This is me procrastinating writing my Big Bang story (or rather proving I can do more than stare at a mostly blank page). Anyway, this was prompted by the lovely MyLadyDay as always (I'm sorry it's taking me so unbelievably long to get through them 3), so I hope you enjoy!

Thatch inhaled slowly, staring at the doorknob he'd just unlocked as easily as if it had been yesterday he'd last picked a lock instead of more than seven years. He let out a soundless laugh, bitterness welling up in him. Of course this skill wouldn't fade with time. He swore he'd never do this again, swore he'd never take the chance of going back there, swore that no matter what he would live a free life, but he knew now that there was no freedom out here either.

It was impossible to find work if you weren't born on the right side of the wall, so everyone turned to a life of crime just to survive. Unfortunately no one had anything to steal over there, so anyone who didn't want to starve had to cross the wall and steal on their own or join one of the many brutal gangs that fought over the slums like starving dogs over a hunk of rotting meat. Thatch had seen some of the atrocities done by and to gang members, and he knew he'd rather starve if it came to that.

Sadly, he'd still really prefer not to starve so here he was about to commit a crime that could easily end up with him back in the labor camp or, even worse, the mines. He'd barely managed to survive his seven year sentence - a feet almost unheard of since everyone knew it was just the nobles way of making the trash useful- but he knew if he had to go back to that place he'd not return a second time.

He'd picked his target carefully. It was a massive house, the ornate carvings and marble sure signs that if he succeeded he might not have to target another place for a year or two if he was careful with the money, and the only inhabitants were an old man- some sort of big time politician, or so Thatch had heard- and his one servant. Neither of them looked like they'd be able to put up much of a fight, though if everything went according to plan, he'd not even be seeing either of them.

The door opened soundlessly when Thatch turned the handle- one good thing about rich people; their houses were usually quiet- and he slipped inside without a sound, heading straight for the study, glad he'd had the opportunity to scout the place out earlier, taking the place of the substitute part time chef. Most people had their safe in the study, and Thatch would far prefer to steal actual gold than something he'd have to pawn that could maybe trace him back to the crime.

That is if anyone even noticed anything was missing. The old man was clearly past his prime, and neither of them had even noticed that the paperwork he'd given earlier today was clearly for some other man. The man's butler, Izo, was clearly unconcerned with the security of the house as he'd barely even glanced at the papers before waving him in. Thatch had just turned the corner to the hall where the study lay, when the cool, unmistakable feeling of a gun muzzle pressing into the back of his head forced him to stop. The click of the safety echoed down the empty hall.

"So you were up to no good, hmm? Pops said to give you a chance, but I don't care how well you cook, false papers are always a red flag." Izo's voice was quiet, but it was anything but soft. Thatch knew this tone of voice. Whatever else Izo may or may not be, he was certainly a killer, and an experienced one at that if Thatch had any instincts left.

Thatch inhaled, making it as shaky as possible. "P-pplease, I j-j-just left my-" The gun nudged him none too gently in the back, and Izo snorted delicately.

"Please, save it for someone who cares. You won't pull shit like that with me." Izo sighed dramatically. "Now, I would just kill you, but it would be an awful mess to clean up, and Pops wanted to talk to you if you showed. The study, please. I presume you know where it is?" Thatch was helpfully prodded by the gun in the correct direction and started forward reluctantly.

He couldn't believe it was all over so fast. It might be better for Izo to kill him right here than to go back to that place. The gun lowered, and Thatch turned back in confusion. Izo glared at him but sighed again, this time softening.

"C'mon, then. We don't have all night." Izo pulled him by the hand to the study, the gun held at his side. Thatch blinked confusedly at the dark room, but Izo continued without stopping, walking up to one of the many bookcases and fiddling with something.

The neighboring bookcase slid away to reveal a wide staircase, sparsely light with candles. Izo gestured down the stairs, and Thatch descended without hesitation. His curiosity far outweighed his fear now. He was going to die tonight, of that he was sure, but at least he could find out what was up with this strange household.

The stairs ended in a brightly-lit, windowless room. Maps covered the walls, and almost the entire room was taken up by a massive table, which was almost completely occupied. More than a dozen pairs of eyes turned to them, and the old man sat at the head of the table, the symbol of the resistance boldly printed on the flag the hung behind him. Whitebeard- for surely this had to be the legend himself- smiled at him, and Thatch had never seen a smile so filled with kindness.

"So, son, I heard you might be in need of a job."