[The park is always nice. Koby's used to the sea -- the endless blue, the horizon stretching off into nothingness, the way the air smells and the deck moves. He misses it, every time he wakes up in the middle of the night from a nightmare or steps outside the grey house him and Mihawk have taken as their own odd quarters. But the flowers are nice enough, and the trees are a novelty after being on the ocean for so long. So the urge to visit the park isn't necessarily unusual.
But the way he feels once he's there is. Koby isn't sure how, but he finds himself sitting cross-legged among a large patch of poppies, frowning and blinking at the large, heavy orangeish blooms. One hand reaches out, strokes along the delicate petals, huffing out a soft laugh.] That's -- strange. I've never seen these before.
[And yet -- he feels like he's back, by the ocean, the sun going down, the waves rolling soft and foamy onto the sand. Koby isn't really sure what beach, if he's by a Marine base or at a port or on the island he called home as a child. All beaches were the same, regardless of whether he was trapped with Alvida's crew at some grimy dock in the middle of the East Blue, or running barefoot and careless with the other girls from the orphanage. There was always sand, warm and damp, studded with shells and seaweed and beach glass and smooth stones, plush beneath his feet, the air salt-bright and familiar.
The poppies creep in closer, twining around Koby's arms, his legs, roots starting to dig their way beneath his skin as he reaches out for a handful of sand that isn't there, much as he can feel it gritty and fine between his fingers. He...might need some help.]
ii. not all you're cracked up to be
[Honestly, Koby just thought he'd been off the sea for too long -- he's always been on the paler side, tending to burn or freckle, rather than tan beneath the constant sun out on the water. The sun in Sweet Acres is so odd, so artificially cool that he's even paler than usual these days.
Except -- nope, that's not just being pale, that's an odd sort of cool, almost stonelike quality to his skin, spreading up his fingers to his arms, smooth and alien. Koby is distracted from thoughts of home by how wrong it feels, an odd sort of tingling loss of sensation that he can't get away from, no matter how he rubs or scratches at the porcelain.
Then, the cracks -- running threads of gold, spidering over Koby's arms, his shoulders, up his neck. It'd leave him terrified, sobbing and shivering, but he just sort of feels...numb. Empty. Maybe it's the porcelain inside him, but as the cracks grow wider, spreading bright and shining and nearly beautiful, Koby just sits on a bench, hands out in front of him and...watches.
The thoughts don't stop either, the memories of home, of the choices he'd made, the ways he'd grown since Luffy rescued him, since he enlisted, since he'd finally taken control of his own life. Why would he have had an entire artificial life, a whole fake existence that was all about autonomy and making his own choices? What sort of cruel, horrific irony was that?
If anyone approaches, Koby just looks upwards at them, face blank, cool, almost serene.] You're blocking the sun.
Koby | OPLA | ota
[The park is always nice. Koby's used to the sea -- the endless blue, the horizon stretching off into nothingness, the way the air smells and the deck moves. He misses it, every time he wakes up in the middle of the night from a nightmare or steps outside the grey house him and Mihawk have taken as their own odd quarters. But the flowers are nice enough, and the trees are a novelty after being on the ocean for so long. So the urge to visit the park isn't necessarily unusual.
But the way he feels once he's there is. Koby isn't sure how, but he finds himself sitting cross-legged among a large patch of poppies, frowning and blinking at the large, heavy orangeish blooms. One hand reaches out, strokes along the delicate petals, huffing out a soft laugh.] That's -- strange. I've never seen these before.
[And yet -- he feels like he's back, by the ocean, the sun going down, the waves rolling soft and foamy onto the sand. Koby isn't really sure what beach, if he's by a Marine base or at a port or on the island he called home as a child. All beaches were the same, regardless of whether he was trapped with Alvida's crew at some grimy dock in the middle of the East Blue, or running barefoot and careless with the other girls from the orphanage. There was always sand, warm and damp, studded with shells and seaweed and beach glass and smooth stones, plush beneath his feet, the air salt-bright and familiar.
The poppies creep in closer, twining around Koby's arms, his legs, roots starting to dig their way beneath his skin as he reaches out for a handful of sand that isn't there, much as he can feel it gritty and fine between his fingers. He...might need some help.]
ii. not all you're cracked up to be
[Honestly, Koby just thought he'd been off the sea for too long -- he's always been on the paler side, tending to burn or freckle, rather than tan beneath the constant sun out on the water. The sun in Sweet Acres is so odd, so artificially cool that he's even paler than usual these days.
Except -- nope, that's not just being pale, that's an odd sort of cool, almost stonelike quality to his skin, spreading up his fingers to his arms, smooth and alien. Koby is distracted from thoughts of home by how wrong it feels, an odd sort of tingling loss of sensation that he can't get away from, no matter how he rubs or scratches at the porcelain.
Then, the cracks -- running threads of gold, spidering over Koby's arms, his shoulders, up his neck. It'd leave him terrified, sobbing and shivering, but he just sort of feels...numb. Empty. Maybe it's the porcelain inside him, but as the cracks grow wider, spreading bright and shining and nearly beautiful, Koby just sits on a bench, hands out in front of him and...watches.
The thoughts don't stop either, the memories of home, of the choices he'd made, the ways he'd grown since Luffy rescued him, since he enlisted, since he'd finally taken control of his own life. Why would he have had an entire artificial life, a whole fake existence that was all about autonomy and making his own choices? What sort of cruel, horrific irony was that?
If anyone approaches, Koby just looks upwards at them, face blank, cool, almost serene.] You're blocking the sun.