(A/n) Just a quick word from the Weiss: Writing these chapters consumes a huge amount of energy and leaves me very emotionally drained. I'm so glad everyone enjoyed Part 1 but please understand that I may be unable to put out more than one chapter every 2 weeks. Please have patience. I promise it will be worth the wait. Without further ado, here is Part 2~

ABANDON

A dash, a flash, the Kitetsu flies screaming from its sheath and the Tyrant sees nothing until it's too late - the blade bites, cloth and skin and muscle splitting beneath its keen edge - yes! - Luffy drops free, slumping motionless to the ground - yes!

Shishi Sonson!

A clash, the grind and dig of sharp steel against - no - that is not bone - the blade tears free, blood splurts, but he knows - even before he hits the ground, even as he slams the howling sword back into its sheath, he knows this is not right.

His boots slam against broken stone, and it takes every ounce of strength left in his burning, quivering, tearing muscles to not topple over - but as his momentum drags him forward, his knees crash into the ground and he grits his teeth against the hot tangy rush of blood in his mouth, both hands clutching the Kitetsu by its thrumming hilt and sheath - maybe if he grips it tight enough - he can hold himself together, too - just a little longer - just a little -

Behind him, Zoro hears the towering Warlord groan, and he couldn't turn to confirm the damage even if he needed to - he chokes, coughs up a string of bloody saliva that burns every cut and crack in his lips, every muscle in his back screaming with effort, every broken rib jarring, jolting, as he strains just to keep himself in an upright crouch - but he doesn't need to confirm, because he already knows.

He knows the clash of steel on steel as surely as he knows every turn in the weave of the Wado Ichimonji's hilt, and his heart thumps a heavy, halting stutter as, behind him, there rises the crackling zzt! zzt! of exposed circuits.

Cloth slits and tears, and a hissing fills the air, along with the searing stench of burnt wires. Grinding his teeth against the tremors in his thighs, Zoro lifts one shaking knee off the ground and twists halfway around, but what he sees - his stomach drops -

"What the…?!"

The shoulder under Kuma the Tyrant's ripped shirt is metal - artificial skin rent, tattered and scorched - barely dented by what was one of Zoro's strongest Iai attacks.

Energy crepitates all around the dimpled metal, fizzing and snapping like a nest of angered snakes.

Zoro tightens his hands on the Kitetsu, but his grip on the sword does nothing to steady the sudden jag of his breath, nor the vice wrenching his chest in ever-tightening palpitations. "You're a - " he chokes out, as Kuma turns, one lumbering step at a time, "A cyborg like Franky?!"

But he knows he's wrong, even as the words leap from his tongue with another coppery flash of spittle - because he knows the clash between swords and this - no - this -

"No," he wheezes, already bracing his feet for evasive action - his hamstrings seizing in protest - his sides exploding with spasms, every desperate sucking breath he takes - "He's even harder than iron!"

Whatever he is, he stands between Zoro and his captain's limp form, and Zoro's blood boils with renewed adrenaline, chugs a little faster, a little stronger - it's him alone against this monster and he must - he must -

The towering man opens his mouth with a mechanical click, just as Zoro manages to face him, wobbling in a crouch, barely off his shuddering knees, his skinned hands and quivering arms braced against biting rubble, the only supports that keep his hunched broken body off the ground.

The Tyrant's mouth cranks even wider and there's a glint of light in his gullet, glowing, building, flashing brighter, fiercer, hotter - energy coruscates all around the gaping maw, arcs of glaring white-hot power that burn Zoro's eyes - and his heart is in his throat, choking, bleeding, but he can't look away - like a moth to the flame -

Beep! Beep! Beep! The warning's shrill scream pierces his ears, his brain, his bones, and still he cannot look away and his gums bleed as his jaw clenches and - no! - move! - why won't his legs move -

A piercing ping! - a flare - a scorching heat - Zoro shoves, cramping legs and leaden arms, all four together launching himself through the air, one last desperate effort, as the laser hurtles towards him - streaking by mere inches from his arm, a blaze of agony, instant sunburn or worse - is his skin bubbling -

The laser slams into the ground and discharges in a fiery boom that plows into his airborne body and blasts every last scrap of air from his lungs in a useless shout, flipping him head over heels over head until his back smashes against a wall, stone shattering under the impact, fractures upon fractures.

He slides down, slumps backwards against the crumbling wall, pitched back into that dizzying world of ringing silence, limbs sluggish and uncoordinated as he crumples first to his knees, then to his hands - caving under his weight, skin shaving away from his palms, forearms, elbows, as he collapses to the splintered ground.

He lies still not by choice, but because his limbs refuse his every command - a shiver, a tremor, no more response as he grits his teeth and struggles to draw breath into his seizing lungs, sucking in only dirt and smoke.

He coughs, every hacking gasp a hundred knives in his chest, bringing up blood and - yes that bitter sting in his throat is bile...

Even his head seems too heavy to lift. Wheezing, spitting, straining, he scrapes his face across the stone until the soaring silhouette of the Tyrant looms in the corner of his swimming vision.

The Warlord stands behind him, unmoving, his mouth smoking. A massive paw lifts to the dented left shoulder, tugs the torn shirt up and together, slowly, unworried, unhurried - his prey is going nowhere fast - Zoro grinds his teeth, shakes with a renewed attempt to move, move, move!

Between them, the place Zoro had crouched smolders, and an exposed iron beam sizzles and oozes in heavy glooping droplets.

"Im... possible," he pants, pushing at the ground, pushing to rise, fighting the leaden fatigue in his arms, "The iron... melted!"

But it's not the liquefying iron that sends his lungs into paroxysms again - but what lies beyond it, beyond the smoldering rubble, beyond the Tyrant - his captain.

Lu... ffy...

His arms push again - Move! - every muscle chording out with the effort to rise again - move! - his back bows - No! - Move! - his head drops - NO! - Move! - blood leaks from between clenched teeth - Move!

He must -

He - must -

MOVE!