If Ace is Irish or Scottish, Marco is a mix of Portuguese and English and Thatch is a mix of Swiss and French. Don't ask me where this shit comes from. It just does. Although I feel like Thatch would have a little Portuguese in him, too.

Day 27

Ace woke up to forts in the mess hall. Forts. Full-blown mother-fucking forts. Still not quite cognizant, he just stared at them awhile before understanding what the hell they were, and even so, the realisation raised a good many more questions than it answered.

He had promised himself a while ago that he was not going to get mixed up in the crew's craziness, and that he would avoid as much contact with them as was possible under the conditions. The only people he spoke to with any frequency were Marco and Thatch, and even then, most of the exchanges were short and prompted only by dire necessity. Was it worth asking? Did this count as dire necessity? People were moving about the deck, doing simple chores as usual, but there was something else, some underlying force that freaked the hell out of Ace. In all his time aboard the Moby Dick, he had been impressed (though you'd have to kill him to get him to admit it) by how close the crew clearly was. They called each other brother and sister and seemed perfectly amiable. Even the occasional conflict and fight was quickly sorted out. They were supportive and embracing of their own. But now….

Ace saw armbands on every single person that scuttled by. Red, blue, and yellow. Each colour would clap those of the matching colour on the back, tossing smiles their way, but when those of differing colours met, there were heated glares or noses in the air, or tiny sniffs of disdain and stiffened spines. Each seemed to lay claim to their particular fort within the mess hall, separated by walls constructed of chairs, barrels, blankets, and whatever else had been lying around. One table had been tipped on its side as a deterrent for trespassers. Yeah. He'd say this probably qualified as dire necessity. He was going to have to ask someone just what the fuck was going on today.

Ace had never been more grateful to see the First Division Commander in his life. He and Thatch were eating breakfast on the deck instead of in the mess hall, and Ace couldn't see any discernible armbands.

He took a deep breath, approaching them. "Hey, er, I know it might not be my place to ask this, but-"

"What the hell is going on?" Marco supplied. Ace nodded. Marco scratched an ear, exchanging glances with the chef sitting on the barrel next to him. "What do you know about psychology and what the experts might term the Horse's Mouth Fallacy?"

"Er… Haven't the slightest."

"Thing is, when we speak in metaphors or whatever, even if it's a complete untruth, we start to believe it ourselves. Say something out loud yourself, and it suddenly becomes something closer to the truth in your own mind. It's like brainwashing yourself."

"What's that got to do with anything?" Ace asked crossly.

Marco sighed again. "Everything. Everybody on this ship calls themselves Oyaji's children. So, naturally, everybody thinks they have a carte blanche to act like children. Every few months, the sleeping halls gang up on each other over some stupid debate as to which is better." The Moby Dick was a large ship, so there were multiple, spread-out rooms in which the crew split up to sleep on varying levels so that no matter what time of night it might be, any problem would be easy to reach. That way, even if something happened to one of the sleeping areas, the two-thirds of the crew that remained unaffected could come to the rescue of the other third. That, and there simply was not any single room that could house every crew member for the night, excluding the Commanders, who each had separate cabins on the second deck. "Everybody has to pick a side. Except me. I've got subordinates in all three sleeping halls, so I can't possibly pick a side, not that I want to. Childish bunk, the lot of it." He piled about five slices of bacon from his plate onto a slice of bread and bit in, stuffing in some brown-sugar ham at the last minute, almost as an afterthought.

"I don't pick a side, either. You can't make me," said Thatch, shaking his head violently. "Never."

Ace shot Thatch a questioning look, but after getting only a fearful silence in response, he turned to Marco.

"Thatch is the oldest of nine siblings. He's not the world's biggest fan of disputes like this."

"Me, Thairlyn, Theresa, Trafalgar, Tremaine, Tia, Thalia, Thames, and Catarina."

"Catarina?"

"She was from a previous marriage," Thatch muttered. "You ever lived in a dorm?" he asked suddenly.

"Er… No," Ace said.

"I did. Me 'n' Thairlyn. Went to cooking school together. So… much… hatred. In one little place. Rivalry tears you apart," he whispered. "Don't give in to it! Don't accept that 3rd floor is retarded, that 4th floor is full of jocks, or that 5th floor is full of snobbish super-nerds just because your hallmates on the 2nd floor tell you so! It isn't true! Stop the haaaaaaate…" he murmured, then sank into his mug.

"He's a little hungover from last night. Also, I imagine there's something about Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder in there, somewhere," Marco said.

"Right…" Ace said.

"But there you have it," Marco said. "Insanity at its finest. Humans are inclined towards competition, and if there's no-one around to compete with besides your friends… Well, you ought to know how that goes. I expect it to come to a head soon. If a massive fight or competition or something breaks out, a little professional advice? Get out of their way. Run like hell. There's nothing else for it. I like to leave them to their own devices so that they manage to do something really quite extraordinarily stupid – it acts as a good deterrent for the next time they think all this might be a good idea. Thatch just doesn't want to be forced to judge anything or pick sides. He was the oldest, with two brothers and six sisters, so you can just imagine what a hell it must have been to judge any disputes amongst them."

"Ohhhhh," Thatch moaned, lost in memories. "Thames kept taking Tia's things without telling her… Catarina and Theresa would gang up on poor Trafalgar and take his snacks when he wasn't looking… Tremaine thought they were all a bunch of idiots and yelled at everyone… And then they'd get mad at me whenever I made a definitive decision! They yelled at me for picking sides! Thalia's voice is so damn shrill… Just like her mother. God help us all…" Thatch mumbled, still from within his mug, his voice hollow and dead. "Hey, can we not talk about this? Ever again, please?"

Ace took that as his cue to leave. The whole crew really was fucking crazy. Marco seemed sensible, but he had to be just as mad as they were just for being willing to put up with the lot of them.

Day 28

It was the next day that everything did indeed come to a head, as Marco had predicted. At breakfast, things had been very tense, each group in their separate fort, but it hadn't been until lunch that people finally had had enough and just decided to bugger it all and begin a fight the likes of which the world had never seen.

A food fight, to be exact.

Ace had grabbed a sandwich, two carrots, and a ladle full of mashed potatoes all but drowned in gravy (he still didn't feel comfortable taking too much food, but this, a small, manageable amount was the absolute minimum he could bring himself to eat come mealtimes) and was heading back to the stairs to get to the deck where it wouldn't be quite to oppressive an atmosphere when it broke out. He had just turned to leave when the pork chop came sailing towards his face.

All he had time to say was, "Awww, HELL no."

He dodged the pork chop, but Simcoe, who'd been behind him in line, wasn't quite so lucky. Poor Phil seemed to be having a coronary, watching the food from his kitchens be put to such a use.

Ace covered his own food with his body, crouching. He dove under the first table he could find, then quickly tipped it over to provide rudimentary cover from enemy fire.

"Quick! Ace!" hissed a voice from over to his right. He leaned over to see Haruta hidden behind the boundaries of the fort for the Blue side of the war. He took a leap of faith (more like a lunge, really) and threw himself in that direction. She yanked him to safety just as a rain of ketchup splattered the ground where he'd been hiding.

"What were you doing out there in No Man's Land? Do you want to die?"

Ace gave her the 'You're Fucking Crazy' face. "I just wanted to eat. I'm not even fucking involved."

"Well, you are now, big guy. Congratulations. Now pick your targets and fire at will," Haruta said, scurrying away to command her 'troops'. Ace just stared at nothing (well, more like staring at the puddle of sake that was dripping from a tabletop) and wondered what the hell he'd done to land himself in the middle of all of this. He figured he must have pissed off someone very important upstairs. Then, a member of the Red Team tried to invade with broccoli. Ace smushed mashed potatoes in the man's face and promptly decided he no longer cared what was sane.

Ace had pudding in his hair, some soup all over one shoulder, and three ice cubes had at one point been shoved down his pants by an unknown adversary. All in all, not bad. Haruta had awarded him an honorary Blue Team armband, even though he wasn't technically in their sleeping hall (or even their crew). All the madness had ended and the Team Captains had shook sticky hands and agreed to help clean up in the face of Whitebeard's angered growls. He'd never gotten to wear the armband officially, but he still tucked it away in his things, smiling softly to himself all the while.

He'd never gotten into such a massive food fight before. It was fun as hell. It didn't matter if you were soaked head to foot in condiments; you would find yourself laughing and having a marvellous time. It was also wonderful to be part of a team, even as unofficial and ridiculous as that team might have been. He'd missed being a part of something bigger. He used to be Captain of the Spade Pirates, but now… Ace had been wondering just what his team, if it could be called that, was. He used to think he knew, but now there were new questions.

Who was on his side?

Who was on his team?

Although maybe… Maybe that was something to consider later, after he'd gotten the congealing pudding out of his hair.

(A/N): Good God, I remember this shit. Food fights in high school. Best ever. YOU HUNKERED DOWN LIKE A WWI SOLDIER IN THE TRENCHES, DAMN IT. And ten minutes later, you would pretend like nothing happened. So much fun.

I feel bad for Thatch. Seven of his siblings are more than ten years younger than him. Had to suck. And poor Catarina. She will never fit in.

EDIT: HOSHIT I DIDN'T MEAN FOR TRAFALGAR TO BE TRAFALGAR LAW. Goodness gracious. Shiary pointed it out and I about had an epileptic fit. They are most definitely NOT the same person. Thatch is not related to Law in any way, shape, or form. They don't look a thing alike, and even I can't make a leap that big.