Chapter 8

Standard disclaimer applies

Marco was in the midst of his big-brother thoughts, not surprisingly because he rather liked the idea of being an older sibling, as he continued to walk home beneath the night sky. Strange how in one short month he had come to think of this place as his home, he mused. Perhaps it was because this was the only place he knew besides his first home. It felt good to belong somewhere, though he still wondered how he had come to this island. It seemed pretty clear to him that there wasn't anyone searching for him, or if they were they'd never find him. It was why Marco had chosen to start working and learning the Ancient Language. He wanted to see the world, but calling this his home base didn't seem like a bad idea at all.

And still he wondered about the people in his dreams and half-memories. The black-haired girl who called him her brother, the freckle-faced young man with a mischievous grin, the old man that held a kind of compassion in his eyes that made Marco feel he belonged there, the blond beauty he dreamed of sleeping with, and all the other nameless faces that haunted his mind like ghosts. He longed to know who they were and if they cared for him as much as he dreamed they did. So often when Marco was reading the newspaper, he could almost picture a bulky man with a bulbous blond hairstyle and an obnoxiously wide grin.

"The hell're you doing, Marco?" would ring in his ears, followed by a laugh that he both loved and loathed. It was endearing, but highly annoying.

There there were days he'd wake up sore from work and imagine arm-wrestling with a man who was easily three or four times his size. The man was hugely muscular, had a dark complexion and a perpetually serious face-- more so than Marco. He always felt like he was good friends with this giant of a man, like they probably understood each other.

So many nameless faces. So many memories he lost and could never again make with them. In his dreams, the less horrific ones, Marco always felt like he was home with those people. Compared to them and the ship his dreams placed him in, Crista's place was just a house, not a home. He didn't want to think of it like that because he'd really come to think of Lacrime as his home, but that other place always lingered. Wherever it was, a part of Marco wished he could be there.

He doubted the freckle-faced kid, the obnoxious blond, the beautiful woman or the old man were still around, if he ever found his dream-home again. If his nightmares were anything to go by, they'd all been killed. Freckles had had a magma hand blow through his torso. That was about as clear as the image got in Marco's dreams. He never saw the attacker or anything else, except Freckles, a lanky kid and the black-haired woman.

Dumbass, as he so fondly referred to the annoyingly lovable blond man, had been killed in a bloody mess too, based on Marco's nightmare of him. There was always a lot of rage and anguish that came with that one, just like the others. Dumbass had been killed by... a brother, as far as Marco could tell from the murmurings in his dream. Freckles always looked like a bonfire, with flames licking off of his shoulders.

Marco called the blond woman Lover, since that was obviously who she was to him. He'd gathered that he didn't just use her for sex, which relieved him. If these dreams were true, he didn't want to find out he had been a lecherous b*****d. The woman obviously loved him in his dreams. Most of them were sweet, except for one reoccurring nightmare starring her. He always found her lying on a battlefield, her body lifeless. He'd approach and could tell by the unnatural pallor of her skin that every drop of blood had been drained from her body. Marco always had to hold back the bile in his throat at that image of her.

Pops... it always seemed right to call him that, Marco figured. Now that was a mountain of a man, and near unbeatable. Hell, for quite some time in his dreams, Marco found it hard to believe the old man could die. Then, he would always be reminded by another nightmare. Pops would die on his feet, the front of his body completely covered in wounds. Amazingly enough, his back, which bore a very similar tattoo to Marco's, didn't have a single scar or wound.

Marco never knew what to call the black-haired girl that occasionally hung around his dreams. 'Imouto' came to mind and it was the only think that felt right, short of brat or kid. He didn't think Imouto was alive, based on the worst of his dreams with her. He often saw an image of her with her upper body burned severely. The delicate skin of her stomach was red and blistering. He could even see a charred piece of flesh here and there. The girl was a mess and he doubted she survived such damage. The thought of that pained him because he felt like she was closer to him than most, like Marco was her favorite or something. Or maybe he felt like that because of his relationship with Crista. These were dreams, after all, and could be easily influenced by outside stimuli.

Marco was soon ripped from his thoughts by an ear-piercing shriek from up ahead. He broke into a dead-run. He knew Crista was somewhere ahead of him and he dreaded the thought that she might be in danger. The scream sounded again, followed by a woman's sobs, and Marco all but sprinted to the scene. Seconds later, he found Crista thrashing with an unknown attacker. In the moonlight, Marco could see the glint of a blade dangerously close to Crista's throat. The only things holding it back were her hands, which were already cut from the knife.

Marco didn't waste another second; without a conscious thought, his body transformed. Blue flames erupted from his now avian body, illuminating the night. He was a phoenix. Marco's intention for the moment was just to scare the attacker and get a good look at him; he'd hunt the b*****d once Crista was safe. His plan worked. The attacker took one look at Marco, dropped his knife and ran for his pitiful life. Crista fell to her knees and stared up at the phoenix with fearful eyes, tears staining her cheeks. Marco returned to his normal form and knelt beside her, but she pushed him away. Her blood stained his white shirt in the shape of a handprint.

"Don't come near me!" Crista yelled as she began sobbing again.

"Crista-" he started.

"No! Mi hai imbrogliato! Hai mangiato Un Frutto Di Dio senza la benedizione!"

"I didn't know about-"

"Bugiardo!" Crista screamed and wrapped her arms around herself, trembling.

Marco stared at her in shock. She thought he had purposely violated the most sacred of her traditions She thought he had stolen from someone's garden. Before Marco could try to explain himself, the sound of footsteps neared them. Marco looked up and saw Angelo already there, glancing between the two of them with a look of ire on his face.

"What did you do to her?!" he demanded and lunged at Marco, knocking the older man to the ground. Angelo glanced at the bloody handprint on Marco's shirt and punched him.

"I didn't do anything!" Marco yelled back and Angelo hit him again. Marco shoved the younger man off of himself and pinned him to the ground. "I'm not about to fight you and I didn't hurt her. Quit being a hot-head and we'll talk like civilized people." Odd, Marco thought; he felt like he'd given a similar line to someone else before. Freckles, maybe? Angelo took a few deep breaths and the only sounds came from Crista as she tried to corral her emotions again.

"Crista, what happened?" Angelo asked, never looking away from Marco's eyes.

"Marco mi ha salvato da un uomo con un coltello. He became a phoenix," she answered shakily. The glare Marco received from Angelo made him glad looks couldn't kill.

"You ate one of our Fruits?!"

"Years ago, before I left home when I was young," Marco answered defensively.

"Do you honestly expect me to believe that?"

"Many people around the world eat these Fruits to gain their powers. Outside this island, they're called Devil Fruits. I knew people who were powerful from them." Crista gasped softly.

"You remember?" she asked.

"Mostly," Marco lied. He had no way of knowing if his dreams were true, but they certainly helped him now. Unfortunately, he didn't have a name for any of the people. He went with the one that sounded most like a name or title. "Pops could create earthquakes."

"I don't believe you," Angelo spat out. Marco pushed himself off the younger man and walked over to Crista, offering her a hand.

"Believe what you want, but Crista needs her cuts treated. I'm taking her back home."

A shaky, wet hand met his and Crista stood. Her dress was smeared with her own blood and Marco was reminded of the awful images of both Lover and Imouto. He didn't want another young woman he cared about to be hurt. Marco began walking with Crista, wrapping an arm around her trembling shoulders.

"Wait," Angelo called out. "I'm coming with you." Marco figured it was for Crista's sake, but it was better than nothing.

Author's Note

Translations

Marco tries to talk to Crista:
-No! You tricked me! You ate one of God's Fruits without blessing!
-(I didn't know about-)
-Liar!

Angelo asks what happened
-Marco saved me from a man with a knife.