify) and the other is Family/Hurt/Comfort, so I guess they'll both be right up your alley! XD

Guest (no signature) (chap 42): Maybe. ;)

OfficerNarwhal (chap 42): Glad you liked it! Sorry the wait was so long! Glad I answered your unasked question! Sorry the update on this chapter took a while, and thank you for your patience. Well…if people didn't like the chapter it's kind of just a 'too bad' situation. I don't have time to rewrite, and I can really only hope they like the next chapter more. For the most part, though, I think people really liked 42. C:

E (chap 42): Haha thanks I guess…? I'm pretty sure most people don't agree with you. XD

Rio: Here's the new chapter! Hope the wait didn't bother you TOO much!

In case you all were curious: I don't remember what The Girl with the Eyes actually looked like in my dream. I'm actually quite glad I don't. But as I was writing chapter 41, I pictured her as a girl with pale skin, like she was cold, a white, slightly yellowed dress coming to her knees, loose and shapeless like a smock. She had long black hair, tangled and mussed like she hadn't brushed it in a few days. Her face was always completely void of any emotion at all. No anger, no fear, no sadness nothing. She had pale lips. And finally…she didn't really have what we call 'eyes.' In the place where her eyes should be, there was a flat disk on each side. They looked metallic, but liquid. They didn't reflect anything. They were a bit like mercury, but also had that unfocused, hollow shininess of dead fish eyes. Yup. So there you go. My answer to Bonus Question 2. XD

Oh, and in case I didn't mention it in my reply to your review, the answer to Bonus Question 1 is that there were several references to , a creepypasta.

This chapter has been rated T for LANGUAGE and SEXUAL REFERENCE (very vague. I'd be surprised if you even picked up on it).

And now, ON WITH THE CHAPTER!)

Eventually, Marco decided it was time to move. His heartrate was reluctant in slowing down, and part of his chest still felt constricted from the adrenaline, but he was recovering himself. He couldn't afford to dwell in the past, not right now. Ace needed him too damn much, he had to suck up his own problems, shuck them aside until they got the hell out of here and he could deal with them in a place that wasn't hell.

Marco stood, pressing his fingertips against the cool stone of the wall for reassurance more than balance. He was okay. He was alive. He was beyond the reach of that creature. That was what mattered right now, that was what he had to focus on. The present. Compartmentalize. Did he think he was going to die, or worse, not ten minutes prior? Sure. But that was true ten minutes ago. Not anymore. So he needed to get together and get a move on, because wasted time was just that: wasted. So he didn't let himself think about either past or future as he walked down that corridor. Didn't let himself consider what part of his consciousness was trying to tell him. Or…tried not to. But it's hard to block out your own mind.

This is Ace. This isn't just some nightmare, that's not what Wonderland is. Wonderland. Is. Ace. What kind of person's mind looks like this?

One that's been through hell, asshole. He's your little brother. Be a bit more compassionate. Internal debate was what had kept him mostly sane for a long time. Old habits die hard, especially when he had no one to talk to. Again.

But-

Nope. Not following that train of thought.

You know you need to consider-

No. No I don't.

Marco shut down the mental debate. It wasn't helpful, and he didn't want to follow it through to its conclusion. Instead he turned his thoughts to a more genuinely important topic.

Who is Mr. Savage?

Marco, as per his very nature, had been observing carefully since the very first time Ace had set foot into Wonderland in the memories. He'd watched the behavior, body language, and reactions of and towards each Inhabitant, looking for the giveaway, the thing that would concretely prove it was that specific one-

Marco's eyes shifted as he thought, resting on the floors, walls, etc., but now they caught on something that stopped him dead in his tracks, eyes wide in surprise.

"Ace?!"

Marco instantly rushed forward towards the slumped, childish, apparently unconscious form. He was laid out on a ledge of sorts, a few feet above Marco's head. One arm hung limply from the side of the platform, and Marco could see the familiar head of tousled black hair, even if his face was turned away, expression hidden from view.

It was for this reason he didn't see the smirk of triumph.

"Ace, can you hear me? Are you alright? Are you hurt?" One of the dangling fingers twitched, and suddenly the room was perfectly circular, no doors or passageways indicating any kind of exit. There was no sound, however, and Marco didn't notice the change. The figure allowed a full grin to come to his face before lifting himself up via his somewhat emaciated arms, turning his head to look at Marco.

"…You're too old to be justifiably this naïve." Marco stiffened.

"…Ace?" The figure rolled his neck, then shifted backwards, stretching, arms extended in front of him. He wore no shirt, the sinewy, underfed muscles contorting beneath his skin.

Like a cat.

He stretched like a cat.

Marco took a step back, instantly cautious, wary. The figure made no response, save flopping back down on the stone, left arm dangling off the edge again. His face was turned towards Marco this time. He grinned.

"Hello, Marco," he said genially. Marco didn't respond, regarding him warily. A dark eyebrow was cocked in his direction, mocking grin cast. "What's the matter? Freudian slip got your tongue?" Marco took another cautious step back, he wanted as much space as possible between them.

"No. In fact not." His voice was neutral, his eyes fixed on the figure. He wouldn't rise to the bait. Couldn't afford to, in this case. He had to deal with this delicately. The figure, meanwhile, had propped himself up on his forearms, resting his face in one palm, the other hand tucked out of sight.

"…You know, Marco, I'm so…bored," the figure mused. "So very, very bored. This game is going to take forever and the fun part doesn't start until you're out of this hellhole." The figure pouted almost comically. "Chess is no fun to watch when you know how the game is going to end." Marco licked his lips, putting another step of distance between them.

"…How is the game going to end?" he asked. His eyes were dark with interest. "You really aught to share." His gaze fell to a borderline glare, so focused was he, waiting for any sudden movement from the prone figure, "Cheshire."

The cat-not-cat's gaze instantly focused on him, grin spreading further. He laughed, sitting up more fully and spreading his arms in a broad gesture.

"Well? What do you think? Only took me a few tries to get it right. Metamorphosis isn't as hard as you make it sound, Marco." His gaze darkened. "I don't like being underestimated." He straightened, eyes shifting instead to the wall. "But I digress. There is a legitimate reason, you know. For why I let you live. For why that door unlocked. For why Hatter didn't make your brains facepaint." Marco's gaze didn't waver. He blinked as infrequently as possible.

"And why would that be?" The way he stated it, it was barely a question. Cheshire's gaze shifted back to him and Marco could see, now, how that chilled gold hoop dangled from his right ear. He grinned, gaze frosty.

"Because you've wronged me, Marco." Without Marco even blinking, he was suddenly beside him, standing on tiptoe, face right beside Marco's.

He didn't breathe.

"You've been asking questions. Naughty questions." Cheshire seemed to teleport again, now behind Marco, out of sight. "There are things you're not supposed to know, Marco. Things you were never supposed to know." Now Cheshire was directly in front of him, grin as wide as ever. "…What do you think I should do about your questions, Marco? I killed the Hatter, to get him to shut the fuck up. But you're not going to stop." He was so close Marco could have tasted his breath, if the cat breathed. "I had to come up with a way to get you to pipe down. At first I thought about killing you, since I'm going to do it later anyway, but then I decided on something much more amusing. Something you'll find far more agonizing." Cheshire smiled seemingly sweetly. "And I mean that in a purely non-physical way. Otherwise it wouldn't do much good on you now would it?" Cheshire reached up, placing one hand on the side of Marco's face. His fingers were slightly cold, and seemed far too long, stretching up into his hair.

"I'm going to do something nobody expects, just to give this game some fucking life again. And I'll enjoy watching you squirm, watching you watch, watching you try to figure it out, watching you fear, watching you wonder how in hell you never noticed before. And then I'm going to watch you despair. Because you'll finally realize there's nothing you ever could have done. You cast your dice, Marco. You got snake-eyes." For some reason, Marco couldn't move, couldn't flinch, couldn't even twitch. He could only stare into Cheshire's eyes. "Your price, your consequence, your punishment?" Cheshire was grinning, looking like a glutton before a feast.

"Your punishment is the truth."

Cheshire opened his mouth, and his jaw seemed to hinge back, the opening a massive cavern filled with blackness, no throat or teeth visible. Marco, with all the logic of a nightmare, found himself being pulled into Cheshire's face, being sucked in, shoved in by that pestilent hand on his face and suddenly he wasn't outside looking in, he was inside looking desperately out, struggling to go back to that fading, tiny light as it vanished in the distance, reaching for it, arm extended-

Cheshire snapped his jaws shut, clapping his hands over his mouth. He giggled.

"…What are you trying to do? You really think that will help you?" the Mannequin asked, slumped as ever in his chair, studying the board.

"Are you saying it's an illegal move?" Whitebeard asked, sliding his other piece into the same square as the first one. The mannequin didn't move, but Whitebeard felt as if he were being intensely studied.

"…Not illegal. But-"

"Last time I checked, you're not allowed to dictate my moves." Whitebeard could nearly feel the Mannequin's annoyance. It didn't match his own forcefully subdued anger at the Mannequin, at this game that was wasting time, or his worry for his sons and daughters in the world above, in danger, in peril, and some injured-

"Dead now, you know," the Mannequin's voice was nonchalant. Whitebeard stiffened.

"What do you mean?"

"Three dead. Wait…make that four. Hatter showed up and went on a little tantrum. And Carpenter was there the day before. He beat the ever loving shit out of someone…" The Mannequin trailed off, seemingly distracted, or disinterested. Whitebeard's mouth pressed into a thin line.

"…You're lying."

"Why? Why would I lie?"

"…To set me off. To make me reckless. To make me lose." Whitebeard smiled triumphantly. "But it won't work. I saw Hatter unlive." Whitebeard could imagine the slow smile that slithered onto the Mannequin's not-face.

"…Unlive? Who told you that term? …I think you've failed to understand its full definition." The Mannequin's neck straightened, its not-face staring straight at Whitebeard.

"Everything down here is temporary at best. Ace, as a human being, changes constantly. Hatter? He was only unalive for a matter of hours. So yes, he was aboard your ship, and yes, he was able to do quite a bit of damage." The Mannequin slumped again, head falling back to the side. "Not that you seem to particularly ca-" He snapped suddenly upright, jolted as if with electricity. The tension in the air was palpable.

"…Interloper," the Mannequin whispered, hissed, voice sizzling with rage. "Interloper. Cheater. INFIDEL!" His voice rose in volume until it was an inhuman screech, the whole room seemed electrified with anger, Whitebeard felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. "GET OUT YOU'RE NOT PART OF THIS LEAVE YOU FESTERING MONSTER OUT OUT OUT DAMN SPOT OUT OUT OU-" he tensed up, seeming to be on the verge of exploding, and Whitebeard saw a crack split its way down one of his arms. His head lurched to a sudden 90 degree angle, his voice cutting off, falling to silence and the rage with it.

Unlived.

Unlived just like Hatte-

"It would seem one of your pieces isn't in the correct place." The Mannequin's voice was suddenly back to its silky calmness. Whitebeard jumped slightly at the sound. He hadn't been expecting it to speak. "Everyone's happy these days…" the Mannequin whispered, voice so quiet it was barely audible. There was something…foreign in his voice. Some undertone that hadn't been there before. Whitebeard recognized it, but he couldn't place it. All he knew was that it didn't belong. Not here. Slowly the Mannequin reached forward, delicate fingers clasping around one of the pawns and sliding it across the board, towards itself, until it rested a mere two spaces from its edge of the board. It flopped back in its chair, unmoving once more. Whitebeard stared at in confusion, but it neither moved nor spoke. The silence stretched.

Don't look a gift horse in the mouth. Whitebeard jolted, not expecting the voice, and certainly not in his own head.

Who's there? It felt odd, to have to ask that in his own head. Odder still, when he received no response.

"It's your turn," the Mannequin said, slumped in its chair. "You get to move." Its voice seemed more hollow than before, none of the previous sinister omniscience hanging in its voice. Whitebeard stared at it for a moment longer, then reached out. …I wonder. He seized the piece that was closer to him, the one the mannequin hadn't moved across the board. He slid it across the wooden surface, to where the other piece rested. It should have been an illegal move, covering far more than the allowed number of spaces. The Mannequin didn't react. Didn't speak.

Thatch fell to the ground, his whole mind feeling as if he'd just been thrown sideways. His head rang with disorientation, the whole world feeling like it'd just been pitched around, flipped upside down and hurled against a wall. Intense vertigo had him clinging to the floor, feeling like if he let go he'd fall…up? Down? He couldn't be sure which way was which. It could very well be sideways, for all he knew.

He wasn't sure how long he remained there, clinging for dear life, fighting not to vomit, his inner ear telling him he was falling, or moving, or weightless or switching arbitrarily between the three every few seconds. When it finally settled, it wasn't some gentle calming of the sensation. Rather, he felt like he was slammed into the floor, like all the weight of gravity had just decided to kick back in, shoving him against the stone like it had never left at all. It drove the air from his lungs and he lay there, gasping, trying to readjust.

Finally, still unwilling to entirely release the floor, he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, shaky, pale, cold sweat on his face and back. Okay. Good start. This is good. He tried to work up the nerve to get to his feet, but with his stomach still feeling like it was trying to crawl up his throat, that wasn't really happening. Baby steps. Baby steps. You got this. You've only been standing your whole fucking life. Thatch took a deep breath, moving one hand to the wall to brace himself. Finally, hands still trembling, he pressed himself up to standing.

The world, for one lurching moment, spun, and he leaned heavily on the wall, trying not to either throw up or pass out. Finally it stilled, though, and after a moment's hesitation, he drew his hand back from the wall. Nothing. He could stand normally. No move dizziness, no more vertigo. He took a tiny step forward, relieved to find he could do that too.

Well that took long enough. How about actually making some progress huh? Thatch shuffled across the room, still taking fairly small steps, wary of another random bout of disorientation. He could see a door at the other side of the chamber. He'd been walking for it when the vertigo had floored him.

After what was, in all honesty, far too long a time, Thatch reached the door. The handle felt cool under his hand, and the wood was solid oak. When he touched it, though, something in his heart constricted painfully, some part of the back of his mind, some animalistic, instinctive part shuddered. Don't go through this door, it said. You won't like what's on the other side.

Thatch, as a general rule, listened to his instincts. It was instincts that carried you through combat, that got you to dodge a blow based on the split second glimpse out of the corner of your eye of an incoming attack. Instinct kept you alive.

But this wasn't combat, and it wasn't just his own life he could be concerned with right now.

He weighed his options for another moment, then, in one swift movement, twisted the handle and threw the door wide.

The other room was as ambiguously lit as the one Thatch was in. There were no visible light sources, yet the floor and walls were illuminated, as if lit from above. The ceiling stretched up into undefined blackness. The uneven stone persisted, the wooden door scraping over the floor roughly. Subterranean chill was nestled as comfortably in this room as the last. Thatch stepped through the door warily, still hesitant due to his ever-increasingly troubled instincts. The door swung shut behind him, clicking shut with echoing finality. Thatch wished it had made less sound.

The door was tucked back into a kind of niche, and so most of the room was still obscured from his view. He stepped forward, on edge, unsure of what to expect. His heart palpitated harshly, painfully in his chest, part of him screaming to turn back. Thatch tried to reason with himself that there was no threat yet, that there was nothing he needed to run from. He stepped around the corner, coming fully into the chamber, his heart lurching jarringly in his chest.

His eyes took in the occupant of the room and widened.

"Marco?!"

Thatch rushed forward towards his prostrate friend. As he drew nearer he could see he was breathing. He was alive. Part of Thatch heaved a sigh of relief, but far more of him was still urging him to turn back and run before…something. Nevertheless, his best friend was lying unconscious on the floor, whether from some kind of attack or otherwise as of yet unsure, and hell if Thatch would just leave him there. He knelt by Marco's side, grasping him by the shoulders. He shook him gently, trying to rouse him.

"Marco! Marco, wake up!"

Nothing. Thatch shook him a little harder, wanting to remain as gentle as possible in case Marco had been injured. It was weird. Marco felt…wrong, somehow. It was like… Almost as if… It clicked in Thatch's mind.

It was like Marco wasn't there at all.

His sensory Haki worked to some degree down here, and he would have been able to recognize the presence of his brother absolutely, especially if he were right beside him, as he were now. Or…as his body was. Thatch felt growing concern. He shook Marco more forcefully.

"Marco, dammit! Wake up!"

Marco's eyes snapped open and he sat bolt upright, screaming bloody murder.

Thatch reeled back, taken entirely by surprise. Marco was frantic, desperate, and after that single bloodcurdling shriek was now panting fiercely, hyperventilating in panic. He ripped off his shirt, his hands scrabbling desperately at his bare back. He cried out again, but this time more in pain than in fear, and his spine arched in agony.

"Marco, what's wrong? Talk to me what happened what's going on?!" Thatch wanted to help, but was unsure of what exactly was happening.

"GET IT OFF GET IT THE FUCK OFF ME GET IT AWAY-" Marco was clawing at his back, his fingernails leaving red tracks on his skin. (Grin wide grin wide grin wide everyone's happy these days)

"Marco calm down! Let me help you, what can I do?" Marco was going to draw blood soon if he kept this up. As he moved to claw again at his back, Thatch grabbed his wrists, keeping him from further harming himself. "What is it, Marco? What's hurti-"

"IT'S IN MY SKIN YOU NEED TO GET IT OFF I DON'T WANT IT THERE I NEED TO GET RID OF IT-" (Circuses and blood and death and death and death and screams like hell itself) Marco's hyperventilation seemed to be catching up to him and Thatch felt him sway, the lack of oxygen making him nearly faint.

"Okay, Marco, just breathe. It's okay. It's okay, I can help you with whatever it is. Just calm down, okay?" Marco was gulping air like his life depended on it now, the deep, shuddering inhales seeming to have a calming effect on him. He still seemed desperate, though now he seemed more cognizant and less frenzied about it. He turned to look over his shoulder at Thatch with wide eyes.

"GET IT OFF! I- It can't stay- Peel off my skin I don't care just get it OFF!" Thatch stared at Marco, shocked. (Climb the trapeze it's your turn grin wide like me it doesn't hurt because I won't let it hurt anymore I'm not weak I'm not helpless I'm not I'm not don't call me that don't you ever EVER EVER CALL ME THAT)

"Marco…" Thatch's eyes were simultaneously searching and frightened. "…There's…There's nothing there. It's just your skin." Marco shuddered, a spastic tremor shooting down his spine. (Not weak not helpless not helpless don't you dare call me that you won't like the-)

"…Too late…" he whispered, more to himself than to Thatch. His throat seemed to constrict, as if intent on strangling him, before words that were barely his own stumbled like lepers out of his mouth. "Welcome to the show…" (A grin spread across his face. This was turning out even better than expected.)

"What was that?" Thatch asked, bending down, trying to catch Marco's whisper-thin speech. Marco fell silent, too horrified at the phrase that had passed his mouth. He shook lightly.

"Oh God…" he whispered, freeing his wrists from Thatch's now relaxed grip, clapping one hand over his mouth, the other clutching the fabric of Thatch's sleeve. He felt a prickling in his eyes, as well as a consuming emptiness in his chest. "Oh God." (Hahahahahaha how pathetic look at him shake like a leaf.)

"What is it? Marco, what happened? What's wrong? What happened to you?" Thatch asked, voice portraying his distress. Marco turned wide, nearly childish eyes to Thatch.

"Thatch…I…We've made a huge mistake." His eyes unfocused, and he stared off at the wall instead of Thatch's face. "Oh my God. What have we done?" Thatch grabbed Marco by the shoulders, turning him to face him.

"Marco, you need to speak clearly. I don't understand. What mistake did we make?" Marco shook his head, still not looking at Thatch's face. He went limp, sitting back.

"We can't do it. We just can't." Thatch resisted the urge to shake Marco, try to get him to make sense.

"We can't what?" Marco looked right in Thatch's eyes, gaze full of grief and shock and fear. He shook his head slowly.

"We can't bring Ace back."

(His grin split to reveal a pink tongue that swiped over his bitten wrist where his blood had spread after he smeared it on Marco's back.)

(A/N: This chappie was surprisingly difficult. Hope it doesn't show in writing quality. O_o

Anyway, you know what?

THE PLOT THICKENS.

Seriously, though. I'm interested to see responses to this chapter. See how many of you remember details from several chapters ago. Cuz if you do, you'll probably be vehemently swearing right now. At least internally. ;) (*cough*lookatchapter35again*cough**cough*)

So…yeah. Please review! I'd love to hear any guesses or just general reaction to the semi-reveals in this chapter. And if you guys are looking for a bonus question…sorry, I don't really have one this time. ^u^; Maybe next time. Do you guys actually like my bonus questions? I put them there most of the time to get you to think about the important bits or remember something that's influential, so I think they're pretty good. But if a majority of you guys find them annoying I can stop posting them. *shrugs*

Well, anyway, hope you enjoyed, and I'll see you next time! Thanks everybody! ~Mountain97)