The Psychology of a Shattered Mind
by Liashi
16: Adrift

Nami glances at Usopp with shock as if to ask, Are you seeing what I think I'm seeing? before Usopp recovers his own wits and pushes her out of the line of sight of the door. He's not sure how long whatever she did is going to hold, or why the snow has vanished, but now is not the time to be taking chances. Still, while he moves even he finds himself staring, unnecessarily, at the distant palm trees dotting the shore where the town isn't as built up at the water's edge. The difference without all the deep snow is startling. The place almost looks inviting. Friendly.

How is this possible?

As he looks, pieces of the puzzle begin to click together. Growing horror at the truth—no, the deception—of this island turns to a heavy weight trying to drag him to the floor.

Raiders, just happening to find them in the middle of a bad snowstorm. Being watched from the skies. Fendori's presence, the most damning fact of them all. If this is Master's territory, than it all makes sense. He's in control here. Nothing is impossible. We all see only what he wants them to see, and know only what he wants us to know. Had they even left Mariejois at all?

He wants to curl into a ball and die. If all this isn't real … if these people only remembered him being someone called Usopp, because Fendori made them … because those were the parts master was having them play …

It had seemed so real. He'd wanted to believe this ship, this crew, were real.

He blinks and the landscape is snow-filled once more. The cold of the air is sharp in his throat. He slumps against the wall at his back. The Sunny seems to grow less solid underneath him, the presence of Nami beside him similarly growing distant and fuzzy.

If it's not real …

Traitors. Fascinating, aren't they? This jars him. The thought was sharp, like red on white. Clear enough it was nearly audible—someone saying something. A sort of memory, maybe. Had he said it? Had someone else? What did it mean?

He can't remember.

It had all felt so right here. He thought this ship might have been that thing he'd needed. That something that, back in the Gray Ring had kept him saying one more fight, one more and then—then—

The ache for that unknown washes over him, both disorienting and unwanted, but also equally irresistible. He's blindsided, his vision tunneling and chest growing inexplicably constricted. He tugs at his loose-fitting long sleeve shirt, as if pulling the material away could help him breathe.

Fendori takes her hand away, and proclaims with that same eerie calm: "Shattered."

The cold wind whips into his back like needles, and he is staring down, down into a split in the earth that goes so deep, into a place so dark, that the bottom is impossible to see. A familiar voice calls out from somewhere in the distance, but it echoes from all directions, the sound attacking in waves of blurred noise. It still feels like he's leaning out over the edge, even when he takes a step back. The cracks surround him, sectioning the ground into jagged shapes like pieces of broken pottery.

You are beyond parts. You are almost beyond use.

On the other side, a finely clothed woman with long hair of shimmery sky blue strokes at her harp, playing placid chords that swell delicately, like rolling of the ocean. In the next moment she's turned to a wiry, pale girl that seems to have a hard time staying upright, even with the harp as a sort of pillar to cling to. Her eyes peer to the side from under bushy black hair, faint smile betraying a sort of fondness, and apology. Then her hands are gnarled, trembling as they move. They are the hands of an old man. His face shifts into something younger, with skin of pale green and gills, then to a middle-aged woman with piercing eyes and a sharp jaw line, before the parade of different people and faces marches onward fast enough to became a barely decipherable blur.

He can almost put names to those faces, stories of lifetimes and enmity and alliance, his own parts, the parts of others. But—he doesn't know, each memory whirls by too fast, ripped from him almost the moment he clutches it, leaving him with nothing but a faint sense of loss. Layers upon layers build on each other, into heavy desperation. Only one of the broken threads of these tales is a constant, bleeding its own color into the others when they touch it, and he scrabbles for that constant, trying to catch hold of it, trying to find an anchor to make the whirling stop. He can never seem to catch hold of it. The other threads keep his hands too busy.

Who am I?

Who am I?

"A battle?" Booga-shaka says, gliding into place. His face is expressionless enough that it would even be smooth like porcelain, if it weren't for the puckered scars running here and there on his face and arms. He grins suddenly, savagely. "Then you'll need me."

Light swirls into deep green of towering evergreens, into ruffled ocean, into winding streets of gray stone, into darkness.

Beyond his closed eyes, something cool and damp and soft pads gently at his face before coming to rest on his forehead.

"…opp?"

Nami's face peering down at him with creased brows swims into focus.

"Hey." She smiles gently, her voice subdued, almost soothing. Her leg is beneath his head like a pillow. "How are you feeling?"

He blinks, the question taking some time to register. It feels like he's been sleeping a long time, and his limbs are heavy.

What is this odd fuzziness in his mind? It's like white, blank paper—or—no. It's not like blank paper at all. It's like paper that a pen has traveled over and over, putting down so many lines that every line blends with the others.

"Cold," he finally concludes in a whisper, shivering, while at the same time, becoming aware of a coat draped over his chest.

The coat is tucked in around him more firmly. The wet cloth comes off his forehead and Nami, frowning, puts a hand to his cheek. "You feel a bit warm to me," she says, voice still only just above a whisper. She stares down at him for a bit in silence, but her eyes are troubled. Finally, she says at first ponderously, as if uncertain she should say it: "Do you remember what happened?"

He closes his eyes and thinks back. "I…" he says, before he remembers the more alarming thing. "…Fendori!" He tries to jerk upright, but Nami keeps him down with her free arm. He quits resisting her and simply lies back when he finds the world spins and tilts around him at his brief attempt to sit up. Still, his skin practically crawls with the urge get on his feet and be ready for a fight. There's one coming, he's sure of that now. There has to be. If Fendori's here—

"Never mind that," Nami says quickly "Look, that swordswoman or whoever she was—she and Franky and Brook couldn't find us, and left. They kept talking about how we had betrayed them or something. But there's no way…" Nami shook her head as if in disbelief. "That was an hour ago and they haven't been back—but I'm getting worried. I haven't heard fighting, but no one else has come back, either."

A whole hour? Though mostly he's just trying to regain his bearings, Nami seems to take his silence and lack of movement for acceptance of what she'd just said. "Usopp," she says with urgency, "Do you have any idea why you … blacked out like that?"

He stares up at her face, trying to come up with an answer, starts to say something, then shuts his mouth after only a preparatory inward breath. He wants to say, lies, but he knows it won't make sense. It only feels right. He tries to imagine himself saying to her: "Lies made me black out. Yes, Nami, lies," but he can't manage it. He struggles to sit upright while thinking, blinking when he is up enough to recognize his surroundings. They're in the girl's cabin, judging by the two beds and the soft mauve of the walls—Franky had brought him through here on that ship tour. Still cold, he pulls the coat from where it had folded on his lap and drapes it over his shoulders.

"Where we were against the wall felt too exposed, even if we were invisible. So I dragged the you over here with me—you were still able to move around then, even if you were mostly out of it already—and snuck inside once both Brook and that Fendori woman had searched it," Nami says, apparently sensing his unspoken question. She shrugs. "I kept us invisible for a while, but no one came back in here before all three of them left together anyway." Nami cocks her head, watching him, probably waiting for the answer to her question.

It's his turn to shrug. "Guess I got worked over too many times by Fendori," he offers, thinking this might be clear enough.

"Worked over? Who is Fendori? What is it she can do to people?" Nami demands. She is beginning to sound exasperated. If he's not making sense with that last bit, maybe he can't at all.

Was there even any point to explaining to her? He wonders. Fendori made Franky and Brook turn against the two of them in a matter of minutes—no doubt a rush job that they could have broken through if they'd tried, but he doubted quick enough to avoid fatal injury. How long until he's on his own; until she thinks he's an enemy? It's not as if Fendori could do any of that to him now, but he's been overused. He's able to remember her attempts to change his memory, to sense the inconsistency and strange gaps of a false, imposed persona. It's what made the discards into discards, after all. "Fendori is the Devil Fruit user that works for our master. She can modify memories, and she's the one that made me forget who you all were. Who I was."

There. By the look in her face she's starting to understand. Her hand shifts to draw Luffy's hat, unobtrusively dangling from the crook of her elbow by its cord, to sit in her lap. A new, more disturbing thought comes to him, one wrapped up in one of the scattered memories he couldn't seem to forget even though he wished to. He has to look away again, if only to keep her from seeing the expression on his face, which he knew would make Nami more inquisitorial.

If he stays with her, he might have to fight her. He might even have to … to …

Kill her.

The recoil in his heart is immediate and violent, and now he can't sit still, instead getting up to pace back and forth. In one moment he wonder how he could even think such a thing and in the next, wonders why it took so long to. Would the swordsman, or Luffy, or any of the others still have the memories now to want to come after him if he did touch her? If this whole situation is a set-up, their master has done a thorough job of making it very convincing. He's been "sailing" with this "crew" on this "ship" for … well, it seems a few weeks, and never noticed a moment of inconsistency. Such thorough memory changes would mean fighting on a grander scale than mere pit matchups, or vignettes. Booga-shaka can't keep playing around like this, because if he does he'll end up dead. Maybe worse.

But the thought of doing anything to Nami grows a sickening knot in Usopp's stomach, as bad as the first time. No—not that. This time, he'll do everything he can to avoid it.

"Our master?" Her tone is sharp and incredulous.

Booga-shaka frowns grimly to himself. Nami—or whoever she had been before—is no sack of bricks, that's for sure. He should have realized she wouldn't miss a small implication like that.

"My master, I meant. I was thinking of something else."

There's a glimmer of something dangerous in her eyes now. Honestly, he took back what he said about her, so what more does she want? They were the ones that "rescued" him, so there should be no doubt who he belongs to.

"Usopp—" Nami begins, but Booga-shaka holds up a hand, looking away.

No matter. None of it matters anymore. He has to treat this like any other fight now, and that means no attachments. Besides, arguing the point with her is rather pointless, however he looks at it. In her mind, this is perfectly real, and her memory of events that make this setup work are no doubt far too expansive to argue away. He begins to slip his arms into the sleeves of his coat.

It's hopeless. Usopp wants to sit right down and wait for whatever's coming, but Booga-shaka won't have that. It's time to act. And perhaps Usopp's not so interested, but Booga-shaka finds going down without a fight repulsive. It's the principle of the thing! He's no warrior if he can't stick out a stupid fight.

But it's not just a stupid fight, Usopp thinks to himself, fumbling to zip up his coat and button the four large green buttons holding the flap over the zipper closed through watery, blurred vision.

"I'm going to need a weapon, and I recommend you keep one with you too." He strides toward the door. "From now on … " Usopp's throat begins to close on itself, and he has to pause to get himself under control before it gets too noticeable in his voice.

Damnit, Usopp, can't you do a single thing without overreacting to it?

"From now on, you should stay away from me," Booga-shaka finishes. "Stay away from everyone."

"Now hold on a minute," Nami says, sounding alarmed. He can sense her rising from the bed, stepping towards him, so he throws open the door to the deck and plunges into the whirl of deepening snow, squinting to buffer his eyes from the blast. There's no time to ponder the sudden reappearance of the cold and snow, or whether he'd actually seen those palm trees earlier. He has to consider ways to defend himself, and fast. No doubt this crew changed where the weapons are stored after last time—and he somehow doubts Nami will want to hand one over to him—so the first order of business is to lift one from someone lacking enough skill to keep it.

Nami calls out after him as he makes it to the lower deck railing and judges the length of the drop to the pier. Gritting his teeth, Booga-shaka squashes the urge to look back. Doing so might just make his determination crumble again. This is the better way—the only way.

He hurtles over the railing, Nami's snatch at the back of his coat torn away by his fall.

After passing through the requisite airlocks and cleanliness checks, Breakers adjusts his black tie nervously at his last chance for a pause to gather himself. Familiar peals of laughter grow louder at his approach to the east end of the mountainside villa. No matter how many years he's served Saint Wyndal, the Celestial's strange obsession with his story scenarios has never seemed to get less unsettling.

Not that he lets it show while at work, of course. This is a job and he has a certain pride in keeping things professional.

With a quick but deep breath, he squares his shoulders, plastering on his most polite and placid expression before proceeding inside. The darkened room flickers with the bright light of a projector snail, the image of a large ship sailing in whirling snow filling the wall opposite. Saint Wyndal, his face pressed into the raised end on his plush white fainting couch, is pounding one fist against the top edge while his shoulders tremble with wild laughter. If he's actually trying to stifle it, he's not succeeding very well. Breakers sets the tray of food he brought fresh from the kitchen onto the side table, next to the controller snail, then retreats to the other side of the couch where he's out of the way of the video. Saint Wyndal, his laughter slowing until it's only a spotty chuckle, reaches over and presses a button on the controller snail, sending the video on the wall rapidly backward.

"Just look at this, darling," Saint Wyndal says, lifting his head just enough that Breakers can catch the gleam of tear-tracks down Saint Wyndal's cheeks in the pale white light. Saint Wyndal's pale blue robes almost look white, too, here in front of the flickering screen. "These … these pirates … "

Obediently, Breakers trains his eyes on the video. They seem familiar from somewhere, he thinks as a blond in a suit kicks a guy in a thick coat—he recognizes the latter as one Saint Wyndal's cannon fodder fighters—off of the ship, cutting off the pathetic chump mid-attack. Saint Wyndal goes back to trying to merge his head with the couch, harsh laughter echoing off the walls.

Breakers resists a frown, instead noting every detail in hopes of gleaning some information. He's always tried to keep abreast of pirate groups but with the poor weather conditions and camera movement it's hard for him to be certain about much of what he's seeing. Only really distinguishable from the invading party by the more colorful, varied outfit they're wearing, the pirates in the video plow through Saint Wyndal's invaders with relative ease. However, when the camera gets in for a good close up look at a youthful, stretchy fighter who really seems to be enjoying knocking the invaders about, the identities of the pirates he's watching hit him like a sock to the gut:

Straw Hats!

Two members in the so called Supernovas of a few years back; one rookie captain who'd been whirlwind of destruction and mayhem at Impel Down and the War of Greats; noted fugitive Nico Robin … and more besides. Notions of their isolation and resultant safety on this island flee, though just as quickly, he resigns himself to the pirates' presence here and begins to mentally schedule the placement of some contingency plans. Despite Saint Wyndal's confidence in his own abilities, such proximity makes Breakers nervous. These are the punks who'd made the ruckus at Mariejois only a month or so ago, though he hadn't gotten a good look at them back then because he'd been so concerned with evacuation proceedings. Reports from their men still in the city said they'd had the gall to break into Saint Wyndal's holding cells, for what reason Breakers wasn't sure, but he didn't like the fact that they had. They'd managed to let quite a few of the slaves there free—even some of those from the discard row. Breakers shuddered. He was glad Saint Wyndal and himself, as well as a significant amount of staff, were long out of the city by then. Saint Wyndal had gotten at least one call from an incensed Celestial, upset that he'd been clawed and bitten and nearly strangled to death in a surprise attack by one of Wyndal's loose slaves. He'd "shot the bastard dead," he thought Wyndal should know, and he "wasn't about pay compensation for it."

Saint Wyndal hadn't said anything, just laughed, "if only I'd been there to see it!" and hung up. But that was Saint Wyndal for you.

The more troubling fact was that, if some of the reports were to be believed, the Straw Hats had actually taken someone from the discard row away with them. He would have thought it witness' brains making things up, except that he knew how pirates did things that made no sense sometimes. Especially insane, unpredictable pirates like Straw Hat Luffy.

Thus he'd been glad when Saint Wyndal had shown no interest in going back to Mariejois, instead seeming content to turn Tallu Island into a stage away from stage. The Straw Hat attack was a massive blow to the impression of Mariejois security Breakers had once had. After all, if a pirate crew that had vanished for an entire two years and only recently reappeared could somehow get in and out of the city, causing massive damage while about it, who knew what else other pirates might actually be capable of, or if the Straw Hats would just keep coming back for kicks? Clearly that Fisher Tiger invasion was no anomaly. Even if it had been ten years ago, the very fact that it could be duplicated … tch. Those bungling marines still hadn't figured out how the Straw Hats got inside in the first place.

But he supposes he really shouldn't be as worried as he is. Saint Wyndal has always been a little unusual, for a Celestial. Most of them view Devil's Fruits as nothing more than cheap bits of entertaining torment for slaves that are growing boring—not only do they dislike the sometimes-uncertain effects or the taste, they seem to feel like eating it is implying that they need skills. Such admissions are beneath them, of course, since Celestials are already perfect. But not Saint Wyndal. He seems to relish the chance to employ his Devil Fruit, and has an unusual admiration for physical strength and prowess, even keeping his own body well-toned. He tends to treat most slaves who come to him with excellent physiques like a rocker might his guitar: making that body sing beautiful notes before smashing it to pieces, in a frenzy of passion, at concert's end.

Still, even if Saint Wyndal isn't nearly as defenseless as most Celestials, Breakers does much prefer that he sets up his play zone here. At least the whole island around the villa can be under his control instead of that limited area he had in Mariejois. It's much more secure.

Giving out only the occasional snort, Saint Wyndal settles himself on the fainting couch more properly again. "It is just as Fendori said," Saint Wyndal murmurs to himself. "With this much material to work with, I hardly know where to begin."

The video has progressed to some scene focused on a man in a strange mask standing on the roof on the aft of the ship, looking like he's searching the sky. Saint Wyndal grins. "Booga-shaka has recovered better than expected, hasn't he?" the Celestial asks in a tone that isn't actually seeking an answer. Breakers hopes the way his shoulders stiffen at the revelation of who the man in the video is doesn't show. The one they took from the discard row … damn, those stupid pirates really did take one of the cracked ones with them. "All nice and put together for the opening of this final act … " Watching the images moving along on the screen, the corners of Saint Wyndal's mouth move higher and higher and nearly back into themselves in a nasty little curl.

"Permission to enter?" comes Fendori's flat and even voice from behind.

Saint Wyndal rolls a little to look in direction of Fendori, who is in the doorway down on one knee with head bowed, a hand gripping the middle of the sheathed sword she has resting on the floor in front of her. "You are most welcome, darling," Saint Wyndal says. "Come and give me your report."

Fendori approaches, attaching her sword back onto a loop at her waist. "The other two crewmates I caught off-guard at the ship have been processed according to your request. However, the navigator has abilities in atmospheric manipulation. I could sense two others on the ship but I could not seem to find them—I must beg your forgiveness. I suspect the navigator was hiding the both of them, and that her skill may be improved over what Usopp knew of her."

Saint Wyndal pinches the bridge of his nose. "I do wish you would stop using that name. How many times do I have to repeat, he is Booga-shaka."

Fendori dips her head in more apology. "To refer to Booga-shaka as the one who gave me my knowledge of them would be incorrect, Saint Wyndal. I mean nothing by it except to remain completely accurate in my explanations to you."

Saint Wyndal sighs and flops back against the couch, clasping his hands over his stomach and staring up at the ceiling. "Booga-shaka always has been annoyingly creative like that. It's not your fault, so never mind. They've obviously treated him quite well. He'll fall into line soon enough. Your processing of the other two went smoothly?"

"Entirely successful, except for the skeleton's strange obsession with panties, which I could not eradicate. For a little while I was unsure my power would have any effect on a being without a mind … without a physical mind, at least. It seems to have taken hold well enough otherwise."

"Hm." Saint Wyndal's eyes slide over in Fendori's direction. "But my ability works on him, so I wouldn't have feared yours would not."

Fendori dips her head again. "I am in the habit of assuming little about unusual opponents."

Saint Wyndal reaches over to the plate and feels around before picking up one of the plump strawberries that their head chef had carefully prepared not too long ago. In fact, Breakers had almost been late getting them here, no thanks the cook's neurosis over strawberry selection. Breakers had stood around a full fifteen minutes past time, watching the cook choose the final five strawberries. The cook would turn each one over and over and mutter to himself all the while. Most of the fruit had ended up tossed in the trash, for what Breakers assumed were blemishes of some sort, not that he himself could tell the difference. In the end every strawberry was large and a perfect, even red, with not a pinprick of blemish to be found. Breakers had kept silent, even though the extended wait had made him a bit nervous. He figured the cook knew what he was doing, having kept himself employed for a whole six months—unusual for one of Saint Wyndal's cooks.

Still, the guy was certainly looking haggard around the edges and if Breakers were him, he'd be putting in a resignation while he had the chance. It was hard to keep up with the constant demands for seventeen-course meals, all with no repeated dish in any given three-month period. Saint Wyndal kept track of these things surprisingly well, and there were quite a few cooks that had been put through hell just for repeating a dish, either by accident or design, only a few days before it was allowed.

Breakers is glad he's not a chef. They really seem to cycle through them the fastest. At this rate they'll have to pick up a chef slave, because people talk and it's getting hard to find new applicants no matter how high they make the salary. Very few Celestials are this picky about—

Breakers clenches his eyes shut in reflex, though he manages to stay stock-still otherwise, as something tepid, wet, and sticky slaps a thick line of goo down his face.

"Strawberries?" Saint Wyndal spits again, this time at the floor. "Plain strawberries?"

Breakers feels he has taken sufficient stoic pause to be allowed some clean up, so he pulls the handkerchief from his breast-pocket and begins wiping the chewed strawberry from his face before it can run down behind his sunglasses and into his eyes.

"Chocolate-covered would have been one thing, but this is entirely another! He knows my preferences and my rules," Saint Wyndal hisses, hurling the half-eaten berry to the floor. "This is completely unacceptable."

Fendori remains where she is, not even a flicker of apprehension crossing her face. Of course. She's always been the favorite. She even gets away with disagreeing sometimes.

Saint Wyndal spits a few more times and then rubs at his mouth with a sleeve. "I believe the souse chef is very deserving of a promotion." He looks to Fendori, malice in the glint of his eyes. "I want you," he tells her, "To bring our former head chef to me." Rising from the couch, he takes up the plate of laboriously selected strawberries and dumps them to the floor, grinding each one to pulp with the thick heel of his white boots at a slow pace matching the rhythm of his orders. "Have. Him. Clean. This. Mess. Up." Saint Wyndal rubs the sole of boot off on a dry spot of the floor off to one side, still smiling like he's about to toss out the punch line to the best joke he's ever told. "But when you do, darling, make sure he does it properly. Get him to make it spotless, you know … like the dog he is."

A/N: Arrrrgh that part with Nami and Usopp took forever to iron out. Why does it have to be so hard to divulge information without devolving into exposé, or giving out more than you want? Besides that, of course, there were my usual reasons for delay, which you've all read about before. I really can't say when the next part will come out. I do think about the fic pretty much everyday, though. If I had to guess, I'm at story midpoint or approaching it? XD Anyway, thanks to all for the feedback, including the two recent anons Brilliant and Plushbones. I hope to update for you all again sooner rather than later!