Beta'd by xanthos. You're amazing - and this chapter has been greatly improved thanks to your help!
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The Dumb Smile of the Knowing
Part 3 – Doors
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The defining feeling should have been pain.
It wasn't.
xxxxx
Ace was glad for the bandages, he really was, even though he didn't think they did anything for his healing.
It was because he was cold.
If that alone wasn't sickening beyond belief, then the state of his mind certainly was. From a lively person who could fall asleep at any random point he had changed into someone who would only wake at random times, always confused about the wheres, the whos, the hows. And as wounds, fever and seastone were working on his body, his mind wasn't unaffected either.
He closed his eyes; there was the damn blue cat again, grinning madly, hungrily, at him. He opened his eyes; he was alone in the dark, cold, cell.
xxxxx
That rotten stench invading his nostrils might have been coming from his own dying body, he didn't know.
He was dying.
Ace could tell because he had already died twice. He'd been saved, though, and brought back to life twice as well.
Now, after seeing that darkness he knew there wouldn't be a third time. Perhaps he was a ghost already, and Smoker, that grumbling old bear, was a ghost whisperer after all. That hopeful thought was indeed better than what he dreaded might happen if he lived much longer.
It was getting darker and he knew that this had nothing to do with the sun. A blurry long blue tail around his body, holding him in place, while sharp carnivore teeth worked on his wrists, biting, nibbling, slowly excavating muscles and bones; all of that was not real. Or the pain was--? He was helpless against the voracious cat since he had no control over his eyelids, his body, or his consciousness.
If this was the end already, it had come faster than he'd expected. The place of his death seems filthy, although, if he was honest, it was indeed better than the last time he'd almost lost his life.
Not in terms of the cell, of course.
With the help of some more sunrays in the morning, he'd been able to really 'see' a bit more of the small space he had awoken in after the fight with Teach. In that light, he'd confirmed that it wasn't just that he couldn't find any furniture - there really was no cot, chair, or any other place to sit other than on the tiled, cold, energy draining ground.
The cell was completely empty.
At first, he had wondered if these Marines even denied him the courtesy of a latrine since they didn't come to take him there, nor had he spotted anything in the cell itself. That was, until he had seen the morning light reflect off of some kind of liquid which had led him to discover the barred hole in the ground a few feet from where he lay.
Right next to the bars.
They were seriously treating him like a caged animal, he assessed in a mix of annoyance and amusement. Ace actually didn't count humiliation amongst his favorite activities but his current problems were so much worse than taking a piss in public that he could only laugh at that absurd attempt to mentally break a captive. Though, considering nobody was there to watch anyway, they might not have thought of that 'tactic' after all.
No, the location was not really better than last time, worse probably. At least he'd gotten good food for his last meal and a last humane, almost borderline-nice, chat with the grumpy man in charge. He was more thankful to Smoker than the man would ever know for everything that he'd done. Ace knew that the Commodore had not really gained something of equal value through their exchange, just a name that would probably decorate the newspapers soon anyway and the hint of a deal.
Of course, when he'd first woken up here to see a vague image of an analyzing, observing, Aokiji standing behind the bars, he hadn't gotten any information about this. Thing was, he had not needed an explanatory word from the Admiral to grasp his current situation.
Even if he had no recollection of the end of that devastating fight with Teach, he was smart enough to put the pieces together accordingly. Surely, the Marines hadn't been there by magical coincidence. And as much as Ace hoped the traitorous bastard was in no better condition than he himself - and considering his own pain, that was a delightful wish - it was unlikely that Teach might be dying in the neighboring cell.
The more Ace put things together, the less he'd felt like continuing. Sometimes he really wished that a bit of his brothers blissful ignorance had been bestowed upon him.
Luffy would just sit here and be talking about how he'd kick Teach's ass the next time. For sure.
Ace sat here and felt empty, the cacophony of smells in the air had even lessened his appetite.
All the while, in everything he'd done or hadn't, in staying true to his words, Smoker had become both a pain and relief for him. Undeniably, it was the moldy topping on Ace's rotten dessert that the best thing since meeting Blackbeard had turned out to be the one Marine who probably hated pirates the most.
When the grip of the cat's tail tightened around him, strange suckers attached themselves to his body, emptying him further and further.
His thoughts became less coherent; mixing up images of the ocean, Luffy, Whitebeard, his crew, Makino, Shanks, Teach and even Smoker, hot flames and a cold darkness.
With that image, the last of his strength left him . . .
xxxxx
There was a cascade of loud sounds breaking through his half-aware consciousness.
Creaking, squeaking, rustling, chattering.
Everything happened very quickly. Rough hands grabbing, moving him, voices threatening him, and without even knowing how he could tell, Ace knew Smoker wasn't there.
Now the pirate was lying uncomfortably sprawled out on his back, his eyes unable to adapt to the light and only blurrily recognizing the tiles of the cell's ceiling. A growing pain caused by the sudden stretching crawled along his spine and shot sparks of ache somewhere deep inside. Three linen straps, tightened around his neck, chest and thighs, pressed him into the rough fabric of a very basic gurney.
The heavy seastone cuffs had been taken off but some sharp edged weapon was still pressed against his left thigh, burning slightly at the already numb flesh while his freed excoriated wrists and ankles quickly colored the white cloth underneath them in dark shades of red.
The white-haired man who had just tightened the strap around his neck so much that the wounded captive coughed at the pain of suffocation, looked down on him with slightly perverted anticipation.
He was a small, old, doctor, but when he had thrown off his white trademark coat to heave the half-conscious patient up on the gurney, he had earned a surprised gasp from one of the Marines who observed the scene carefully from behind the cell's bars. Not everybody on the boat knew about the doctor; off-the-record it was simply suggested to avoid being wounded enough that his help was needed. And the newbie behind the bars had just gotten a glimpse of the reason behind this.
Underneath the doctor's robe the short man wore only a white undershirt that was stretched over his chest in a manner that indicated rather unexpectedly trained pectorals, his arms sported impressive biceps as well and the belt he had slung over one shoulder and across his chest carried various scalpels and resembled an ammunition belt. The glasses perched low on his nose were a startling contradiction to the warrior like image the doctor presented.
The medic ran his wrinkled right hand almost gently over the blades that were lined up across his broad chest, searching for one in particular, while the pirate's eyes lost focus as his breathing grew weaker.
A creaking sound disturbed the morbid scenery, the noise unmistakably coming from the brig entry. Small footsteps accompanied by metallic clanking approached the crowded holding cell.
"Doctor Shalaton!" called a female voice out of puff, "You have forgotten me again!"
The air was immediately fraught with the crushing tang of alcohol and pharmaceutical products as a woman in nurse's uniform closed in, her short brown curls whipping with motion, while she pushed a brimming metallic cart forward.
Despite her relatively young age, her looks were definitely not the fulfillment of certain male fantasies.
The group of Marines standing before the cell eyed the nurse and looked curiously at the medical utensils lined up on that cart before her - dressing material, disinfectant, anesthetics in particular catching their glances. Then they looked back at the doctor inside the cell with nothing but his scalpels who had already started cutting open the pirate's bandages, and they gulped in sync.
Shalaton's eyes glinted with unconcealed, predatory, anticipation when white linen fell to both sides of the gurney.
The multitude of unsavory injuries on the pirate's chest and stomach were revealed even though they were still covered by the last reddened pieces of bandaging material. This dirty layer of bandages had, however, already glued dry to his flesh. Ignoring the stuttering rise and fall of the patient's chest and the weak coughing, the doctor grabbed for a different scalpel to cut the bond of linen and skin, when the nurse entered the cell with the medical cart and yelled, "Ah! The patient!"
After seeing the discolored face of the pirate, she quickly jumped towards the gurney and loosened the strap around Ace's neck a bit. Her ear over his mouth, she then checked that his breathing had normalized.
Choking and coughing followed and Shalaton glanced upwards, an annoyed expression at the disturbance on his face.
"I was working here, Elena!" he scolded the nurse.
"And I was helping, Doctor," she responded, her tone carefully respectful.
Ace managed to direct a grateful gaze at her, but her eyes stayed cold. "Pirate," she spoke emotionlessly, "we have orders to patch you up enough so you will survive until we reach the Great Gaol."
That said, she pressed a stinking cloth that had been dipped in an etherizing solution into his face.
It didn't take long until Ace drifted off, as his greedily gasping mouth inhaled the vapor quickly, hearing in the background the laughing of men near his cell. Before his mind went completely blank, Ace wondered a last time about the situation.
Was this Smoker's decision, too?
"Elena, if he's unconscious I can't question him about his Devil Fruit!" Shalaton lectured.
"I am very sorry, but I thought we had to cut him open to take a look at those internal injuries, and I remembered reading in a book that we should first etherize the patient . . . "
"That may be true but the one to decide when we don't need him conscious any longer, is me not you."
She nodded obediently, and then grabbed the disinfectant from the cart, holding it towards the doctor, before she added thoughtfully, "I'm sure you'll have another opportunity to dissect his organs and analyze the Logia fruit's influence. Please remember, that right now he's still unable to transform into flame. He might die, and our orders are to make sure that he survives."
Shalaton mustered a glance at the pirate before him and sighed, "A body like this is a once in a lifetime chance . . . You just don't get your hands on a heavily wounded logia user." The speed of his words increased until he murmured excitedly, "It is my duty as a scientist to collect all the data I can!"
"As I said, I'm sure you'll get the opportunity to do that later on. If his general state of health is better, you'll probably even get to conduct some experiments on him while he's awake . . . and if he survives you can question him much more, too. A captured Logia user, alive, in your hands -- just imagine the possibilities . . ."
The disappointed expression on the old man's face was replaced by a new determined one, "Hn . . . I see."
xxxxx
The man, hidden from view, observed the scene with a growing frown. This surely didn't look good at all.
He wasn't a medic and didn't really know what those two were doing with Portgas but against all previous predictions this looked pretty much like classic surgery to him. Judging from their facial expressions, they were surprised as well.
They spent their time fishing small dirty lumps out of his insides - what was that? - and even from under previously unbroken skin. Apparently, something was off with his organs, too. So this had happened when Whitebeard's Second had fought this new ally . . .
A frightening Devil Fruit ability, indeed.
The problem was that Shalaton should have been more interested in dissecting the Logia user rather than healing him, and now, because of that troublesome nurse he was behaving like a real doctor. Using the disinfectant that she offered, working carefully on the open wound, not overusing his oh-so-beloved scalpels on healthy flesh, and even letting her stitch up the cut provisory in the end!
This, however, hadn't been the end of the operation. Luckily they had to abort further work when it became late afternoon and too dark. After all, the equipment to artificially light the cell as needed for an operation wasn't allowed in the brig – not with a man who could bend fire to his will.
He smiled contentedly at the thought; the boss had really been very clever in making up some useful 'rules' so that even in case someone wanted to help the pirate, it wouldn't be easy. And it had already proven to be an incredibly useful measure when the White Hunter, usually famous for his ferocity against pirates, had strangely decided to not let this one simply die.
Quickly evaluating the newest problem, it seemed the pirate would live, the calm observer decided that everything could still be resolved if only the nurse were to stop with her interference and influence on Shalaton.
The basic solution was quite simple but they would need a decent plan for this assassination, careful to let everything seem unsuspicious. At least they already had a very good suspect to frame the deed on, later--
He stopped his thoughts from trailing off. They had to hurry now; Fire Fist dying because of the wounds he'd received from Blackbeard had to happen here on this boat, before reaching World Government authority.
He knew this was their last chance, and he would give everything to be of use in this case. Another failure and it would mean they'd lose their last supporter in the ranks.
In the mess, Smoker was chewing on his bread in the very same manner his teeth usually worked on his cigars. Compared to his smoky friends, the food was weak for it all too quickly completely disintegrated and he had to constantly refill his mouth to keep his teeth from grinding against each other.
He'd always known thinking was best done while smoking.
When Tashigi had convinced him to finally eat his breakfast, Smoker had not been hungry even if it was past noon already. And now he was sitting in the mess hall, chewing and wondering why he had listened to her after all.
Though, his thoughts did stray to another subject.
Ever since Portgas had told him about the deal that probably had been made over his head, Smoker had wondered why exactly the World Government would have wanted something like that.
As much as he didn't like all of the underhanded spoken or unspoken agreements between the World Government and the strongest pirate forces, as much as he didn't like the so-called-balance that resulted from ridiculous justice-defying inventions such as the Shichibukai, it wasn't as if he didn't know of those things.
And so, knowing that even the World Government wouldn't dare to oppose Whitebeard too much, and thus knowing that the appropriate conviction and execution of Portgas wasn't likely to occur – what was the point of all this? Were they really after information about Whitebeard, as he had told the pirate? They certainly couldn't just let Portgas go now that he was captured, which meant the fire brat would pose a constant strain on the rather fragile 'balance' of the New World.
There was trouble coming and the source of it all was now in Smoker's hands.
It probably would have been easier if he had just let the pirate die here, and he couldn't quite wrap his mind around why he'd thought it better to bring him alive to be truly judged when deep down he knew this wouldn't happen. Normally, even if it was often troublesome, Smoker was content with doing what he deemed just. This time was problematic because he didn't have all the details, just an idea -- and hadn't it been more a spur of the moment decision anyway?
He stuffed the next slice of bread into his mouth, glaring at the last of the men who were still inside the mess and dared to stare at his choice of a meal.
Only a few - brave - crew members were still sitting and eating.
Most of them had left the mess quickly after seeing the Commodore enter, busy expressions on their faces. They probably felt a bit annoyed by his appearance since he looked as if he wanted to inspect who was still chatting there. They knew he could have gone to the wardroom and had his meal there, alone. Even Smoker himself wasn't all too sure why he had chosen to eat here. Controlling his subordinates certainly wasn't the reason.
Down in the brig they currently were trying to save the pirate's life.
It could be that he was completely wasting his energy thinking about problems-to-come as, judging from the state Portgas had been in just some hours ago, he still couldn't be sure the source of all trouble would survive.
The sea's salty breeze blew through opened windows and lightened the heavy smell of sweat and meat that still lingered -- although the lunch break was already over.
That one female crewmember also was still there, three tables from him, and she smiled towards Smoker. He looked at her dark blue eyes when her lips, actually painted with red lipstick, curved upward as she noticed the Commodore's glimpse. Annoyed, he realized that he hadn't managed to hide his gaze. She nodded quickly to her comrades at her table and then stood up.
Smoker observed her as she brought her tray over to the galley door, her hips swinging more like that of a secretary seducing her boss than that of a female soldier at work. At least her hair was now tied up into a long blonde ponytail. She talked shortly to the dishwasher, flirted rather, though Smoker couldn't tell from the distance, before she walked towards the mess' door.
Unfortunately, the Commodore had taken his seat close to that very door and when she came across his table she wouldn't accept his "I'm busy eating" expression and stood there still until he had to acknowledge her presence. "Yes, ensign?"
"Sir," she started, smiling again and blue eyes shining friendly. From a closer perspective, she really didn't look that similar to Hina, but something about her was still . . . Hinaesque. Smoker quickly grabbed his glass of water to wash away unpleasant thoughts.
" . . . . ."
"Can I speak with you?"
"Whatever."
"I was just wondering . . ." she started, before moving to sit down unasked next to Smoker on the green leather imitation of the bank.
He took another slice of bread and waited.
"Is there anything I can do to help you with your work?" she finally asked.
"Do your job?" Smoker mumbled irritated.
"I mean, further than that?" She tried to explain while her innocently placed hand moved slowly closer to Smoker's on the table, "I really admire you, your strength and conviction. I'd like to be of more use than just scrubbing the deck on this important mission . . ."
Her eyes widened when Smoker only snarled and his chewing mouth formed into some undefined but clearly dark and unpleasant expression, "Important mission?"
She was staring expectantly at him, but the Commodore had finished. If she could not read the message his statement held, she was not worthy of his time anyway.
Puzzled she nodded quickly, pressed out a, "Sorry," and - finally - walked away.
Smoker wondered what that exchange had been about.
He knew that, apart from the many Marines who didn't like him and his guts, there were some, very few, who actually admired him. He didn't really care about either of them.
In the end, leaving the bread and taking the cigars, he decided he should check on the pirate to make sure he wasn't agonizing about an issue that had already solved itself.
When Ace opened his eyes, he was bound to the very real gurney, yet he still wondered whether the strange doctor had been from the same - wrong - reality as the blue cat or if he actually had just been in the hands of such a man . . . and survived?
Then he realized, someone else was still here breathing deeply.
Ace was reminded of the linen strap against his neck when he tried to raise his head and he could only bend his neck sideward to look for the source of the sound. His nose had picked up on an already familiar scent and so he was not surprised when he saw him.
Sitting in a very flammable wooden chair was Commodore Smoker.
His silvery white hair strangely didn't make him seem old and its disobedience to the laws of gravity really fit the man who only followed his own rules. Smoker's brow was furrowed in the way that Ace had already decided must be his trademark expression, and the two cigars polluting the brig's humid air made clear that he wasn't the least bit concerned about the patient's health.
His presence was impressive and a dark aura threatened the pirate to dare to make a stupid comment.
It was just Smoker's bad luck that Ace would feel particularly invited to comment whenever he made that surly expression. Their eyes met for a moment, and the face that the Marine made was just too funny for Ace to not think about the absurdity of it all.
They really were contrasting opposites: the man who seemed unable to smile and the man who would smile no matter the situation.
And what an interesting game they were playing again – had Smoker even realized yet? If Smoker wasn't willing to show any sign of joy over having a high priced pirate in his brig, then Ace would show all signs of happiness a captured and soon-to-die pirate shouldn't have, he decided.
Smiling he purred, "Hello Commodore!" It wasn't entirely convincing as his throat was still dry and hurting. Smoker, however, didn't look like he had an eye - or ear - for that detail anyway.
The Marine didn't respond, but just sat there looking at the pirate.
"Can I keep the bed? It's a bit hard but I'd definitely prefer it over the tiled floor . . ." Ace started again.
Another complete lack of reaction. It hadn't occurred to him until now but apparently Smoker was really thinking about something.
After what felt like an eternity to the pirate, and he couldn't even tell if he had stayed awake all that time, the Marine finally spoke. His voice was so calm that it almost surprised Ace.
"I'm interested in Blackbeard's Devil Fruit ability," he simply stated, "after seeing what they took out of your body."
Ace honored the Commodore with an especially broad grin. Oh, honestly the man had no idea, the physical damage had only been half of it -- but he would be damned if he told Smoker about that.
"Don't know. 'Darkness' or something."
Smoker nodded. Ace was actually surprised that the man had accepted his answer so easily. The Marine had obviously been after some more details of his fight with the traitor, though Ace didn't see why at first.
It had taken him some thought to understand that for Smoker, Blackbeard wasn't an ally, even when the newspapers or the World Government would make it official. For this Marine, he still was a rotten pirate, nothing more, nothing less.
If he hadn't had so many other worries, Ace would have been a bit hurt for standing on equal hated grounds with the likes of Teach in Smoker's judging eyes, but it was fair after all. They were both pirates.
Ace heard the noise of the Marine's heavy frame walking slowly towards the cell door and before he had even started wondering about the why, he'd made a quick decision. He wanted the man to stay a bit longer.
"Stop!"
Smoker turned around; Ace could not see it from where his head currently lay, but he could tell from the slurping of the Marine's feet on the ground, and from the fresh cloud of smoke that now came his way.
"How about a new deal?" he offered with a faked sheepish tone.
Ace felt that his companion was tempted but hesitant. And he had honestly no idea how to go about this now; Blackbeard wasn't as important to Smoker as he had been to Ace, though the Marine obviously was at least interested enough to ask.
"No further deals," came finally a reply, and it sounded decided. Strangely, Ace had understood already, in Smoker's world there was no place for 'a bit', only yes or no and never 'perhaps.'
"Then call it a request?" he tried again, "I'll tell you what I know and you can just decide about the request later . . ."
Surely, Smoker wouldn't be against that, would he?
Definitely grumbling, the Marine walked back into the cell.
"Tell me," he ordered with that funny pissed-off attitude of his and Ace doubted he would ever understand why the man behaved that way.
xxxxx
Then, he had talked - as much as he could, considering his state. He had dozed off at least once as well. And it had been kind of pleasant to wake up and find that nothing had changed this time.
To say Smoker clung to the words coming from his lips would be a massive exaggeration: the man just sat there, leaned back in his chair, listened quietly and smoked. Like a psychiatrist, Ace thought amused.
He hadn't had any hope that Smoker would even bother to ask for his request let alone think about fulfilling it, and so he was surprised when, after he had finished telling the story of his fight with Teach, the Marine really asked, ". . . and what was that 'request'?"
For a moment he was speechless, and being Portgas D. Ace, he was then speechless at his own speechlessness.
Smoker's reaction was a raised brow and a slight twitching in the left corner of his mouth - indicated by the cigars changing direction.
Was he amused?
Was that an amused expression? Ace had no idea, but it definitely was the furthest from all his annoyed faces he'd seen so far.
His own facial muscles relaxed, he breathed deeply and just looked curiously at the other man before he finally said what had been on his mind earlier, "I'd like a blanket, or something like that . . ."
This wasn't about an ordinary captive's request for better treatment, and Ace knew that Smoker must have realized that too. This was about admitting that he'd become weak enough, broken enough, and so deeply robbed of his powers that he had to actually ask for that.
This was about trusting the Marine enough to tell him. It didn't matter how casually he worded this, Smoker would get the idea.
And worse, Ace would have loved a small light down here as well He knew, however, that there was no way they would bring fire into the brig at all. Ever. And he wouldn't deny that they were damn right with that.
It just would have been nice . . . not to sit in the dark most of the time.
Smoker nodded without commenting. He was on his way to leave the cell again, chair in his left hand, keys in the right, when he turned one last time back to Ace and asked the one question that had been lurking unspoken between them.
"The fire -- did it come back?"
Ace didn't answer. Really, just now he didn't even want to think about it. He was beginning to feel better and there was no need to think about that right now.
Smoker walked away, he had taken his silence as a reply.
The pirate's ears registered the metallic squeaking of the un-oiled hinges when the Marine closed the cell door, and he was immediately taken aback. His brain worked, desperate.
Metallic squeaking? Maybe, just maybe . . .
He was happy to put his remaining life-force into more productive thoughts, and Ace decided to act as soon as Smoker had left the brig. He tried to move his hands down the side of the gurney, but he was still restricted by the three linen straps. His strength had only returned in small portions. Eventually, he thought that he might be able to forcefully rip the linen apart. However, this didn't seem like a good idea as the Marines obviously deemed him pretty weak right now and making them aware of his growing strength would be just downright stupid.
So what was he to do?
Honestly, the fact that he thought it possible to move at all was surprising him. He still felt pain – immense pain – in his stomach, wrists, and ankles but it was so much better. The numbness, helplessness in his own body, the defining feeling of inner coldness and dying had almost vanished, and he wondered about what Smoker had told him. 'What they took out of your body.'
He'd known from the beginning that something had been wrong with his body and not because his feverish dreams included cats but because a beating, no matter who the opponent, shouldn't have led to his near death.
He was not that weak.
Just now it had hit him that this doctor might have fished out some souvenirs left by Teach when they . . . when he . . .
No, he wouldn't think about that.
Not Teach nor the fire.
Instead, he would try to plan an escape. The chances were close to zero and his newfound 'strength' would probably not last very long but if there was a chance, he would take it. He'd rather die on the run than lie and rot here in sorrow and pain.
This provisory bed that definitely wasn't made of seastone must have some useful parts on it and if only he wasn't bound like this . . .
Ace realized he couldn't move at all under the straps, so he tried to push the one that fixed his chest and arms by jamming his shoulder blades back into the thin mattress and arching his upper body slightly. The linen was very tight and his slow waving movements made the rough material rub and cut painfully into the skin. Compared to the pain that the movement of his stomach caused though, this was nothing, and Ace bore both with clenched teeth.
After a minute of wrestling with the strap, he had finally moved it up so that it now lay above the one over his neck. Both arms free, he quickly put a probing hand on his wounded stomach, checking for the source of the warm fluid gush he'd felt there earlier. He was relieved to find a - closed - suture and inwardly thanked the doctor and the nurse for their obvious good work.
Searching for the device that was holding the linen straps in place, Ace let his hands slide along both sides of the gurney.
Half an arm's length underneath the mattress, welded onto a pole of the metallic frame, his fingers finally found and opened the first handle in the middle. Pushing back the metal that held the strap in place, he could use his other hand to cautiously pull on the linen. Should someone come unexpectedly down here again, he could just re-fasten the strap with the handle to seem unsuspicious.
This was the way to go!
Marco wondered briefly how the hell it had come to this, and cursed Ace for not being there.
For two days the wind had not blown anywhere near Whitebeard's mighty flagship. The sky was a clear blue, and not even the smallest cirrus cloud strayed anywhere in sight on this perfect spring day.
A hot climate strained and exhausted the big captain's body while cold weather usually darkened his mood even if it wasn't too problematic for his health. But the light warmth of the spring was exactly the reason why the Moby Dick was now anchored for a few days in these waters: to give the Captain a short enjoyable break before travelling further.
Marco, the stressed First Division Commander, currently managed the huge united crew's fun activities.
Third Division Commander Jozu, dubbed lazy dumbass in Marco's mind, was no help in this - where was he anyway? The other divisions hadn't reported back in a while.
At first there had been work, lots of it actually: small repairs of all the little cracks and rifts a certain Red Hair had left during his last visit. Then there was the usual cleaning procedure, but two days later Marco had run out of ideas for possible labor when there really was nothing to do as they lay at anchor like this.
It was a bit of a problem for him.
After the usual polishing of the deck, he had ordered the men to scrub the railing, wash all hammocks on board, clean windows and portholes, had let them paint the flag symbol freshly over, he'd even sent them overboard to check and clean the ship's keel . . . and now he really was out of ideas.
That's why they were currently playing some very stupid game that involved naked butts and hidden faces and lots of silly laughter. It was, of course, something that Ace had 'taught' them. Still, in this kind of situation it was useful as everybody was occupied with that admittedly brainless activity while the Captain could relax his exhausted old body in the perfect climate.
This kind of thing had really been Ace's specialty whenever he'd been on board.
He had always been the fun part of the crew, his presence even cheering Whitebeard up every now and then. Truly, everybody liked him. It was pretty darn impossible not to like him, like a law of nature forced by the freckles and the smile; he was so energetic, funny, and surprisingly shrewd and strong, too.
Probably even Teach, the despicable traitor, would like Ace until the moment those fierce flaming hands ended his rotten life for good.
Right now though, the everlasting search for the bastard was starting to seriously annoy Marco because it had been a long time since Ace had last reported back. And everybody knew he could report back considerably quickly if he wished. After all, the Second Division Commander was probably the only person on the Grand Line who could travel so quickly between the Old World where Teach last had been sighted and the New World, where his crew waited for Ace's return.
Even the huge barrier that the sea-dividing mountain of the Red Line posed for ordinary pirates, forcing them to go through the efforts of crossing it underwater, wasn't a of problem for Ace, as his small skiff could easily be heaved over the mountain, undiscovered by the Marine Headquarters that were stationed on top there.
But heck, the gutsy guy would probably even walk right through that base, in an ad-lib disguise, slurping tea with some of the soldiers, before moving forth. That's why Marco felt it was his rightful demand that he wanted Ace to get his ass back to his crew as soon as possible.
When more and more of the men started bugging him to join the 'funny play', Marco quickly put on a serious facial expression. He wasn't very convincing though and he knew it, so he quickly walked over towards the huge seat where his captain currently drank his - self-proclaimed - medically necessary portion of one barrel sake for the day.
The blonde commander sighed silently as he leaned against the railing towards Whitebeard.
"Really long time not to hear from Ace . . ." he murmured casually. "I wonder what's taking him so long. Could at least steal a Marine Den Den Mushi and give a damn call or something . . ."
The huge man laughed loudly, "Gurarara, you chickened out – and I had wanted to guess which ass was yours!"
Marco ignored the comment, picked his nose and continued thinking. Whitebeard was in good mood, which was great, since after the meeting with Red-Hair, the First Division Commander had been worried that their banter might have affected his captain's health. Now Marco had other issues; theories that he had developed while being exposed to what could only be called the men's lack of Ace.
"Pops, I'm starting to suspect he's taken a little detour. Perhaps a girl or something . . .?" he speculated.
"That boy? Gurarara!"
Marco was glad that he had at least managed to amuse his Captain even if this had not been his intention.
"What's with your bad memory, son? Don't you remember the time when we took him to the ritual family initiation?"
Gulping, Marco thought of Lupanalo Island.
Long white sand beaches, lush green palm leaves rustling in the soft breeze, a big colorful mansion near the landing stage, lampions above the front door soaking the entry in steamy light, Mary's wonderful, huge, round b--
Suddenly Whitebeard laughed and Marco realized his face could have taken on a slightly dreamy expression.
"I'm not talking about yours!" the Captain assessed what he had observed. "The time with the boy!"
"Uh," Marco remembered. Clearly. He grinned.
Whitebeard's impressively large teeth flashed under the trademark beard while his grin grew broader, until he burst out into laughter - so much that his nurses observed him nervously. "That was indeed memorable. And what a really fitting 'initiation' for the wild one."
"It was an incredible party. I still can't believe we had that much fun without even going to a room."
"And we didn't have to pay a thing afterwards either."
They both sighed, and turned their heads again to look at the crew's play.
After a moment of silence, Whitebeard suddenly asked with a serious tone, "Do you want to go look for him?"
(tbc)
