Pulling Strings is still alive now as well...I just haven't started on the next chapter. But I will tomorrow! I just wanted to finished this first...

This story is a theory. I do not own One Piece, obviously-I mean, I'm not near awesome enough. Oda owns it. Therefore Oda also owns this story. Meaning, if he says, "This is what happened, not that," I delete it. Because Oda totally reads fanfiction.

...Yeah, right. I'd feel so sorry for him if he did. The sheer abundance of crap would probably have him putting OP on hiatus for weeks...

Anyway! Boy's story continues...

Part II: Lines

"The longest part of the journey is said to be the passing of the gate." -Marcus Terentius Varro (116 BC-27 BC)

The last stop before the Grand Line was a seedy, disreputable town on a seedy, disreputable island. The island had no name. The town was known as Loguetown to some and numerous, rather more obscene names to many.

"We shall purchase a Log Pose here," announced Curry as they stepped onto the deceptively well-paved streets. "And cigarettes."

"'We?" Boy muttered, and was cuffed soundly over one ear.

"Yes," Curry replied serenely. "I shall accompany you in spirit. The rest of me will purchase generous amounts of alcohol and involve itself in some sort of twittering brawl, which you will locate and observe for the sake of education. Grief, Boy, stand up straight!"

Boy wandered morosely through the streets, bereft of his odd mentor and considering the sheer idiocy of the tasks the old man had sent him to fulfill. A Log Pose and cigarettes. Fantastic. And how, exactly, was he was supposed to find these?

Well, he had found the cigarettes last time, but he didn't even have any nails with him this time, and he wasn't completely sure what a Log Pose looked like.

…In fact, he had no idea whatsoever what a Log Pose looked like.

No time like the present to find out, said a voice in the back of his head, which bore a disturbing resembling to Curry's. Boy cursed under his breath and quickened his pace. Maybe the old man was following him in spirit.

Two streets later, a pickpocket attempted to ply his trade (which was stupid, because Boy had not shown any signs of even being in the general vicinity of beri), and received a bony elbow in the stomach for his pains. Boy didn't like thieves, and since this one was almost as scrawny as he was, he wasted no time in disabling the man. The thief wasn't nearly as tough as Curry.

Around the next corner, confidence bolstering his remaining arrogance, Boy shouldered past a tawdrily-dressed boy, elbowing the other's arm as he passed.

The next thing he knew, the kid had spun him round by the sleeve and Boy was staring into a pair of wild, silvery eyes, pupils contracted with killing intent, and raw killing intent seared down his spine.

"You lookin' for a fight, kid?"

He couldn't answer, too preoccupied with summoning up the resolve to counter the pirate boy's will—no luck. The boy shoved him away, letting the intent fade, and strode down the street without a look back.

I've met pirate's brats with better haki than you… Well, there it was, then. Curry had been right. Boy really was nothing out here.

He resolved to change this.

But first, he would wander around Loguetown until he found a Log Pose and cigarettes. The latter was a much easier chore, as the town was bustling with business, and ninety percent of it centered on ways to poison oneself. Boy had stolen a small dagger from Curry's smithy-he would probably pay for it later with bruises. This he successfully bartered for a pack of cigarettes. Then, with this half of the mission accomplished, Boy turned his attention to the more difficult task of finding the Grand Line brand of compass.

As Boy left the store, his yellow eyes fell on a rangy kid, years younger than himself, turning onto the street. His cynical, streetwise expression and bizarre gray hair were so contrary to his age—nine or ten, at most—that Boy just stared at him for a moment. But he had the look of someone who had grown up in this town.

Perfect, then. Boy made his way through the bustling knots of people until he caught up with the other boy, and said, "Hey!"

He received a suspicious glare. "Don't got no money."

"I'm looking for a Log Pose."

"Don't got one o' those either."

"No, brat," said Boy, swiftly running out of patience, "where can I find one?"

The kid cocked his head to one side, contemplative and crafty. "You got money?"

"No," Boy replied. "There's not a beri on me. Now, where can I find a Log Pose?"

"Steal one from a pirate," said the kid, and scowled with hatred disproportionate to his age and size. "Do me a favor."

"Isn't there a store where—"

"Listen, Mister, you're nonna my business and no, there ain't. Go steal one. Gotta go find something out."

"Yeah? What?" Boy didn't like this kid much, but he was curious, and if it annoyed the stupid brat, so much the better.

"Whether it's true!" Gray-hair boy set off at a steady jog in the opposite direction.

Boy gave a snort of annoyance. "Whether what's true?"

"Y'have to ask, idiot?" But the other vanished into the crowd. Boy glared after him for several seconds, never-to-be-used retorts piling up in his brain, and then turned on one heel and went to find a likely-looking pirate. He wondered vaguely whether the street kid would ever come to anything in this festering wound of a town. More than likely, he would end up dead in an alley somewhere.

Whatever.

The first two pirate crews Boy examined didn't even seem to be in possession of a normal compass, let alone one of the spherical devices that one of the friendlier shop owners had described. The third, however…

Boy didn't know where or how they'd gotten one, and he was fairly certain he didn't want to know. He just needed a way to get it from them.

None presented itself.

And so, lacking anything else to do, he followed the crew and observed them. He wondered vaguely whether the stolen dagger would have been any help as a weapon.

Probably not, he decided. Their brash attitudes and confidence made it clear that they weren't big-time pirates, but neither were they complete amateurs. More than enough to stop a child with a knife from stealing their Log Pose.

That last part was a little difficult to admit, even mentally, but Boy's time with Jamba Curry had taught him a little about that: if you can't change it, let it go until you can.

But Boy had nothing else to do and so, with weary determination, he continued to tail the pirate crew through the streets of Loguetown. The sky darkened slowly with woolly gray clouds, reminiscent of the permanent cover over Boy's home island. He took a moment to glower up at them, his feet throbbing with relief at the brief rest.

When I am the strongest in the world, he thought belligerently, I will only do things like this when I am bored.

Then he kept walking, because there was really nothing else to do, and Curry would probably set out without him if he came back without a Log Pose. After a while, the pain in his feet turned to numbness, which spread inexorably up to his knees. They moved mechanically now, and if he didn't think about it, walking was almost easy; albeit sickeningly monotonous. Around him, the streets became less neat as they strayed away from the main roads-here there were no orderly white bricks or respectable shop fronts.

The situation took and eventful turn when Boy came around a corner to see at least five of the pirates peering over their shoulders in his direction. He halted where he stood, his heartbeat suddenly racing, and turned sharply to the left, moving as casually as possible for the sudden trembling in his joints.

Do not look behind you…

Boy sank his teeth deliberately into his lower lip, trying to rein in his nerves. He was suddenly uncomfortably aware of the crowd moving around him, and wondered exactly how many thieves and cutthroats were mixed in with the businessmen.

Probably more than there had been earlier, Boy considered. Most vaguely respectable visitors to Loguetown would most likely be inside a relatively safer hotel by now. That taken into account, it was a safe guess that the people inhabiting the public areas were either drunks or criminals. Or both.

Boy took a deep breath, stepped into the gutter on the far side of the street—something began to leak into his shoes, and he tried not to think about it. Another deep breath, and he paused to listen hard for a moment for any sign that he was being followed. Nothing for a moment, save for the constant vulgar clamor. And then…

"Hey! Watch it!"

"Ya…shshh…where-e…goin'…?"

"Pirate scum, mind your—agh!"

"Just comin' through, mind yer fingers before I break 'em."

Oh. Boy swore under his breath—he knew the last voice. He had been trailing after its owner for an ungodly number of hours. It was the crew's captain. He broke out into a run, feeling suddenly coming back into his traitorous legs. His knees wobbled with every frantic step, but he was heading straight for another seething knot of people, and if he could just duck under there, he might be able to—

"Gotcha!"

-throw them off. Boy suddenly found himself a great deal taller and in possession of rather less oxygen than he would have liked. There was a bony fist clenched around the back of his collar, and through blurred eyes, Boy could just make out his own crudely-shod feet dangling several feet above the grimy road. Then he looked up into narrow gray eyes, leering at him from above high, prominent cheekbones.

"Hey, kid." His head was ringing. The words were muffled, distant. "What're y'after, eh?"

"Hng," said Boy. Spots of black pulsed and faded in his limited range of vision, and his lungs were raw from lack of fresh air.

The pirate apparently realized his prey was in danger of dying before any questions could be answered. He dropped Boy, who inhaled desperately and very briefly before making sharp contact with the cobblestones. He let out a low, agonized hiss—skinned hands, KNEES. My knees!

"I said, what are you after?" He sounded more patient than demanding, but even Boy, with his lack of experience, knew this only meant more pain was coming. This was not some cramped little alley, and he was not up against five idiots this time.

"…Log Pose," he said shortly, not looking up. Instead, he inspected his raw hands. There were grains of sand and dirt in the broad, shallow scrapes, and his palms were beginning to sting. His impaled hand had healed remarkably well, but it had not quite scarred over yet, and there were now rips in the closing skin…

"Is that so, kid? Well, nothin' wrong with that. Just one more question, though."

After which, no matter what I answer, you will attack me. "Hm?"

"Was it our Pose you was after?"

Boy paused, wondering with contemplative dread how long he could drag out the silence before one of two things happened. The first option was thus: he could eventually answer and then be beaten for the effort. The second option was equally appealing: he could simply wait until his antagonist grew bored and decided to cut out the middleman.

Neither was optimal.

The pirate's façade of patience seemed to be holding out for the moment. There was no sound from him, save for the occasional tap-tap-tap of his boot. The world-wide sign for "I'm waiting."

His crew, on the other hand, was not so willing to wait for some skinny brat to speak his piece. Boy could hear their belligerent mutters over the chatter of the streets, but didn't turn his attention to it. Instead, he stood up, his movements jerky as shocks of pain lanced down his legs.

His hands were burning now, but he contracted both into fists anyway. The sudden white-hot searing in his palms distracted him enough, and he stared up, up, up…glared straight into the pirate captain's dull gray eyes.

His antagonist glared back, unimpressed. "Well?"

"Doesn't matter," said Boy, and managed to tilt his jaw a little further up, eyeing the pirate with feigned arrogance. "Will you please stop stalling?"

A disbelieving, sharp-toothed grin greeted his words. "Funny. Wanta try again? It was just a yes'r'no-answer question."

"Funny," said Boy, as dryly as he could for the terror mounting in his chest, "can't see what difference it makes. Please…enlighten me."

He had learned "enlighten" from Curry. The old man was a veritable dictionary, albeit one without definitions. And, granted, many of the words he used were of his own creation, but Boy's vocabulary had nevertheless expanded during his time around his teacher.

Whether his antagonist knew the word or not, Boy could not judge from his reaction, which was one of total indifference. "Listen up, kid. 'M not lookin' to give you trouble, just want t'know. So—"

At this point, Boy was seized by a sudden fit of madness. Something in his mind said, I'll just get it over with, because I'm bored of his voice, so he stumbled ungracefully forward and delivered a surprisingly vicious elbow to the man's stomach. After all, it had worked on that pickpocket, Boy thought deliriously.

The pirate stared down at him for a moment, uncomprehending. For that moment, a surge of confidence made Boy feel heady and powerful, and so, because it seemed as though it would be funny in that transient second of boldness, he cocked one angular black eyebrow. Come on. Bring it, you weakling.

A fist large enough to encircle his throat crashed into his face.

Boy was in the air for a split-second, black and white exploding in his eyes. Then his sight faded back and lights and colors were wheeling, streaming, sky and street alternating at a breakneck pace. The uneven paving of the street pounded against his back, his arms, his chest. When it finally ended, Boy was left with his face pressed to the cobbles, stunned and battered. His mouth seemed inexplicably numb, and there was blood seeping into it from somewhere. He sought vaguely for the damage, and was assailed a moment later by excruciating pain. He'd bitten his tongue.

"Smug brat," snarled the pirate's voice. Boy immediately turned his mind away from the coppery taste in his mouth, and managed to heave himself onto his back, peering up at his attacker's face. Not so patient now.

Boy suddenly found that he was very tired. He could feel the adrenaline, burning his veins, driving his heartbeat at a furious tempo, but his yellow eyes would not stay open. He let his fatigued muscles relax, accepting the inevitable arrival of more pain.

As he waited, Boy attempted to tally up the results of his hardships. The legs, of course—he wasn't going to think about those now. And, yes, his jaw felt as though it had been wrenched from his skull by that punch. It was probably going to leave a formidable bruise, Boy mused, and swallowed some blood.

…There was no more pain. Why was that?

He cracked open one eye, hoping to glean some information. The only knowledge he received for his efforts was that the pirate had apparently left. Oh, and that it was a perfect night for stargazing, which honestly did not interest him at the moment.

Boy gave a colossal heave and sat up, wincing as he pressed his hands to the street, eyeing his surroundings with suspicion.

There was a brawl going on.

Well, that explained more than it didn't. Boy wondered whether he could stand, and then immediately decided not to try. Firstly, he would probably collapse again. Secondly, the less conspicuous he was, the better. In a town like this, children would receive no mercy in a melee.

Instead, Boy did his best to crawl backwards in as subtle a manner as possible. When he deemed himself to be out of range of the rapidly spreading conflict, he sat back again and…watched. He heard several words that boys in his hometown would be beaten for saying, and others that their mothers had probably never heard. Quite apart from the interesting obscenities, the dialogue of the brawls' instigators was rather entertaining.

"My ear! M'ear—you bloody—I'll have yer—"
"—got a bottle, do y—"

"AAaaaaAaaaahhhghhh—"

"Scurvy, pox-ridden dog's bastard! Get back here!"

"—hhhhAAAAaaaauuuughI'll KILL—"

"My other ear!"

"Perfidious wretchling!"

That voice, Boy reflected absentmindedly, sounded rather familiar.

Oh, wait…

Curry was definitely drunk. However, for some obscure reason, it appeared to heighten his intelligence to inhuman levels rather than lowering it. There was a bottle dangling from his left hand, and he held his drawn saber loosely in the other. He looked positively wild.

Boy, of course, had not been expecting his mentor to appear in such a place—although he did vaguely recall the old man's words upon their arrival in Loguetown; "The rest of me will purchase generous amounts of alcohol and involve itself in some sort of twittering brawl, which you will locate and observe for the sake of education."

What a coincidence. Boy, deciding that acquiring a Log Pose was now virtually impossible until further notice, sat back and observed for the sake of education. It was quite educational.

For instance, after several minutes of watching the proceeding mayhem, he began to realize that there were several different categories of drunk involved in the brawl. There was the Angry Drunk, who fought everyone and never gave an explanation for choosing his targets. Then, subtly different from the Angry Drunk and more dangerous, Boy found the Violent Drunk; he would choose one person at a time and do his very best to slaughter them. Thirdly, in rapidly decreasing numbers, was the Stupid Drunk—men whose response to alcohol was stagger and sputter and generally fail at anything and everything.

Curry, on the other hand, was apparently the one-of-a-kind Thinking Drunk. At times, he might appear as a Stupid Drunk, swaying and slurring, but always his apparently random stumbles somehow managed to carry him away from his opponents' blows. These opponents seemed to consist of the entirety of the mob, as is the nature of such events. Curry, red-nosed and fiery-eyed with what might have been whiskey, spun among them like a one-man natural disaster. His saber flickered and jabbed in the minimal light from the bar's open doorway, and Boy allowed himself to marvel for a moment at the weird, brash elegance with which the old man handled his weapon. There were no wide swings, no bold movements. It was almost like a dance, Boy decided.

A weird, random, ridiculous dance. Boy resolved that his own style, when he became the best, would be much more graceful.

He had expected Curry to be the last one standing at the end of it, but his mentor apparently grew bored early and simply strolled out of it, occasionally ducking a fist or straightening his wide-brimmed hat. Behind him, the fray continued to scream and maul its way across the street.

"Well?"
"Well what?" asked Boy, and his jaw throbbed suddenly. He had forgotten his various accumulated aches in watching the brawl.

"Cigarettes. Log Pose. Have them."

"You can't just order me to have something," Boy complained.

"That," said Curry loftily, "is beside the point." He took a demure sip from his half-empty bottle and swept the reddened edge of his sword along his coat, leaving a dark smear. "Cigarettes. Log Pose."

"The former, but not the latter," said Boy hoarsely, and dug in his pocket for the battered pack that he had acquired at the beginning of the day. His pants had only one pocket—also of his creation; a square of cloth stitched to the fabric over his outer thigh. Boy tossed the cigarettes haphazardly at Curry, knowing the old man would catch it no matter what.

"Good words," Curry remarked, snatching the little cardboard box out of the air. "What, precisely, prevented you from obtaining the requested item?"

"He punched me," Boy replied blankly.

"Let me repeat the previous inquiry."

"I had no way of getting that thing from them."

"Did you try asking?"
Boy directed his very best are-you-a-total-idiot stare at Curry, but received in return an obviously better practiced look that said quite clearly, no-but-you-are.

"How would that have given me any advantage?"
"The element of surprise," Curry replied briskly. "The concept you utilized earlier—elbowing him in the midriff—was an adequate one. However, such tactics have a much higher probability of actually succeeding if the intended target does not anticipate it."

Boy paused for a moment to translate this brief lecture, and then returned to glaring sullenly at Curry. "He didn't see it coming."

"No. However, would that odious individual have struck you had you attempted the endeavor before he ascertained that you were tripping over his heels?"

Boy paused again, wishing profoundly that Curry would not speak in such long sentences. Then, having deciphered the question, he considered it.

"…Maybe."

"How very decisive of you, Boy."

Boy shrugged. He didn't feel particularly talkative, and Curry certainly was—enough for both of them, in fact. Let the old man do the speaking.

"Unintelligent brat," commented Curry serenely, and swallowed a generous mouthful of his bottle's contents. "In any case, I have a paltry piece of information for you: the Log Pose that your selected victim carried was, in fact, counterfeit."
"Don't know that one," said Boy bluntly. There was no point in having pride around Curry.

"Fake," Curry clarified jovially, and turned on his heel. "I shall now quest for one myself. Do not move from this location, Boy! I have intentions to return within an hour."

Boy rolled his eyes halfheartedly, though they twinged at the gesture, and lay back, doing his best to look dead. Dead kids weren't such a great stretch of imagination on the back streets of Loguetown. Anyone who wanted to go through his pocket for loose beri would be very disappointed, and Boy felt sure that he wouldn't be awakened by any amount of rummaging. If he hadn't had a definite plan for the future, death might have seemed an almost appealing option. He was very, very tired.

When Boy awoke once more, the air smelled of salt and the floor was swaying. This meant that he was on a boat. Whether it was Curry's vessel or not was not relevant, as there was likely no means of escape one way or the other. Therefore, with no further thoughts as to whether he had been kidnapped by pirates or not, Boy fell once again into a deep sleep.

Shortly afterwards—or so it seemed—he was roused rather more emphatically by sudden and very intense killing intent. He rolled sharply, folding his legs under him and springing to his feet as Curry pulled back from a stab that he had definitely aimed at Boy's head. The old man turned swiftly, flying forward with terrifying speed. The saber blade swept past Boy's nose and then a series of deft feints brought them both to the back of the boat. Here Boy, desperate and suddenly very keen on survival, ducked past a lunge and under Curry's guard, slamming his head into the old man's ribs.

Well…he would have, anyway, if Curry had still been there. Old people, Boy thought morosely, should not be able to move that fast. It wasn't fair.

He dropped to one knee, and then collapsed abruptly onto his side, letting out a slow, careful breath.

"Up! Up!"

Boy resisted the urge to whimper and curl into a ball. Instead, he muttered, "It hurts."

"And it will hurt more very shortly if you do not stand—grief, boy, UP!"

"Lessons" had never been quite this elongated before. Boy wondered for a moment whether this was the second stage, and shuddered at the thought. The action sent pain jolting down his entire body, but there was no time to consider this as Curry attacked once more.

Approximately six minutes later, Boy had accumulated several fresh injuries, most of which were bleeding profusely. Curry informed him brusquely that it was too late for breakfast, and Boy therefore must wait a number of hours for any edible item to come within ten feet of him. And so it came that Boy sat in the corner of the ship furthest away from the entrance to Curry's forge. He was not sulking. Certainly not.

Alright, then. Perhaps he was sulking. But not without reason, Boy told himself stubbornly. A deep graze on his forehead would not stop bleeding, and his left upper arm, which Curry had caught with an especially ferocious swipe, was staining his sleeve crimson. In addition, the previous night's hurts were returning one by one—worse, if anything, than they had been.

There was no way of telling time on Curry's little boat, save for the sun's position in the sky, and a rising mist was gradually obscuring even that. It engulfed the battered craft like a huge, opaque creature, and nothing, neither water nor sky nor ship, could be seen past its murky curtains. Boy stared into it, his resent gradually turning into a growing unease. Only the wind guided Curry's boat now, and there was no knowing where that fickle force would take it. Knowing Boy's luck, it would probably lead them straight into a rock.

But Boy knew nothing of steering a ship, and did not even consider the possibility of asking Curry. His teacher had been shut in the forge for the majority of the day, and one of the most important rules Boy had learned on the little unnamed boat was: Do not disturb Curry when he is working. It is not wise. So Boy sat back and resigned himself to certain death.

There was silence for a very long time after that, and during it Boy closed his eyes and thought profoundly about his life. He had not had a very awful one, all things considered. However, he would rather have liked to do something with it before dying out in the middle of nowhere.

Wait. Wait a moment. He wasn't going to die. Dying was not an option at this point. He needed to be the best first. The strongest.

The strongest what?

Swordsman, his brain replied with total certainty. Boy blinked, startled. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to be the strongest swordsman. He had just thought best and strongest because he didn't want to be laughed at anymore. He hadn't really thought about a specific profession. Well, he had asked Curry to—and yes, he had implied that he wanted to be the best swords—but that didn't necessarily mean… He hadn't been thinking at that point.

Boy halted his internal protest before it could go any further. Then he thought rationally about his situation. Then he decided that, rather than resigning himself to death, he would resign himself to one day being the world's best swordsman. It was a much more encouraging state of affairs.

And then he sensed something behind him.

It was not a person. It was something even a child would have felt. Boy, sitting with his back to the prow of the boat, felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He opened his eyes, needing to know what it was, and then suddenly it stormed.

Many years later, when Strawhat Luffy's ship entered the belt of storms on its way to the Grand Line, the weight and sturdiness of his fine caravel ship Going Merry would prevent any chance of capsizing. Most pirate crews encounter the real challenges upon entering the Grand Line. Most pirate ships are constructed to resist the wear and tear of weather.

Jamba Curry's little boat, interestingly enough, was not.

Boy forced himself to his feet, his curses silenced by a massive thunderclap. Rain slapped down onto the deck in sheets, pounding unmercifully down on the boy's bony frame. Gripping the suddenly slick railing for support, Boy turned slowly, squinting frantically through water and shrieking wind into the distance. Where was it? There had been a presence—not something alive, he knew instinctively, but just something huge, like a wall…

…Oh.

He had not noticed the Red Line because in the gray storm-light, it could have been the sky above the horizon. Then he became aware that something was subtly wrong, and suddenly his eyes adjusted to the sight.

It was gigantic. "Wall" was too tiny a term for the awesome, vast immensity of the Red Line. It baffled the brain that something so far away could be so enormous.

"Impressive, isn't it?"

It was Curry, looking significantly more cheerful than he had earlier that day. Boy turned to look at him, and then realized that it was pointless—Curry's face was a vague, flesh-colored blur through Boy's rain-soaked eyelashes. Boy nodded in reply, fearing to open his mouth lest it fill with seawater. But, as usual, questions had begun to saturate his brain, and even in the belly of the beast, he could not stop himself from voicing them.

"What happened?" he shouted, and then wrapped both arms around the railing as the ship bucked violently on a wild swell of water.

"This region is generally rather turbulent!" Curry replied happily, one hand pressing his hat to his head. Its formidable brim flapped wildly in the grip of the semi-hurricane, but the swordsman himself seemed to have the enviable ability to keep perfect balance on the pitching deck. Boy found that he felt more secure hugging the rail—he was not fond of the idea of falling overboard.

"How long will it last?" he screamed, deafened by the monstrous roar of the gale.

"Oh, we ought to be quite secure in these miniature squalls for a number of kilometers! After that, the tempestuousness should increase momentarily before we access ReverseMountain!"

"Did you just—"

Without warning, seawater bounded over the side of the boat, and for a moment all Boy knew was that it was in his mouth and throat and lungs and eyes and ears and he could. Not. Breathe.

And then it was gone and he was gasping for breath, vomiting cold saltwater over the railing, eyes squeezed tight shut at the prospect of this hell for Curry-knew-how-long.

And it went on.

Boy didn't know how long they were in the core of that storm, nor did he have an inkling of when it became worse, as Curry had predicted. The only thing he knew was that, an eternity later, they emerged from the lightning and sleeting rain and snarling thunderclaps. There was mist again—a blank gray screen over his sore, blurry eyes—and then, slowly, sunshine. And the sensation of speed. There was some current, pulling at the boat, and they were moving faster and faster…

Boy fell into a stupor, fatigue weighing down his body. He was aware only of the boat's movement through his daze.

He was nearly half-asleep when his ears crackled with the sudden change of altitude.

The air was freezing cold at the peak of Reverse Mountain, the sky a perfect clear blue. Spray crested at the very top, frosting in midair. The sun was a fiery white in the sky, its heat making a sudden sharp contrast to the chill of their height.

The boat leapt…and landed, crashing roughly into the downward current, surging unstoppably into the Grand Line. Boy squinted through salt-crusted eyes, trying to snatch a memory from the chaotic whirling of his thoughts.

The greatest seas of the world…only one man has ever conquered it…many have tried and failed…

Boy stared ahead, a sense of excitement rising unbidden in his chest. He felt he should have been afraid, fearful of the Grand Line's vast, perilous seas. Instead, anticipation seized him, along with a curious impatience. I want to fight—to improve fast. I'll beat whoever I have to…

He must have said this aloud. Curry gave him a perfunctory fist to the ear, casting him an evil grin.

"I believe it to be a premature time for such braggish and uncalled-for assumptions!" The old man raised his voice over the rushing of the water, a wicked grin creasing the crow's-feet marks by his eyes. "We shall see, Boy, we shall see. Have fear for what comes after!"

And they plunged onto the Grand Line.

"Why was there a whale?" asked Boy. His eyes were screwed shut, but the burning of crystallized salt water was agonizingly persistent.

"I," said Curry frankly, "have not the most vague idea."

"Oh."

Boy was spread-eagled on the deck of the boat, face-up. Nearby, the trapdoor leading to Curry's hellish, clanging forge was open. When Boy's mentor chose to answer, the chaotic miasma of noise often muffled his voice, and the heat was tangible even from a foot away.

"Curry."

"What."

That was one of the more unusual facets of their conversations—a probably-teenage boy and a definitely-old man making periods do the work of question marks.

Except when there was clearly a question, of course. "How long should it take to reach the first island?"

"Once again, an answer eludes me," Curry replied. "Perhaps this is because I have not, in fact, been to every procession of islands that reside on the Grand Line. The theory bandied confidently about by various geographers is that the isles begin as many, and then funnel neatly down to one. I would not know. When I last traversed these mildly psychotic waters, it took me approximately seven days to arrive at my first stop."

"Oh," said Boy unenthusiastically. Now that the excitement had dissipated, all he really wanted was some food and a long sleep. However, since neither seemed forthcoming, he had settled for attempting to sate his curiosity instead. "So. What was that island like?"

"Hills bearing a disturbing resemblance to cacti and a small population totally comprised of bounty hunters."

"What is a 'cacti'?"

"It has the great fortune of being the plural of the word 'cactus'. I assume that you will eventually witnessing one such organism in existence. As it is, describing one for your entertainment holds no intrigue for me."

"Oh." Boy delved into he depths of his fatigued brain for another question, and hauled one of the rather less interesting ones into his conscious. "Does the World Government actually have control over the whole world?"

Curry unleashed a stream of creative and complex profanities at his current project, and there was an erratic clatter of mad hammer strikes as he attempted to impose his will upon it by way of persistent bashing. Then there was a hissing keen as he quenched the length of presumably red-hot metal, and Curry's voice drifted up. "The World Government is firmly affiliated with approximately one hundred and sixty-five nations around our world. Their existence has suckered itself onto this terrestrial ball for some eight hundred years."

Boy considered this. "…You called them young earlier," he commented vaguely. "How old does that make you?"

"Over my numerous years, the actual number of those years has never concerned me overmuch," answered Curry tranquilly. He head appeared over the edge of the trapdoor, along with one blackened hand, which was holding a gleaming glass sphere. "Keep this." And he tossed it at Boy, without any apparent regard for where the boy was actually lying. Boy barely managed to catch it, and, after a moment of silence, during which he glared pointedly at his teacher, he turned his attention to the object.

It was a Log Pose.

"Keep the ship on course," said Curry, and disappeared again.

"I…I don't know how!" Boy stammered, scrambling over to the trapdoor and peering resentfully into the red-lit gloom.

"Then I suggest that you discover how with great alacrity," Curry's voice replied. "The Grand Line is not precisely famous for its forgiving nature. Inform me if a monstrous tempest appears."

"I can't just work all this out on my own!" Boy shouted. There was no reply from the depths of Curry's underworld lair, only the brash ringing of resumed hammering.

The next few days were not pleasant ones. Boy finally received nourishment in the form of slightly raw seabird, smoked over Curry's forge, and bread that very nearly broke his teeth. Still, the bird didn't taste completely horrible, and at least the bread wasn't moldy. And Curry accepted questions about the various intricacies of navigations, so it wasn't so very bad.

But there were nights, when tiny Grand Line whirlpools kicked the boat in circles and freak rains of pumice left him with swollen bruises, that Boy honestly whished that he had never become involved with Jamba Curry and his mad, mysterious motivations for a journey on the Grand Line. However, on most nights he just wanted a sword of his own, because he could hear things in the water around the boat. On those nights, he would imagine huge, bulbous eyes and jagged teeth. But all that could be seen, when he dared to look, were huge fins carving dark whorls into the seawater. Yes, a sword would have been comforting.

Ten days after Curry and his reluctant protégée entered the Grand Line, Curry emerged once more from his workspace and lessons commenced again—sometimes during the freak rains of pumice. Boy was now not especially fond of the days either, but he took some pride in the fact that his stamina had improved since the start of their impromptu sparring sessions.

One day, twisting rather acrobatically away from the flare of dancing steel that was his teacher's saber, Boy noticed that Curry wasn't guarding himself very well. His movements were as neat and clean-cut as usual, but his left hand was held wide of his body and sword hand. Boy, mesmerized by this sudden revelation, barely avoided the blade as it grazed past his ear. And there, right there, was that opening. He lunged for it, head down, hands extended. He barely saw the old man's stance shift, but when Boy's fists collided with Curry's stomach, his teacher seemed barely fazed by the blow. He had adjusted his footing to a much sturdier bearing, almost as though he were bracing himself…almost as though he knew…

Boy straightened, glaring at Curry. "What was that about?"

"If you happen to be referring to the formation of clouds in the heavenly vault, such things are usually caused by a circuitous process known as—"

"Why," Boy ground out, "did you leave yourself open like that? You knew I was—"

"Thank you for being specific!" said Curry cheerfully. "I will now impart to you knowledge of great significance. That aperture in my guard has existed ever since our lessons began. I have been waiting for you to see it. Now we shall progress to the next juncture in your curriculum. After you stop our unfortunate boat from smashing messily into that reef and damaging the prospects of our later journey."

"Reef?" Boy wheeled around immediately, intending to haul the boat away from its apparent course towards danger. Instead, he stopped to stare past the water swirling in knots over the reef and up, up, up at the island.

"Wow," he said.

Red Stone Island was, according to Curry, a "Summer" Island. Boy's own home island had never really exhibited any signs of seasons, but he had experienced a few mildly hot days aboard Curry's boat.

Nothing could have prepared him for Red Stone Island. Boy felt as thought the sun's rays were physically battering him, like a piece of superheated iron under Curry's merciless hammer. And it wasn't just the sun, either—the crimson-orange sand shifting and squeaking under his vaguely shoe-like footwear exuded that burning heat as well. Boy slid and swayed over the unstable ground, trying not to be envious of Curry. The old man had the bizarre ability to maintain perfect footing, even on the fine red sand.

They were making their way towards the town. One of the island's many enormous red stones reared over the tiny establishment, shading almost the entirety of its spread of buildings. Those huge rocks were everywhere, their broad, sheer, scarlet faces visible even through the heat waves limning the horizon. Boy didn't like them at all. While it would be nice to be out of the sun for once, the frequency of the landmarks seemed distinctly weird to him.

But Curry wasn't bothered by them at all, so Boy said nothing and slogged his way through the sand and the heat towards the town.

Many years later, the kingdom of Alabasta on Sandy Island would suffer a severe drought for reasons known only to certain people. Many people would die of thirst, and others of hunger.

RedStoneIsland was in a constant state of drought. In view of this, the citizens had dismissed water as a useless commodity and instead turned to the rather more accessible resource of beer.

It was a small town, and it was full of drunk people. Boy drew surreptitiously closer to Curry's back as they made their way down red-dust streets, staring with guarded interest at the busy, cheerful inhabitants of the village. They were not, he decided, to be labeled as any of the conventional types of drunk that he had seen in Loguetown. Instead, Boy decided that most of the people passing him belonged to the genre Happy Drunk. Others might be referred to as the exceptionally unusual Ordinary Drunk, which showed no signs of drunkenness whatsoever. Perhaps they were immune by now.

A few random corners later, Curry said, "Aha!" in a satisfied tone that suggested danger to come. Boy sidestepped past his teacher, surveying the street that they had entered with suspicion. However, Curry's intent became clear very shortly as the old man strode directly towards a bar.

He did not motion for Boy to follow, nor did he tell his student to stay behind. And because Boy wasn't fond of the idea of being left alone on the street with a lot of drunk people, he ran after Curry without hesitation.

It was no cooler inside the bar, which was most probably why the building's every occupant held a mug of beer. Even the barkeeper.

Paying no mind to this or even to the mysterious cheers that greeted his appearance, Curry walked purposefully up to the counter and, after a moment of rummaging in one pocket, let a handful of beri jangle onto the wood.

Obviously, there was no need to say what you were ordering here. The man behind the bar grinned, said something indecipherable in a very loud voice, and clapped Curry heartily on the shoulder before turning to fill…two mugs?

"Curry."

"Boy."

"Eh…both of those are for you, right?"

"Attempt to come across as decisive when you unfetter that wayward jaw of yours. And no, they are not. This," said Curry magnanimously, proffering the second mug, "is for you. I suggest that you drink it, or your mortal flame shall be extinguished shortly."

"What exactly do you mean by that?" Boy asked, scowling darkly at the stained, sloshing container.

"On this island, if I am to understand correctly, beer is a substitute for water. You shall not receive water, but ask and ye shall receive alcohol. Drink it! Consume it! You must survive and, as you say, 'become the best'!"

There seemed to be no alternative. Boy took the mug and took a ginger sip of its contents. They stayed in his mouth for a full three seconds before he finally gave up on trying to swallow and gagged them onto the red-dusted floor. This prompted amiable laughter from the surrounding customers, and someone shouted something about buying a full round if the boyo managed down a totaller upsy.

Boy had no idea what this meant, but Curry's eyebrows were raised and he had extended one hand in the direction of the tankard, flexing his fingers in a gesture that clearly read, go on.

And it was thus that Boy learned to drink alcohol, but not necessarily to like it.

"So," said Curry later, "how, accurately, do you intend to go about becoming the best swordsman in the world?"

After Boy had downed three mugs of beer, the last one without even choking, he had been declared a sensation. Not only had two more rounds been bought, but someone had also paid for room and board in a fit of generosity.

"I never said swordsman," Boy mumbled. He still felt queasy, and it was all he could do to talk straight.

"It was implied," said Curry dismissively. "But there is no established 'best swordsman in the world' at the moment, so who are you expecting to defeat in order to attain that status?"

Boy paused, trying to order the words properly in the fuzzy clutter of his brain. "I…ish…" he swore, and Curry's fist collided with his skull. Head throbbing, Boy tried once more to concentrate. "I…I figure…I shink. Think. Think if I beat everybonny who say they're the bed. Best…"

Curry nodded approvingly. Apparently he had been able to make sense of Boy's vague mutters. "An excellent premise to begin with. However, consider this: the genuine paramount of skill with a blade may not have any concern as to that very fact."

Boy frowned, trying to translate this suggestion into simpler language. "…Wha? I mean, are you?—" He hiccupped, glaring at the ceiling through the hot darkness.

Curry laughed, an unusual noise from him. It crackled out of the old man's throat like the hissing of coals in his forge, and it made Boy's head hurt. "I, the greatest swordsman? That is most humorous!"

"'Esh," Boy growled, pulling his pillow over his head. "Funny."

Curry continued to laugh for several minutes after Boy stopped talking, but the pillow's weight became stifling well before the chuckles subsided. Boy tried to ignore it, but his throbbing head wouldn't let him. Eventually, there was silence, during which the aching began to fade and Boy started to think he would have a chance of sleeping.

But Curry, of course, couldn't resist one last comment.

"Incidentally, Boy, the effects of ingesting such a substance are generally exponentially worse in the morning. It is commonly referred to as a 'hangover'. I suggest that you be afraid."

Stupid old man.

This was an enjoyable chapter to write, and I suspect that the following parts should be fun as well-making up islands for One Piece fanfiction is a guilty pleasure. As is thinking of Devil Fruits. Speaking of which, someone with Fruit powers should turn up at some point...

Um. Just musing. Now, review replies!

NopeJustMe: Thank you very much! I don't know when he's going to become the best, but I'm pretty sure it's going to go well past that-perhaps up until his first fight with Zoro? I don't want to go into future events with OP-Oda will get around to those in time.

roo17: Thank you! And here it is...

silverlodi: I agree (that is to say, I agree that there aren't very many Mihawk fics). There should be more. Thanks muchly and I intend to!

the animaniac dude: Intriguing is good. Indeed, Jamba Curry's dialogue is incredibly fun to write.

SoaringFyreBird: Epic is also good-glad you approve.

Senko-Chan: inorite? *grin* Thanks, I hope to.

gagboy: How very encouraging of you.

Best wishes as well to everyone who has this on alert! If you feel like reviewing at any point, please do so, as they make me feel warm and fuzzy.