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He goes to Luffy first, after.
He goes to Luffy and finds the Strawhat crew ashore, eating their way through an entire restaurant. He stands in the doorway and watches with something small and hard in his throat. He lingers just obviously enough to be noticed, and when Luffy glances his way, he has a single fleeting moment of—
Luffy's eyes slide past like he's made of glass, like he doesn't register, and he grits his teeth and wishes they'd taken his heart after all. It would’ve had to have hurt less than this.
"Hey," he says anyway, pushing forward to the bar. "This seat taken?"
Luffy looks at him with a mouth stuffed full and garbles what he recognizes as an invitation only from years of listening to Luffy talk with a full mouth. He steps up, tips his hat down, and flags down the bartender.
"Hey," says the guy next to him, Luffy's first mate. A swordsman, he remembers suddenly, aiming to unseat Mihawk. "Hey, don't I know you?"
He stops in place, one hand raised, and lets go of the bar top with his other before he can crack it, then takes one deep breath and turns his head to meet that gaze. "I don't know," he says as evenly as he can. "Do you?"
"I've seen you before," the swordsman—what was his name?—says. "You were—you..." His eyes go unfocused and his words trails off, unsure.
The newcomer swallows and puts on his best grin. "One shot of the house special," he tells the bartender, "and another for my friend here."
"Zoro," Luffy’s first mate offers, but doesn't go for a handshake. Zoro’s still staring at him with narrowed eyes when the shots arrive, and he throws his back without even pausing to identify it. Zoro—right, Roronoa Zoro, pirate hunter turned pirate, he's got the file somewhere—accepts his but doesn't drink it.
"Nice to meet you," he says to Zoro and slaps a few thousand belli on the bar, far more than the cost of two drinks. "Put it towards his tab," he says to the barkeep, jerking his thumb at Luffy, then he tips his hat and pushes away from the bar.
"Hey," Zoro calls after him. "You didn't give me your name."
He waves one careless hand over his shoulder and keeps walking. Of course he didn't; it's no longer his to give.
It wasn't a mistake. It wasn't, and he leans against the rail, eyes on the horizon, and repeats that until he remembers it. It wasn't a mistake, and it was worth it.
“Hey,” a stranger says, and he cuts his eyes to the side. “You okay there?”
“Of course,” he replies, tilting his head and smiling at the woman. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You look a bit…” she says, gesturing at her own eyes in demonstration and his smile tightens. He knows exactly how he looks, and he wonders what word she’ll pick. Feverish? Stressed? Crazy? Dangerous?
“...lonely,” she decides on, and it startles a sound out of him that’s almost a laugh, but only almost.
“You could say that,” he agrees. “Mighta lost something. You know.”
“Oh,” she says sympathetically. “Losing people is hard.”
His grin sharpens because he can’t let it fall off and doesn’t correct her. “It is, isn’t it? Careless, too. Oughtn’t misplace those important to you.”
She blinks at him, and whatever his face is doing must be even worse now; she rocks back on her feet and starts looking back the way she came. “I’m sorry,” she offers, then flees.
He turns his eyes back to the horizon and doesn’t watch her leave. “Me too,” he says to no one, and passes the remaining hours alone with the clouds that blow by.
He stares at them mindlessly, his thoughts far away in the sunshine days of long ago, laughing at the clouds passing by and seeing fantastical shapes in them. The memories are happy but he doesn’t smile, doesn’t blink, just watches the sky until they dock at the next port.
He disappears over the rail before they even put the gangway out; he wants the headstart and the other passengers have already proven to be willing to talk to a stranger, so the sooner he’s gone, the better. No one’s following him, but old habits die hard.
And it would be unfair to lead anyone to his target, too. He knows the mission roster and he knows this is a recon mission with little to no backup, so subtle is the word of the day.
So he blends in, hands tucked behind his back and hat pulled low, walking with confidence but without purpose. He doesn’t know where she will be but he remembers the target and he makes his way there, to an ostentatious mansion tucked into a shopping street on the outskirts of the town.
It’s every bit as ugly as he thought it would be and he bites back on the bitter memories it drags up. There’s three floors, probably close to twenty rooms, and supposedly three people live in it. The waste makes him sick.
It also has giant picture windows in front, perfect for showing off the wealth and happiness of the inhabitants. They’re also perfect for looking in, though, and he glances across the street and up, just where he’d make his own spying nest. There’s nothing there, so he trails his eyes down and around until he finds a familiar flash of dusky pink at the patio of the cafe two buildings down.
She always did like tea.
He meanders over, coming to a halting stop at the front of the cafe in a way guaranteed to draw sharp glances, and he looks up to catch her gaze. Koala stares back at him then narrows her eyes and for a single, terrible moment he almost expects to hear where have you been?
Then she looks back at her tea and his heart falls out of his throat and keeps right on falling. He has to be sure though, so he says, “Excuse me, miss?”
She glances back up with a disinterested look on her face. “Can I help you?” she asks, and it’s—it’s hard to hear that tone from her, the one she uses on marks. There’s no recognition on her face.
He blinks only slightly too long, once, and takes a deep breath. “No, never mind,” he says, dragging up a weak smile. “I thought—I thought you were someone I knew. My mistake.”
He can almost feel the suspicion rising, so he turns immediately and walks away. It wouldn’t do to call attention to himself right now, and she’s always preferred solo recon anyway.
He doesn’t go see Ace.
He can’t.
There is, in fact, only one person left he can see, so he swallows his pride and goes to see his brother.
"Thanks for the ride," he says, hopping out of the rowboat.
"Of course," the man says, gesturing expansively. "Least I could do, after you saved our village from those Marines last year. You ever need anything, just say the word!"
He nods at the man and tilts his hat down. He has never regretted his habit of caution as much as he does now, and he knows it's useless but he has to ask anyway. "Hey, did I ever tell you my name?"
The guy blinks at him. "Your name? Uh... huh. Come to think of it, no, I don't think so? Or if you did, I forgot."
"Of course," he murmurs and grins, a reflex that cuts him sharp as breathing. "Never mind, yeah? Thanks!"
"Ah, sorry—oh, hey! Will you need a ride back?"
He's already a few feet down the familiar path, but he spins on his heel to call back, "No! Thanks though!" and he twirls back around and keeps going.
Goa hasn't changed since he's been away, and some of the heaps in the Grey Terminal are still in the same places. It's familiar, and so is the stench.
He wrinkles his nose as he walks; he'd managed to forget this part of it.
There's movement in the distance and he unholsters his pipe and twirls it obviously and menacingly as he walks. He'd whistle, just for that certain air of jaunty defiance, but that would involve breathing in more of the stench than he has to.
There's a scuttling above, and then more on the other side, but the pipe is enough and he's left alone. It's not a long walk, not as long as memory claims it should be, and his old exit is still big enough to serve as an entry.
Here, inside High Town, he finds changes. The fashions are modern, the colors trendy, the clothes as ridiculous as they ever were. He keeps his hands tucked away, his back straight, and his eyes moving as he paces the familiar roads.
It’s like walking back in time, retracing his steps, and he forces himself not to hesitate in front of the stoop.
It wasn't a mistake. It wasn't, and it was worth it, and this will be quick and painless, he tells himself before he knocks.
He lets go of the knocker and waits. It goes against every instinct he has, but his best bet for hearing his name is leaning on manners. Besides, it's better to start with the soft option; you can always escalate, but you can’t walk back from the hard option.
"Yes?" asks the girl who opens the door. Her maid's uniform is pristine, her expression is perfectly blank, and she's maybe fifteen years old.
"Hello. Visitor for the master of the house, please."
"I'm afraid he's not at home today for visitors. If you'll leave your card—"
If he had a calling card, this wouldn't even be an issue. He's trying to be reasonable, but his patience only goes so far and this place puts his teeth on edge. "He's at home for me," he tells the girl. "Tell him—" he takes a deep breath. "Tell him his brother's here."
Her eyes go wide. "Br—yes sir! My sincerest apologies, sir. Won't you come wait in the drawing room?"
"Thank you," he says, sweeping his hat off as he crosses the threshold and keeping his nose in the air. He may not be like this, but he knows how to play the part.
"Tea, sir?"
"Oh, no, that's not necessary; I shan't be staying long."
She bobs a curtsy and leads him to a room done up in whites and blues, with lovely wainscoting and a scattering of seating. He disregards them all and heads for the window instead, pausing before it with his hands tucked behind his back, fingers tight on the brim of his hat.
It can’t be a long wait, not really, but he blanks on it and doesn’t notice. There’s something about the air in here; it’s not stale, not quite, but the scent that lingers in the back of his mouth is his mother’s perfume gone old and dusty.
He breathes through his nose and stares out the window and waits.
The door slams open behind him and he doesn’t mean to jump. He keeps it small and slowly rotates on the ball of his foot to face an old ghost.
“You,” Stelly says, spitting it like it’s poison. “How dare you.”
He takes a deep breath and lets his hammering pulse ground him. “Stelly.”
“How dare you come here like this,” Stelly says, approaching. “After how you left. After what you did.”
“Just passing through,” he says. “I have no intention to intrude, really.”
Stelly draws up in the middle of the room, raising his chin superciliously. “Well, you are. So what is it, and how do I make you go away?”
“I’m surprised you even remember me, honestly,” he says, lightly, lightly, a delicate touch. If he can just keep Stelly talking… “I’m surprised you remember my name.”
Stelly makes a horrible noise and says, “I couldn’t forget you, even when I tried. Your entire existence is an affront to me and the best day of my life was the day you died. Why couldn’t you just stay dead?”
“If you couldn’t kill me, what makes you think anything else could?” he retorts before he can think better of it.
“My mistake. Next time I’ll make sure.”
“There won’t be a next time.”
Stelly scoffs and waves it off. "If you didn't want me to try murdering you again, why did you come back here?"
"I...forgot something," he says, aiming for light. "Thought I might find it here."
"There's nothing here for you, brother." Stelly spits the word like a weapon, dipped in spite and thick with hate, and he knows in that moment there will be no baiting, no manipulation; Stelly is too petty to ever give him the dignity of his own name.
Which leaves only one avenue, the one he hates the most and avoids whenever possible: the truth. Maybe if he does it artfully enough, Stelly will take enough pleasure in his suffering to relent.
"I did misplace something," he says. "I made a promise that cost more than I could bear, and the consequences—"
"Why did you come here?" Stelly interrupts. "Whatever it was, there has got to be someone else—anyone else—you'd go to first."
"I went to the most appropriate—," he begins, and Stelly's eyes sharpen.
"You did, didn't you? And yet you're here, so I'm your last resort," he concludes, and a lazy grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Oh, you're desperate."
"Am not," he says, but it's weak and they both know he wouldn't be here otherwise.
"And what is it you need, that only I have?" Stelly all but croons. "What did you come to beg me for?"
The wording rankles but it is true, and he swallows, raises his chin, and he says, "My name."
Stelly’s gaze sharpens and he leans in, crossing one leg over the other. “Go on.”
“I—” he says, wavering, then swallows. “There was—I ran into a curse.” He sets his jaw, takes a deep breath, and focuses his gaze on a spot just left of Stelly’s eyes. “All positive memories of me were erased,” he says. It’s not quite true, but Stelly doesn’t need to know he traded those memories for his own. “And it can only be broken—”
“—by someone saying your name,” Stelly finishes, eyes going distant as he thinks it through. “Oh, and no one you like remembers you, and no one who’s neutral to you knows your name, right? So you had to come to me, because I never had a single positive memory of you but I’d never forget your name. Oh, is that it, brother?”
He forgets, sometimes, that Stelly is as smart as he is cruel, that he’s a worthy heir to the Outlooks and everything a young nobleman should be. He used to forget that; he won’t anymore.
Stelly leans back in his chair, smile as sharp as anything he ever wore on his own face.
“Of course I’ll help you,” he all but purrs. “I’d be ever so glad to help my favorite brother. I just need you to do one teeny weeny favor me first, and then I’ll tell you your name. You’ll agree, won’t you?”
He doesn't hesitate, not really, because this is for Ace, for Koala, for Luffy; it's for his job and his life and everything he ever loved. "Yes," he says, and Blues help him but he means it.
Stelly grins, a nasty gloating expression of smug superiority. “Kneel, then,” he says.
He grits his teeth but he meant it; it’ll be worth it, so he turns off his pride and makes Stelly a mark. It’s just like any other undercover operation, any other infiltration; it’s not him, not really, so it’s easier to sink to his knees and stay there.
It’s easier but not easy, and he can’t quite wipe the defiance out of his eyes so he ducks his head instead.
Stelly makes a thoughtful noise, and then he says, “I have a little problem with one of my businesses. A competitor is making trouble for me. If you can sort it out, I think we may find some common ground to negotiate."
It's not a promise, per se, but it's a start, and a start is all he has ever needed. "Give me a name," he says, standing.
Stelly does.
He nods, leaves, and gets to work.
It’s not even difficult, in the end. He’s used to having more backup, sure, but he’s also used to undermining an entire government, with all the protections and scale that implies. Ruining one man’s local business is easy, and after he finds out what the man's really selling, it’s even a pleasure.
He watches the man’s warehouse burn down from the top of the next hill over, the inventory long since let loose, and almost even smiles. Then he remembers Stelly saying competitor and bites his tongue.
It’s not the worst thing he’s ever done, though, and so he locks his heart away again and goes back to that awful house on High Street where all his nightmares live.
The same young servant opens the door and ushers him into the formal receiving room where Stelly is already seated. There's a young lady across from him, sipping from a tea cup that he guesstimates cost more than the servant's monthly salary.
The young lady is giggling when he's shown in, and he has to swallow to keep the bile out of his mouth.
Stelly looks up, catches his eye, and holds up an elegant, limp-wristed hand to the lady. “Is it done?" he asks over her head, and at the nod, continues. "Oh, good. Would you mind waiting in the parlor while I finish up here? I want to discuss our next project with you before you go."
Next project, he mouths to himself, and shakes his head at Stelly.
Stelly narrows his eyes back and says, "I'll handle your payment then," and then his eyes drift back to the lady in the clearest possible dismissal, even including his Army training.
It rankles, but he needs that name, so he follows the young girl in the maid uniform to a different waiting room. It's disgusting, this waste, and he stews in his bitterness for a while.
The door opens and he looks up, but it's just the maid again. She's holding a tea tray and he stares blankly at her as she sets it in front of him.
"There's no way he told you to bring me tea," he says to her.
She looks away, bobs a curtsy, and leaves. He looks back at the tray and reaches for the pot to find it full of gunpowder green, and a fresh batch, too. This should be served to guests, not to him.
He pours it for himself anyway and enjoys every sip. There's something calming about staring out a window and drinking crisp, strong tea, and he loses himself into the mindlessness of it so he doesn't mind the wait.
And it is a wait; it takes longer than the pot lasts him for the door to open again. Stelly walks in, all smug confidence, and he almost wishes he'd left some tea in the pot just so he could throw it at Stelly's face.
"I heard," Stelly says, falling to sit sideways in one of the uncomfortable chairs, throwing his leg over an arm. "I heard how his business collapsed due to supply issues. Neatly done."
He nods but doesn't thank him; that's not the sort of praise he wants to accept. "My payment?" he asks instead.
"Oh, of course," Stelly says, waving his hand negligently. "Only, see, while you were working on that, a new problem cropped up. Would you mind terribly handling it for me first? It'll only take a moment, I'm sure."
He grits his teeth together and laces his fingers together to prevent them from falling into a destructive grip. "I don't really have the time—" he starts, but Stelly just laughs.
"You have nothing but time, don't you, brother?" he says. "Handle this for me too and I'll say your name. It really will be quick; it's just an assassination."
"No," he says immediately. "I'm not killing for you."
Stelly sighs, dropping his leg from his sprawl to sit upright. "Well, that's disappointing. Guess I'll find someone else who wants what I have bad enough to kill for me. So long, then, and good luck finding anyone else who knows your name and hates you."
He sits still, fingers pressing into each other, breathing. There's no one else; he tried every last possibility before he came here, and there's a hole in his heart that feels like his family and hurts like home.
He's killed before; he's already got blood on his hands and it's never bothered him that much, not really. It probably wouldn't even take too long, like Stelly said, and if it's another Noble, it's not like he wouldn't be doing the world a favor anyway, right?
"Fine," he grits out, fingers pulsing against each other. "Who is it?"
Stelly tells him.
He closes his eyes, misses his family, and goes out to murder a stranger.
He thinks about it, after.
The gloves are a loss, he already knows, and he's peeling them off to dispose of before he goes back. They were only fabric, though, and there's red on his skin beneath them, smeared by the cloth against his skin, and he thinks about it as he scrubs them clean.
He's not being asked to do anything outside his skillset, or anything too far out of his moral compass. He's been a weapon most of his life anyway, for the Army, and it's a lot of the same skills, just being used in a different service.
It's a lot of ask of him, but it isn't too much, and he wants his life back with the burning endurance of an ember, smouldering away in his stomach. It isn't too much, and he's done worse.
He clings to that and goes back to Stelly, who laughs at him and gives him another empty promise and the next target.
It's easy to lose track of time when you've turned yourself off and are just going through the motions. It's easy to let life pass you by and he looks up, a few jobs later, and wonders how long it's been. Weeks? Months?
It doesn't matter. He just has to keep going. You can make through hell, he reminds himself, if only you keep going. And it'll be worth it, to be remembered, to be able to go back to the Army, to go visit his brothers—it'll be worth it.
That's what he tells himself, what he repeats, and what comes to a stuttering stop when Stelly slides him a folder across the inlaid tea table in the parlor.
"No," he says, frozen over where the folder is opened to a picture. "No kids."
"They're just—"
He flips the folder closed and shoves it back across the table. "No," he says, and as long as he's at it, "We're done."
Stelly's grin is ugly and sharp. "No, we're not."
“Our agreement—” he says, and Stelly laughs.
“What agreement?” he says. “I have something you need, something you’d do anything to get. It’s your job to earn it.”
His fists clench, his mouth sets in a thin line, and he takes a deep breath. “I have,” he says.
Stelly looks at him, eyes narrowing, then he says, slowly. “Tell you what. One more. No kids, but one thing more, and I’ll say it. Just this last thing, and I swear. I’ll even sign a contract or anything you want. Just this one last thing.”
He takes a deep breath that shakes on the inhale and curls his fists tighter. “I’ll take that in writing,” he says, even though he hates the gleam in Stelly’s eyes. “What is it?”
“Oh, nothing much. It’s just, this town’s gotten so dirty, don’t you think?” Stelly says, lips curling. “I think it’s time we took out the trash. Burn it all, you know?”
His gaze falls to the floor and he breathes, and when that changes nothing he breathes some more. “Burn the Grey Terminal?” he asks because he needs to be sure, needs to say out loud what Stelly’s leaving unspoken. “You want me to—?”
“Do this for me,” Stelly says, “this one last little thing, and you’re free. You’ll have your life back.”
He’s shaking, he notices distantly. He’s come this far, done this much, and now he’s shaking. This is—it’s too much.
It’s too much. He weighs what he is, what he has, against this order, but he’s still a Revolutionary, still himself even after all this, and he has always been painfully, intimately aware of the price of pride.
He plants one hand on the elegant carpet and shoves himself upright jerkily. “No,” he says, still looking down, and it feels like a red hot blade in his throat.
“No?” Stelly repeats, all satiny poison.
He raises his eyes, sets his mouth, and says, “No.”
“You kind of have to,” Stelly reminds him, still smiling. “I have what you need.”
“No, you have what I want ,” he says. “What I need is somewhere else.” So he flips his hat in his hands, settles it on his head, and reaches deep inside himself to draw up one of those sharp, dangerous smiles he hasn’t worn since this whole thing started. “Everyone I love is still alive whether they remember me or not, and I can learn to live with that. So screw you, Stelly, and have a miserable life.”
He spits on the carpet that’s worth more than the maid’s life, and he turns on his toe and marches out the door, head held high. The young maid hurries to open the door for him and he smiles and tilts his hat at her. Then he stops, eyes her, and says, “Hey, if you want out of here, I know some people.”
She stares at him and doesn’t move.
He shrugs. “Good luck then,” he says and digs in his pocket for his flash and a book of matches. “Oh, and hey, you might wanna go on break now.”
“I don’t get breaks,” she says, but she just stands by and watches as he pours the contents of the flask out all over the hall runner in the entryway.
“You do today,” he says, then lights the match and drops it.
It’s a clean kind of ache, he finds, starting over. It hurts, everything—and everyone—he’s lost; it hurts deep and throbbing and distant, in a way he knows will be ever present. But it’s a new start, too, and that’s not nothing.
There’s just one thing left he needs to do before he goes off to make a new name for himself. Maybe he’ll go back to the Army and work his way back up the ranks, or maybe he’ll strike out on his own, or maybe he’ll just build a hut on a mountain somewhere and disappear for a while.
Well, maybe not that last one; he knows himself better than that.
Whatever he’ll do next, though, he has to do this now; he’s already here after all.
So he hauls himself up the side, hopping over the rail to sit on it, perching easily. The Moby Dick is the largest ship he’s ever seen, and the rails are thick enough that he doesn’t have to think about balancing.
Which is great because his eyes catch on Ace across the deck and he can’t focus on anything else.
He loses some time, just like that, half grieving and half wistful, watching Ace chat with some guys while they play cards. Ace is bottom dealing. He glances over, once, and his eyes slide right past.
“Can I help you?” someone asks from beside him and he sighs. Looks like his time’s up.
“Nah,” he says, not moving his eyes as he answers Marco the Phoenix, First Division Commander of the Whitebeards, and by all accounts a protective big brother to his crew. “I’m just passing by. Thought I’d say hello, you know.”
“Friend of his?”
“He wouldn’t tell you so.”
Marco’s stance is steady but open. “Enemy?”
“Oh, no,” he says, startled. “No, I shouldn’t think so. I suppose…” he sighs and lifts a hand to tilt his hat down. “I suppose I’m just an old ghost.”
“Oh,” Marco says, lighting up. “Are you Sabo, by chance?”
The world rocks, his ears pop, and everything snaps right-side-in. There’s an influx of color, of sound, of smell, and he sways in place, barely keeping his seat on the rail. “You—” he gets out, then stops.
“Whoa, yoi!” A warm hand steadies him and he blinks until the world focuses again. “You okay?”
“Where,” he tries again, “where did you hear that name?”
“Ace told me, once, about a brother. Is that—am I wrong?”
He ignores Marco entirely. “And you never met me,” he says, mind flipping itself inside out as his eyes go distant. “You weren’t affected, because I wasn’t real to you.”
Marco’s hand is still on his shoulder and he blinks up at the man. His vision’s blurry and his lungs are stuttering as he tries to breathe because this was all it took? All this time, all he’d done, the blood on his hands, and now this?
“It was really that simple,” he says, and he chokes on the horror of it.
There’s a distant fwump of superheated air, the cracking sound of violence against wood, and someone yelps. “Ace, not the cards—”
“You,” says a voice he knows, a voice he’s never heard and could never mistake. His breath hitches again and he tries to blink the water out of his eyes. He’s got a thousand answers to that but they tangle on his tongue. “How dare you.”
He opens his mouth and then shuts it again.
“How dare you come here like this. How dare you do that to me,” Ace says. He’s in front of them now, close enough to touch, and he reaches out for Ace, misses due to the tears in his eyes, and then Ace steps forward, putting himself in the way of the outstretched hand.
“Ace,” he says, and it feels punched out of him. It’s like the past minute has been an awful dream, or maybe the past few months has, and he’s still reeling from the sensory overload. “Ace, I—”
“You what?” Ace steps forward again and his voice is hard, biting, but his hands are gentle on blue-clad arms. “Why did you do that?”
“Do what,” he says because it’s not a question, it’s a reflex. There’s something sharp in his throat and it tastes like hope. It cuts his tongue on the way out of his mouth when he can’t take it anymore and asks, “Do you—you remember me?”
The sound Ace makes is horrible and derisive and he’s taken back to days in a forest on an island far away, with sun-dappled smiles and small whispered secrets, but it’s not an answer and he has to know. "Ace," he says like a lifeline. "Ace, say my name."
He makes it an order because a question is too vulnerable, even now, but it never mattered, not to Ace. Ace just steps forward and wraps demanding, ungentle arms around his shoulders.
“Sabo,” Ace says, and Sabo breathes out once, shakily, and he clings to his brother and smiles.