Summary:

Sakura found it rather cruel how her distinctive pink hair had followed her all the way to her next life. [a collection of drabbles where sakura is reborn into different pink-haired one piece characters] [au] [gen]

Disclaimer:

I don't own One Piece, Naruto, or the cover picture's background.

-C1-

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The bell over the store's door jangled dully, dutifully, as it eased open.

Nola glanced up from the register, and smiled at the young boy who entered, hoping he was an actual customer, and not just another passerby ducking inside the shop to get out of the gray afternoon drizzle.

At first glance, she places him in the latter category, taking in his damp red jacket, thin red glasses, black slacks, and scuffed red open-toed sandals, along with the youth prominent in his rounded face. It's impossible to miss the pink of his chin-length hair, and Nola feels a brief pang of pity; such a feminine hair color, coupled with such a feminine bob, must have made him a surefire target for childhood teasing.

Altogether, the boy- for surely he isn't a man yet -can't be older than twelve, thirteen. Surely not old enough for serious shopping yet, and much less in the way of clothing.

Still, who knows? Nearly sixty years of storekeeping experience has taught her that youngsters often make the most impulse buys, and, if reluctant, were the easiest to convince into doing so anyway.

And this is a prime set-up: the boy, after taking a step inside and letting the door groan to a close behind him, first shakes off stray droplets like a well-groomed dog shedding rain, before glancing casually around the shop's interior offerings, one pale hand irritably tucking loose strands of hair behind his ears.

"Good afternoon, child," Nola addresses him warmly, peering over her counter. "Have you come to browse? We have a 2-for-1 sale on bandannas today; perfect for keeping hair neat, tidy, and out of the way. Just 300 beri, child."

The boy, if surprised by her sudden voice, doesn't show it. He turns towards her, flicks his dark eyes over her in rapid, unconscious assessment, and drew nearer to the counter display of said bandannas.

"I'll take a look," he thanks her agreeably, nodding politely, and then rested the same pale hand on the clear glass surface, fingers splayed. Contemplation crawled over his expression as he lowered his head as well, then tilted it to angle a better view of the assortment of colorful cloths.

Nola, in turn, rests her own wrinkly chin on her own wrinkly hands, and observes him observe the bandannas in silence.

Not a minute goes by before she can't resist breaking that silence. Rainy afternoons always mean a slow day in the store, and though time has beaten boredom out of her, it hasn't beaten curiosity.

"What brings you to our town today, child?" she asks. "It's not a bad place to live in, of course; I've been here my entire life. But all we have as attractions are a Marine base and an active marketplace for restocking supplies before the next island, and you're a little too young to be joining the Marines."

Not looking up, the red-jacketed boy shakes his head, pink hair swaying with the motion. "Fourteen is acceptable for seaman recruits," he corrects, firmly but not rudely.

Older than she thought he was, then.

With conviction, despite his quieter tone, he tells her, "I'm going to be a protector of the seas."

Nola believes him.

The two of them lapse into silence once more, but a more comfortable one, as the shopkeeper is sated with answers.

His hand passes dismissively over the yellow bandannas with orange circular patterns, and the green bandannas with white daisy-like patterns, then all of the other patterned bandannas entirely, before skittering to a stop over a pile of patternless, bright red ones.

"I'll take two of these," he says, calm, with a faint, wistful smile, tacking on a respectful, "ma'am."

"Remind you of something?" Nola inquires conversationally, bending down to remove two of the requested bandannas. "Or is it just to match your jacket?"

"My best friend," the boy shrugs, fondness evident in his tone, while he fishes three 100 beri coins out of his pocket and slides them across the counter. After a pause, in which Nola accepted the coins, he admits wryly, "I do like red, though, so there is a lot of it in my wardrobe."

They share smiles, and he watches patiently as she rings up the sale, tapping spidery, liver-spotted fingers over the clanking keys.

"Of course, the Marines prefer their recruits to wear the uniform," she absently half-jokes, half-warns, handing the bandannas over to him after he declined a shopping bag.

He laughs along, and takes his purchases, immediately using one to tie back his hair, which was beginning to assume a spikier appearance as it dried. The other one is folded and put in one of his pockets, the movement causing bandanna's bow-like 'ears' to brush against the back of his neck.

Halfway out the door, the pink-haired boy calls back with an answer, "I'm sure I'll make it to petty officer soon enough!"

Nola blinks, and laughs herself at his typical youthful confidence-bordering-on-arrogance.

But as the door groans shut again, she can't help but believe him, too.

.

One-and-a-half years later, Nola is unsurprised to be part of the crowd of townspeople sending off newly-promoted Petty Officer Floran Coby, to his reassignment to Loguetown for more training.

After all, there was only so much of a challenge their small, unremarkable, peaceful island could offer to a flourishing martial arts and medical prodigy.

Still, they're proud to have helped produce such a fine, promising example of a Marine, and Nola is proud to have contributed Coby's signature red bandanna to his by-now well-known characteristic red ensemble, which he'd never stopped wearing around town, and hadn't hesitated in using to replace the Marine-issued standard uniform as soon as 'petty officer' had been listed in his files.

And there he is now, standing on the deck of the slowly departing Marine ship, waving back cheerfully to the crowd.

Red bandanna, red glasses pushed up onto the bandanna, red jacket opened to reveal a red vest, his red jacket sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Trademark pink hair lightly shifting with the breeze, and the abrupt shift to black for the waist-down half of his outfit: black pants bandage-bound to his ankles, black closed-toe sandals tipped with a hard material Nola vaguely recognized as seastone, and even black seastone-knuckle gloves.

(Nobody quite knows what the white circles stitched onto Coby's jacket shoulders are for, but everybody agrees that they add pleasant symmetry.)

Gorn Nola is an old woman, but she believes in youth, and she believes in Floran Coby.

She believes that boy is going to go far, pink hair or not.

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Sakura!Coby, Part I:

Bandanna