First Bittersweet ~ Edward Newgate

I was never fond of my business meetings. Nothing new or interesting ever comes up. It was always the same people attempting to impose the same ideas in my company, and no matter how many times I would openly scorn such useless suggestions, the same propositions would be brought back on topic, taking form in different variations. In addition to that type of nuisance, there were the appearances of associates from the other companies. I often find them fawning at my feet for my aid and favor, to the point of my absolute revulsion. How funny that was, especially since their bosses, who were also my so-called critiques, claimed they could raise a finer business industry than my own—the nerve of them.

"It's like high school, really. Everyone always tries to please the popular group even if they sometimes hate them, deep down. It's so normal for everyone that they don't mind that anymore," Ace once commented as I watched him lifting weights, as part of his daily exercise, in our basement's gym. Of course, he wouldn't know. I've been through high school once in my life—just like him—and I knew for a fact that petty teenage love problems and social identities were less troublesome than the badgering idiots inside the board rooms.

Today would be a fine example of how bothersome meetings could turn out to be. I had just entered the meeting room, only to encounter about fifteen of my board directors standing up to acknowledge me simultaneously. Each of them began performing their own versions of kowtow while I approached my seat at the end of the room. It's been how many years since I've started my business empire, and to be honest, getting to my chair every single day was the most tedious part of my job. Their words came droning out as I'd get this meeting started, and even if I didn't know what it was exactly that they were trying to present me with, I knew their intentions. Business meetings, fawning and kissing up to me? They're all the same.

Of course, that was only the front of my business career. There was that other side of my pursuits that I would rather deal with on a more regular basis. I was always apprehensive in taking part in the usual meetings taken place in Whitebeard Corporations, but meetings with Zeff was another story.

Blackleg Zeff, now there was a man I could respect—always to the point and honest to boot. He neither used sweet talk nor fancy approaches—he'd just come up to me, or even call me, and say "Edward, let's make a deal". His suggestions were never pointless, in comparison to some of my executive officers, proving his intelligence. If I hadn't seen any competence at all in him, I wouldn't have even associated myself with the man, and the Baratie wouldn't have been a success over the years.

I could never forget how that world class restaurant of his started. It was a national holiday when the idea came to Zeff—who was, back then, the head chef of a hotel restaurant. There was no office that day, and on that pleasant afternoon, he came for a visit.

I suppose his occasional visits during those days were his expressions of condolences. I already lived alone during that time, and Zeff, the good friend he was, often dropped by to keep some company. We would usually spend time by the garden, enjoying our tea, while engaging in long, vivid conversations about the week's current events. Sometimes, we'd even have a few games of chess together. Who the victor would be was anyone's guess.

"Edward, do you suppose I should make a bigger name of myself as well?" Zeff had once asked while we sat down and ate, "After all, you've already outdone yourself with creating Fishman Industries under Whitebeard Corporations. All of Japan's best restaurants fancy the fish you provide."

Fishman Industries was one of my industrial departments under Whitebeard Corporations. The main office was here in Grand Line City while the fisheries were situated in East Blue City— where the freshest seafood could be caught. It was a business I had in mind for my company's branch in Japan. After all, the Japanese loved sushi, and whether a recession would hit the banks or not, I knew for a fact that seafood will always be part of the nutritional diet. It turned out to be a huge success, with all the best restaurants of Japan ordering from my establishment. The restaurants and markets sold my fish, and in exchange, they return the favor with my share of their income.

"You're asking a businessman that question, Zeff. Of course, I'd say you should. Who'd be satisfied with what they have when they know they can still strive for more?" I watched Zeff laugh aloud while sipping on some wine.

"Ambitious as always, Edward. I've actually had something in mind for a long time now, and I'd like to strike a deal with you."

He wanted to build his own famous restaurant—a French seafood restaurant, to be exact. I've known Zeff for many years, so I wasn't surprised to hear such a goal. Despite such lethal hit man abilities, Zeff loved to handle his chef knives more than an arsenal of shotguns. Of course, he needed the money for construction, the ingredients for his entrees and, most importantly, his staff of chefs. He wanted my help—even if he himself could fund on his own—because he wished to have his restaurant known around the world.

He offered to have his restaurant established under Whitebeard Corporations, which was already extended to a good number of other countries at that time. I had no restaurants under my name then, and Zeff—being the good friend and diplomat he was—pledged to further both our names around the business world.

We had our conditions set between the both of us. I was to assist in the funding for the restaurant's construction and, through Fishman Industries, supply him with the raw ingredients he needed. In exchange, I'd gain a fraction of the money earned, exclusivity rights, and the media attention of my name and company in each branch the restaurant owned. That was how the Baratie started, and through the years when we've been achieving ourselves, Zeff's dream was recognized.

Once in a while, we would hold our own business meetings. There were two kinds—meetings concerning further development of the Baratie, and then there were the meetings that didn't involve a day's catch of fish. Again, Whitebeard Corporations was only the front of my pursuits. There was that side of Zeff and I—the side of a mafia—that positioned us with riches and power even before our businesses started.

"We're here in the Impel Down district, sir," Marco said as he continued to drive under the terrible rain. Impel Down District—how I hated this area. We were in the horrible slums at the edge of Grand Line City where the hardest of people perform the most classless activities. The environment itself was already disgusting to look at, and the atmosphere reeked of a stench which smelled a lot more than just pollution. I often avoided this area for what it displays, yet the place of tonight's event was in this venue—according to the information Zeff received from Gin this morning prior to our meeting.

That bastard, Krieg, was said to arrive here tonight. After all those years of tailing him and bearing my grudges towards the man, I still had a vendetta to settle with him. I was a firm believer of justice—of how it always needed to be hammered down. Krieg was no exception.

"Ah, very good." I looked out the window, watching the world pace quickly as we sped along. The night was pitch-black under a moist curtain. Even under my coat, I shivered from the cold draft emitted behind the windows. I would have muttered bitterly against the weather's temperature had a wave of nostalgia not hit.

I glanced at Marco. "Marco, what street are we in?" He peered out the window, taking note of the street sign approaching.

"We're in Sixth Avenue, sir," he quietly replied before concentrating behind the wheel. I continued to watch the road outside. It was the same place and scene, the same occasion and the same chill. For all the distaste I bore for Impel Down, this place carried an unforgettable memory I would take to my grave—as well as Ace would for his. Impel Down wasn't just the dirty slums for him. It was his Hell.

"Marco, stop the car!"

A loud screech had caused friction against the slippery road, and even if he didn't hand me my umbrella yet, I immediately got out of the car, getting drenched by the cold rain.

Fate surely had a mysterious way of playing that night. I was just coming home from issuing my investment with Zeff's for the Baratie's construction when it happened.

That night, the forecast was foul and a storm was brewing in the night sky. It rained so hard that a few roads had to be blocked due to the massive floods flowing around certain areas of the city. Marco had made the right choice when he thought of tuning into the traffic reports from the radio stations. He took to consideration the shortest of detours and then chose to pass through Impel Down in order to escape the heavy traffic. After all, no one really did pass through this filthy sector. It was here, in Sixth Avenue, where we found him, and had Marco not chosen that route, he would have died then and there.

Perhaps, I was imagining what I had seen when I first set my eyes on him. He was crawling desperately against the howling wind while making his way through the empty pavement. His hand was outstretched weakly—as if trying to reclaim what had been stolen from him. He fought, with what little strength he had left, before losing himself to Death's clutch, appearing in a state of agony and hopelessness.

"He looks dead sir—possibly raped." Marco strode quickly to that boy's side, checking his pulse, before nodding. "He's still alive." I couldn't have agreed more on his analysis of the poor boy. It never came across me before that peering through the glass window was enough for one to see the result of society's cruelty.

He was half-dead by the sidewalk when we loomed closer to check on him. In fact, he already resembled a ghost—with black and blue blemishes alongside the deep gashes that tore into his naked frame. He looked so pale and fragile, with his hair undone in a black, tangled mess and his limbs mangled and bent in awkward angles. He was staring blankly at nothing in particular with a set of dull eyes that must have seen torment beyond my imagination. I noticed traces of his blood flowing down the flooded street channels, being washed away by the rain. Still, even under the shower, he was a mess. Blood continued to seep from his wounds, and—if I wasn't mistaken—thick semen coated his tiny body.

I heard him moan from where he lay, and I stared at him with an air of pity and sorrow. I understood why I felt a sudden anguish over him. What normal human being wouldn't? A part of me ached inside when I heard that voice of his. I wanted to save this boy's life. I wanted to give him another chance of living. Before I knew it, I felt consumed by an urge to know his story, too. What had driven me to the latter thought? I wasn't so sure.

Marco had pulled out his cellphone and was ready to dial. "Sir, shall I call for an ambulance?" I shook my head, deeming it unnecessary while taking off my trench coat. I felt cold daggers prickle my skin as I wrapped my coat around the boy.

"We already have my doctor in the manor. Marco, bring this boy inside the car and drive quickly. If we just depend on waiting for an ambulance to come, this boy's life would pass away by the next stop light." Marco simply nodded at this, and then carefully, he lifted the boy inside the car. We swiftly returned to the mansion afterwards.

During the ride home, I took time to speculate what could have happened to him. The wounds and sprains implied that he received a large beating. Noticing the fresh wounds with the scabs, I could tell this wasn't the first time. His hands were callused and his feet were charcoal black. I made a guess that he performed under child labor. A strong sensual odor, which had been masked by the rain, began to linger from his body. How many times did he have to suffer through that torture? I didn't know. All I knew, back then, was that he needed to be treated. Eventually, he was saved and I had a room prepared for him to rest in.

Three days later, he woke up, and the servants knew this because they found him missing from his bed when it was time to replace his bandages. I sent the servants trailing after the boy with the hope that he didn't wander off too far. Considering how enormous I had my household built, it was easy for any newcomer or visitor to travel off course.

It didn't take too long until Marco approached me with the boy's whereabouts. He heard from the cooks that the boy was working in the kitchen, apparently taciturn to anyone and apathetic to the world outside him. I had him lead me there for observation.

Indeed, he was there by the sink, standing on top of a stool and washing the dishes. I didn't know how he managed from his room to the kitchen, especially with those severe wounds under his bandages. This boy had an incredible will, and I was stirred, unable to find any pain written in his face as I edged closer. He must have been used to this type of service.

"Stop that now, boy. Come here," I entreated him. His shoulders suddenly jerked and he shot me a terrified glance. He looked as though he had committed some heinous error and was expecting to face punishment. Obediently, he did as told, walking closer towards me at a slow and limping manner. What had traumatized this boy?

I asked him simple questions. I started out with his name, then where he lived and what exactly occurred to him. He didn't answer—or rather, he couldn't. No words escaped him and he simply stared into space. Was he born mute or was this some near-catatonic state?

I decided to use a different approach. "Can you speak English?" He looked at me and nodded slightly. I continued the "yes and no" charade.

"Could you talk before?" He nodded again. He must be under shock trauma, then.

"Do you have a father?" Yes, he nodded. "Do you want to return to him?" This time, he shook his head, frightened. He must have been the culprit of his abuse.

"What about your mother? Do you have a mother?" I further prodded. He shook his head. I could only guess she had already left this world.

"Do you have any other family? An uncle or an aunt? A sibling of yours?" Suddenly, he looked desperate, clinging to me urgently. His expression was pleading. Something must have happened. I asked if he knew where this other relative was. He didn't know.

What an unfortunate soul—to be abused, raped and left to die, alone under the cold and dark downpour. Up to this day, that image of him never left me. Each time I recalled it, I saw another image—one that pictured the body of my own deceased son, Thatch, whose last memory had scarred my once weeping soul.

I couldn't leave this boy alone. He was just like me—with no family to turn to, other than the ones we lost. There was an option for me to hand him to a children's orphanage—but what if he ended up in the wrong hands again? I resented the thought. Then, realization hit me—what if I took care of him? What if I could raise him to be my son? I could bring him up as my own and, perhaps, I could be given another chance to be a father again. I've failed Thatch before. Was meeting this boy a fated chance of redemption?

I looked at him, his expression forlorn and in despair, then crouched to my knees, almost to his level. I held his shoulders. "Do you have a name? It must be hard to talk but try and tell me your name."

He looked at me, dazed, and then his mouth slowly opened. "Eee—Aaah—sss—suu—Ehhhy—yii—sss—" He kept croaking, and slowly yet tenderly, I continued to encourage him until one word was finally whispered, under his breath.

"Ace."

It has been eleven years since then.

After he said his name, I had Marco prepare Ace his bath and a delicious meal—as well as an appointment with a child psychiatrist. During his recovery, I secretly paid a children's orphanage to produce his birth documents and adoption papers. Eventually, Ace was brought to a much better state of mind—when he didn't feel obligated to perform every single piece of labor in the house, as well as losing the habit of crouching under his blankets in fear every single night.

As my son, I had him taught many skills and manners. He was taught how to read and write, apply table manners, use common courtesy and body posture. I had him enrolled in school. I brought him to church. I made him socialize with others and had him cultured in many other aspects. It was surprising to take note of how fast he picked all these skills up—which made me realize his genius and talent, potentials which would have been thrown away that one night I found him.

He was now seventeen years old and was barely the boy I first came across that night. Although this moment was a reminiscence of that time, there was one significant difference between the two—because Ace wasn't the victim this time.

Marco drove us by the empty alley where Ace stood. "Ace, how did the interrogation go?" I asked. Ace, with a gun at hand, looked at me. His eyes were averting away from the dead body that was swimming in a pool of blood on the ground.

"It didn't go too well. This guy and his men were only here to wait for further instruction. Before I could get any answers from him, someone shot him from afar. Juzo and the others are in pursuit." An air of chagrin circled him. "Some investigators are already roaming around, according to Juzo. They must have discovered one of the first guys we've killed. I just hope no one gets caught."

"What about information on your brother? Did you manage to find 'Dog Fist' today?" Ace shook his head at this, too. I expected much.

Then, it happened so abruptly—an ear splitting blast, followed by a set of buildings that were toppling from a distance. The earth trembled from the impact, and we stared at the sight with alarm. Without another delay, Ace broke towards that direction.

"Ace! No, come back here!" My voice rose.

Ace gave me a grave and urgent expression. "Juzo and the others could have been caught in that explosion!" Quietly, I just opened the car door for him. I refused to let him take risks like that.

Ace stood in place, analyzing the situation quietly, before jumping to his seat quickly and slamming the door shut. Marco stomped on the breaks and then we were accelerating towards the opposite direction. Along the way, we saw bystanders gathering along the streets and racing police cars. It was a good thing that Marco chose the least conspicuous of my automobile collection.

"Juzo! Are you okay? What happened?" I glanced at Ace. His fingers were fumbling while tapping his cellphone keys.

"I'm fine! The others—they got caught in the explosion! They're just ashes now." Both Ace and Marco remained quiet, in thought. I closed my eyes, tightening my fist. Krieg only knew how to ignite my anger.

"Juzo, recover their bodies and then head to the rendezvous point for now. I'm already with Dad and Marco. We'll catch up with you later," Ace finally said behind speaker.

"Right. Ace, there's something I have to tell you but save it. I can't talk too long. People are starting to crowd and more investigators are roaming around. Don't get caught, okay? See you later." Juzo hung up and Ace formed a heavy sigh. I opened my eyes to see him blandly leaning on the window.

"Sorry, Dad," he mumbled. Perhaps, that was one part of him that hasn't changed over the years. He would humbly take the blame out of every misdoing that he was involved in.

"Nonsense. I don't demand apologies from you. I demand some from Krieg, that son of a—Humph, well, I should have suspected that there was a trap involved." I sighed in frustration, having lost two of my men. It was silent for a moment until I asked, "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine, Dad," he said while examining the weather and the scene outside. Despise silently hid beneath his eyes. Up to this day, he has never forgotten the Hell he had once endured.

It was a part of his memories that would haunt him, probably for the rest of his life. He experienced nightmares on some occasions, and then there were moments when I'd catch him pondering over that former life of his. I never bothered consoling him, though. He disliked discussions regarding that topic.

"It's over now. I'm learning to forget the past. All I want now is to search for my little brother. He's waiting for me but I don't know where. That's why I want to be a part of your mafia family," he had once spoken. That was on the day he begged me to make him a part of my group.

There was some truth to that. He was much happier with life ever since I saved him from that Hell. The only thing missing was his little brother. He swore, to me and to himself, that once his brother was found, he would be at peace. Still—deep down, and he knew this too, perhaps—the life of a Mafia that he has dug himself into was another form of Hell on its own.

~*~ Omake ~*~

Question: Whitebeard seems to be suffering health problems in his old age. Does he ever consider practicing first-aid?

Answer: Oh, he tries.

Whitebeard: I will save this boy. Marco, I need assistance.

Marco: Err... Begging your pardon, sir, but you're not sober at the moment.

Whitebeard: And, what of it?

Marco: I don't think you're supposed to pump his stomach like that. He's beaten up, not choking.

Whitebeard: -pause- Well met. That means his heart has stopped. Stand back then. –Begins pounding Ace's chest- LIVE DAMMIT, LIVE!

Marco: Um... Sir. You're not a doctor either. You look like you're doing more harm than good.

Whitebeard: Look, just shut up and haul his ass into the car, all right? -Long pause and they both stare at each other-

Marco: ... Oh my God. You're not even British.

~*~ Omake ~*~