He doesn't elaborate - the thought is awful and too many good Marines have been lost that way, clinging to the wreckage of wooden ships only to be picked off by pirates and sea creatures, or sinking like stones to the depths on account of their devil fruits. He simply nods, as he threads fingers through Mary's hair, untangling it from around her face.

"She hasn't moved." Sometimes he thinks she has, but he's certain those times were imagined. "I wish I knew what was wrong. Some sort of poison, or magical spell... There's no way to know how long it will last." Or if it will ever stop. The fear that grips him most often is that they will remain paralyzed with sleep forever.