Second Bittersweet ~ Marco

"An assassination attempt on business tycoon, Edward Newgate, was foiled last night amidst the opening of the new Buster Call Satellite—a new company under the elite Whitebeard Corporations. According to officials of the Whitebeard Security Staff, the attempt occurred at around eleven p.m. when an unknown hit man took aim on Newgate as he was delivering his address to the crowd assembled. His son, Portgas D. Ace miraculously managed to bring him off target just as the hit man pulled the trigger.

"Members of Newgate's personal bodyguards were alerted immediately and were able to usher him to safety. As chaos ensued, security chased after the assailant as he escaped towards the Impel Down district. There were, fortunately, no reports of injuries among the civilians present. Authorities pursued and eventually neutralized the culprit after giving chase. Identity of the shooter has yet to be revealed, but the authorities say that he holds no citizenship in the country. In other related news—" Good, Ace wasn't mentioned.

I shut off the television as I heard the door crack open. The Boss came in for his usual check-up on Ace. I acknowledged him with a bow.

"How's the boy, Marco?" He asked promptly. It's only been half a day since that event, and he managed to dodge streams of interviews to visit his son—as expected of him.

I straightened up then looked at Ace who remained still on the hospital bed. An IV was connected to him and the heart monitor beeped slowly in rhythm. "He needs to stay here for at least two more weeks. They had him undergo treatment in the E.R. under Doctor Trafalgar and his team. He's fine now, but we're advised not to engage him in strenuous activities, sir."

"Ah, good, and the confidentiality forms? Have they been signed?" he asked, taking a seat on a nearby corner.

"Already signed, sir." I handed him the papers which he meticulously read through before nodding in approval. He placed this down and stared at Ace for a long time, silent and buried under his own thoughts. I remained still, viewing Ace myself. Did it hurt the Boss to see him like this?

Honestly, it was a miracle that Ace survived. Injuries like those could kill a person just before he or she could even reach the E.R on time. At a critical condition, he was reported to have sustained minor head trauma, three fractures on his ribs, a broken arm, a stab near the kidney, another stab that could have paralyzed his shoulder nerves, massive internal bleeding, and some other minor would and bruises. I was there, outside the E.R. when Doctor Trafalgar gave me the briefing.

When he told me that Ace was fine already, I began to think and then asked myself if I was frightened when I saw Ace in that state. I pondered about it some more until I realized that perhaps I did. I'd always forget that part of Ace that made him different from the majority. Ace knew how to handle the pain ever since he was a child. Added to that extra endurance, I'd forget that immeasurable will, the will to live, especially for that one person he committed his life to. I knew all of those.

The Boss got up from his seat now. Was it because he had to attend to another meeting or was this too painful for him? "I'll be off now. Marco, I trust that you will watch over Ace."

I nodded. "Yes, sir," I answered. This wasn't the first time I had to keep an eye on him, after all.

"Good, good." The Boss turned to the door, and I stood by his side to open it for him. He noted this gesture and looked at me. "It's been a long time, but you've been of good service to me and my son. Thank you, Marco." He sighed before taking his leave, and I nodded again before closing the door.

I took my seat and contemplated on what was said. Which son was he referring to in particular? Then, as I delved deeper, another question was raised. Thoughts and events from long ago, a past I lived through and reflections made me ask myself another question—When was the last time I called him "Uncle Edward?"

I wasn't born to become a butler. There was a time when I thought I'd have to take up Father's line of business—weapon dealing. Still, even if that was what I had to become, I had my own dreams.

Impel Down was my home before, and if you could compare back then and now, you'd prefer living during the later period. The crime rate was higher during those days, and criminal acts were much crueler. At least seven fights would break out among gangs each day. The amount of bloodshed could paint the entire Grand Line—and all those were spilled, even in broad day light. There was vandalism, theft, child abuse, prostitution, human trafficking, and acts of rape towards women—sometimes, even men. In our environment, this was part of the norm, and it became so common that no one would even bother helping you if you were to be a victim. People were too afraid—or too apathetic.

It wasn't that bad of a life, I suppose. I learned what it meant to be independent—to fend for myself under the harshest conditions. Frequent street fights at a young age taught me to defense in physical combat. Father dealt with firearms, and because I had to help him out in the shop, I learned and understood the mechanics.

He was the one who taught me what I knew about guns. I knew which gun was the most efficient for a kill, I knew a good bullet from a bad one, whether this semi-automatic was better than this automatic one, which gun to use on a particular situation, whether this bullet can pierce through your body or not, the types of guns and the parts included—everything about guns, including actually shooting from any range.

Father earned a lot from his business, but the necessities of life charged us a lot. Other than the bills, the groceries and the rent, Father had to take Mother's failing health into account. He'd pay for the medicine and treatment monthly—just so she could live. A surgery could be done, but it'd cost arms and legs, so Father would gradually store money just for that. He would have gotten the money instantly, if he wasn't such an honest man.

Another thing was my education. My father wasn't like other fathers from that district. He cared for my well-being—on who I could become—and placed all his dreams and hopes in me when he saw my potential. He enrolled me in Mugiwara High since kindergarten, and with some financial aid to support me, I studied and graduated grade school a few years later. I started kindergarten at five. I ended grade school at age eleven.

Academic wise, I had no problems. It was just the people. In school, I never really had friends. For me, they come and go—or it's just that they wouldn't come at all. Who'd want to befriend a dirty brat from the slums? Perhaps, that was the cruelty of school children. Over the years, I closed my heart to everyone and became a loner, but then he came, and my life made a complete revolution.

It was spring, the weekend before my first year in high school would begin. That day, I was helping Father with the shop, polishing a few guns and lifting a few small boxes to the storage room. It would have been any normal day in spring—with the sky so blue, a fine and cool weather and the flower buds were beginning to blossom from lush green plants—if two unexpected customers hadn't entered.

The man who entered was Edward Newgate—the same figure who was the center of discussions on the news channels for his wealth, his business and his political affairs. I never thought he'd enter our shop, let alone meet him in person. He approached my father, asking for a subscription to his inventory and settling the prices. He claimed that he and his friends were engaged in shooting practice for a good sport. I left them alone to do their business.

The other one who entered the shop was his son. He had brilliantly pale, blonde hair, dark hazel eyes and a sharp chin similar to his dad's. He must have been bored to have ended up approaching me while I was busying myself with work.

"Haha, you've got a funny accent! I like it. You got a name, kid? Charmed to meet you." He offered his hand after commenting over my once Canadian accent. I found this strange and very new, so with some hesitation, I took this chance to get along with him. He was nice enough. That was the moment I met Thatch Newgate.

Thatch was the only son of Edward Newgate, so like me, he had no siblings to share his laughs with. His mother, however, died from breast cancer, and his father lived alone with him ever since. Despite those, he had a cheerful and open disposition, always reaching out to anyone. It turned out that we were both entering high school together in Mugiwara High, and in fact, we ended up as classmates.

Our friendship grew over the course of our high school days. Thatch taught me how to open up to others—a skill that I lost years before. We eventually became best friends. Both our parents liked the other's company which was a relief for me because I thought the Boss—Uncle Edward back then—wouldn't approve of my social status. He didn't mind—especially since I wasn't a bad influence to Thatch, and I wouldn't abuse my friend and his wealth.

Thatch and I knew each other's dreams. Thatch wanted to follow Uncle Edward's footsteps and become the future owner of the recently new Whitebeard Corporations. I wanted to graduate high school and earn a scholarship, so I could study abroad and learn more from there. We both wanted to make something of ourselves, and so we worked for them. Thatch was even supporting me.

"You can be anything, Mark," Thatch said one time while we hung out at the school rooftop, drinking a can of soda. "You're the smartest guy I know. I think Dad'll have a fit when he finds out that you reached the top before I could."

"Don't say it like that, buddy," I said while taking a sip from my own can.

He almost choked on his soda. "Haha, your accent still cracks me up. Give me a call everyday when you study abroad. If we're sent to the same university, let's be dorm mates." He grinned.

Back then, I really had hope for our dreams to come true. The day of our graduation drew closer, and as we were about to reach the milestone of our lives, the path took a miserable, sharp turn.

It happened thirteen years ago. That day, Grand Line City was almost wiped off its map. The state's Ambassador-at-Large, Don Krieg, rebelled against the government and was revealed to be the head of a large international mafia organization. While performing an attempt to seize all of Japan as his new territory, he was engaged in a family war against Edward Newgate. That was the day I also realized what family the Newgates were—they were a family of mafia.

When I studied Japanese history, I had to learn about World War II and how the two Japanese cities, Hiroshima and Nagasaki, were bombed. History seemed to repeat itself thirteen years ago, and unlike the accounts I read about the war, there was only one major difference—I was a part of it. Explosions blew in each corner of the city, mafia agents roaming and shooting each other in every sidewalk, police cars were dispatched at all areas to neutralize Krieg and there was murder everywhere.

I lost the people I loved. Mother and Father were both murdered when the shop was raided, and on that day, he died as well.

"Thatch!" I ran towards his car which was smashed against the warehouse front. He was there, choking on blood that seeped from his lips. His body was crushed against car metal and glass tore his skin open. He was losing so much blood—especially from that bullet wound near his heart.

It was just the two of us at that time. Uncle Edward was fighting his own battle elsewhere. Thatch, spotting his father's former friend on the run, intended to bring him to justice himself. Since I was with him, and because I realized that the Newgates were British blood mafia, I was caught in the middle of all the conflict. I was clueless, only knowing that I was in a car driven by my mafia best friend, and we were in Don Krieg's pursuit.

They were speeding ahead of us, and some bodyguards of Krieg's fired their bullets at the two of us. Thatch handled the steering while he made me handle the shooting. With three shots, I disarmed one man from his gun, but he came back with another. They were professionals, knowing this type of situation like the back of their hands. My shooting wouldn't match theirs.

Thatch and I were getting closer to their escape vehicle, but we were caught by surprise. All of a sudden, one bullet was shot from Krieg himself, and Thatch received this right before my eyes.

No one else was there to stop Krieg as he got away. No one else was there to see Thatch perform his final act of selflessness when he threw me off the car just as we were both about to crash. No one else was there to hear Thatch's last words nor watch him release his final breath.

He was panting hard, clinging to life itself. "I ne-never saw—Dad—like-like that—when M-Mom died." I didn't say anything, carefully trying to slide him off from the tight car space. He continued, coughing out blood when he intended to laugh, "Mar-co—You-You've bee—a good f-friend. Do-Do me a-a fa—vor—will you?" I didn't want to respond. I didn't know how to. For me, I thought that if I said "yes," it was like me giving up on whatever chances Thatch had left. It was like I was signing his death certificate, his blood as the ink for my supposed oath.

Thatch was my best friend, and he knew me well. Maybe that's why he didn't stop. He knew I'd say yes. "Ple—ase, t-take care o-of Da—Dad, will y-you?" he coughed out blood, and from me, he turned his gaze towards the grey clouds above, "He-He's go-going to be—alone—after th-this—" His eyes were closing, and he smiled with blood rolling down from the corner of his lips. "Th-Thanks, bud-buddy—Ma-Marco." The rain fell and Thatch died.

In the aftermath of all of this, Krieg was reported dead when his car supposedly flew off the bridge while he was on his way to his private flight. Police officials found the vehicle and some of his men, but the strong tides must have drifted his body away. I didn't believe that, though. I knew he was alive—somewhere out there.

Uncle Edward could have gotten arrested. Discovered to be a mafia himself, he was stripped off his government seat and was to be placed under monitor for the rest of his life in Japan. Nothing more extreme was penalized on him since he lent his assistance in the struggle and because Whitebeard Corporations was an asset to economy. No one from the public knew who he really was. They were just told that the mafia members involved were divided factions of Krieg's.

My best friend saved me, but I couldn't do anything for him. I was in his debt. I wanted to honor his request—my promise to him. After I buried my parents, I went to Uncle Edward and told him of his son's request. He accepted this and took me in. If you placed it technically, I was adopted.

I applied myself immediately as a servant in Uncle Edward's manor. Fifteen year olds weren't actually given anything else but part-time jobs, and that salary wouldn't cover up for my last quarter of my high school tuition. He didn't mind this, and he actually paid for my last quarter, but I continued to work for him. I had to keep my promise of looking after him in one way or another. Added to that, I wouldn't consider myself his son. Thatch was his son, and I had no intention of changing that.

After graduating high school, life took another turn over the next two years. I became head butler, and along with a selected few servants, I was given a special regard. This wasn't just because I was his son's best friend, but because I did my duties well. Still, no matter how many flower beds I'd tend to, no matter how much furniture I'd polish or how many miles I'd drive for my employer, I felt that it wasn't enough. That's why sometime during the course of those years, I joined the Newgate family which was still in operation even under tight surveillance.

At first, Uncle Edward was uncertain about it, but he was convinced when I proved my shooting abilities and my melee skill, but most of all, he was persuaded with what I had to offer. I still possessed records of my father's acquaintances and correspondents for firearms. This made me serve my purpose as the Newgate family's private firearms dealer.

Time continued to pass. Somehow, and I didn't realize it at first, the British air drew me in. I lost my Canadian accent—the accent that Thatch was always so fond of—and through some coaxing from Uncle Edward who wished I could speak more properly at times, I developed a British tongue. I hardly felt like the half-Canadian I was born as since my father was Canadian and my mother was British. Being "adopted" by Edward himself sometimes made me consider myself a full British.

A promise between two best friends was something to be regarded with your life. That was something Thatch taught me. If you break that promise, then you have no right to consider yourself a friend. I wanted to hold true to that ideal and his memory. No one could fill in his place, even when I got over his death. Of course, his father was recuperating himself—at least, I thought he was.

On a stormy night, at Impel Down, he was found.

He was abused, raped and inches away from certain death. Uncle Edward, the moment he saw him, took pity on that child—for reasons I'm slightly sure of—and nursed him back to health. I felt that he did the right thing—saving him from his demise, but I was wrong. That boy, Ace, was adopted as Edward Newgate's new son and successor.

Do you know how it feels to have the memory of someone you cared for brushed aside? Do you know how it feels to be replaced? If Thatch didn't have any room for contempt, I did. I was there to see it all.

I was there to dress Ace in Thatch's old clothes, feed him with Thatch's food, tend to him each and every night in Thatch's bed—serve him as he lived Thatch's life. I was there to reluctantly store each proof of Thatch's existence in boxes and shelves, kept away in a place that only I would remember. All those memoirs and pictures of him were replaced by that orphan brat from the street, and just like that time, I couldn't do anything about it.

That could probably answer my question now. The day he threw away Thatch from his heart was the day I threw him off mine. I never felt that much hate in my life.

First of all, I couldn't believe how shallow minded he was to even block his real son's memory with an adopted one's. For a moment, I even felt some slight pity for Ace behind all my resent. He had no clue on what he really was—a mean, a tool for self-satisfaction. I cut off all those fond ties I had with Edward Newgate. He was a boss, but by no means was he a father.

They say that rage consumes the soul, feeding on it and leaving out the bits and pieces that makes a soul rot. Every human was capable of rage, and I was no exception.

Even until now, Ace never knew that I almost killed him.

For a period of two years, Ace was under psychological trauma. He still thought that he lived under the influence of his former home. Talking was an arduous task for him. He'd force himself to do housework. He was afraid of new faces, and if he felt—in any way—under threat, he'd cover his body with a blanket. Sometimes, he'd sit in front of his bedroom window, watching the clouds drift in the sky from dawn until dusk. Only a few servants were permitted to see and tend to him.

To my dismay, I was given the task as his personal caretaker for most duties.

My rage almost consumed me just by watching him sleep so comfortably. Every single night, I'd have to provide him an air of security and watch over him until he completely fell asleep. Looking at him every time made me turn into something I thought I'd never become. I wanted to throw him off that bed and make him sleep on a corner where he deserved to be in. I wanted to rip those stolen clothes off and make him shiver from the terrible cold with rags on. I wanted to kick his stomach, so he could cough out all those good meals he ate because those weren't meant for him. He could feed on the rats for all I cared.

Really, if I could only turn back time, I wouldn't have made that mistake of passing through the route, so I wouldn't have to deal with all of this. He'd just die as it was meant to be. Of course, I couldn't reverse time, but I could erase the problem then and there.

As he slept, I had my gun pulled out. Ace slept soundly, curled in a ball and hugging his pillow tight under warm blankets. I had it all imagined. The sound of a trigger from this silencer, crimson sheets under the moonlight, a scream from that brat which I'd never hear—all can be done with just one pull, but the plan never pushed through. I stopped myself the moment I heard footsteps approaching.

"Marco, good evening," the Boss entered the room, "Is Ace asleep already?" He came to check on him, and luckily, he didn't see the gun.

I didn't aim for a second attempt after that. Morality and sense returned to me a little while after. So, what if I killed him? What would be my next move? Knowing the Boss, he wouldn't take Ace's death lightly, and that meant me having to face him—kill him, perhaps. Thatch wouldn't want that, so for two more years, I tempered myself and bit back all the anger. It eventually became silent—a sleeping demon under the very depths of my soul.

In the entire mansion, there was only one proof of Thatch's existence that actually remained—his portrait. The Boss must have forgotten about it since it was displayed in a hall that no one really passed through. I happened to discover it by chance, and since then, I would polish its frame, condition it and prevent any cracks on the paint and wood as well as hanging in awkward angles. It was a task that became a habit, and each morning, I would wake up early to pay Thatch tribute.

Even now, I'd still do that, and no one would see me—except for Ace.

"Marco, who's that?" Ace, at eight years old, asked me once. He woke up early on that particular morning and thought of exploring, somehow finding his way here. I polished the frame, not looking at him. It was something I trained myself to do whenever that brat was concerned.

"Dad won't tell me anything about him," he added. I twitched at this for several reasons. One was because he called him "Dad." Another was because the Boss wouldn't even talk about him. I also realized that this wasn't the first time he laid eyes on the portrait.

I continued my chore, and he waited there patiently for an answer. I ended up placing down the cloth I held, beating off the dust before answering. "Someone you'll never be."

"Someone I'll never be?" he repeated with question, "What's he like?" This time, I looked at him, seeing eyes of curiosity and wonder.

I didn't know what else to do or say, but I ended up telling him different things. I told him of Thatch, about who he was and how he was—as a friend and even as a brother. I told him of our times together—the good and the bad, from the day we met to the day he died, but without the tragedy that revolved around his death. Ace only found that out later. I even told him of what I missed about Thatch—his laughs, his happy-go-lucky attitude, his sense of humor, his teases, our friendship, everything. While I did, he sat on his chair, focused on listening without interruption.

Finally, I stopped, and there was a moment of silence. That was when I felt a sting of pain when I talked about him—and I realized that, perhaps, I didn't completely move forward. Just as I was about to resume working, he spoke, "You're right. I'll never be like him."

I paused, looking at him again, but he was already asleep on his armchair due to narcolepsy. I continued to stare at him, and for the first time in my life, I did so without spite.

I didn't know why it took only a few words for me to change views. Was it a child's sincerity or was it because he admitted the words that I wanted to hear—that he could never take Thatch's place? Whether it was one or the other, I learned to open up to him, and then I realized things that I was previously blind to.

Weren't we both raised in Impel Down? Weren't we both orphans? Weren't we both adopted by the same man under the same roof? Both of us were victims of tragedy, and I had no real reason to loathe him. My anger was further appeased, and from that day forward, I learned to accept Ace.

Eleven years had gone fast. I grew up and lived in this mansion almost half of my life, and I even watched Ace grow up to become who he was now. All these years, I tended to him, cared for him, and in him, I found a little brother.

Of course, there was a difference in simply finding someone new and in replacing someone. I was different than the Boss. Even until this very day, I will never forget Thatch—who he was and what he did for me. I learned to be tolerant to the Boss and his judgment which wasn't always wrong. I still resented him, but he still had some of my respect. He was just someone that I refused to become because I knew for fact that Ace wasn't a replacement.

Ace was my friend.

"Tom Family report 0254—dated on April 18, 2009. Subject Don Krieg, under surveillance for a duration of one week, has been speaking through phone using selected terms such as "fishing" and "ring." The analysts have finally uncovered a hidden message. Withdrawal of Edward Newgate from the upcoming inauguration ceremony sent," I cited Iceburg's report to Ace who was finally awake with a throbbing headache.

It's been three days since that ordeal. As we waited for the nurse to return with a pain killer, I briefed him on Iceburg's analyses—under Ace's request.

I shuffled the papers, narrating the next. "Tom family report 0255—dated on the same day. Subject Don Krieg must have known that the analysts have been tapping through Krieg family communications. Tom Family phone lines have suddenly been breached and outside contact was disabled during the hour of climax. Agents have been dispatched. Edward Newgate is in grave danger.

"Tom Family report 0256—Portgas D. Ace has neutralized the Krieg family agent "V." Grave injuries have been found upon discovery. To be rushed to the hospital. Edward Newgate remains safe and guards are to be dispatched for the Newgate Family's protection."

Ace stared at the ceiling, eyes fixed on its solid white color. He waited for a moment, in thought and in pain before speaking. "What about Dad? How's he handling this?"

I placed the papers on the side desk and sat down by his side. "You ignored orders, didn't you? He's very shocked at you actions, and at the same time, anxious."

He shifted slightly on his spot. "He's anxious over anything—especially with me. He doesn't trust me at all, does he?" he groaned at this, looking at me, "Marco, you know him more. Why's he always like that?"

Years of knowing the Boss led me to believe in one conclusion—one justification as to why he'd act that way—so I told Ace that one answer I'd give him whenever he'd ask me these things.

From the day Ace was a part of the family until this very moment, this is what I knew. "Because you're his successor," I said.

Ace didn't have to ask what I meant. He already knew.

~*~ Omake ~*~

Whitebeard: I hope you ready to take up responsibilities, boy.

Marco: My father was the hardest working man I knew.

Whitebeard: You will be asked to not only take up responsibilities at home and in the offices but also under-the-table activities.

Marco: I'm prepared.

Whitebeard: You will also need to deal with some very unstable people. Borderline psychopaths, apathetic killers and delusional convicts among others—the worst of the worst. If your resolve isn't strong, they will break you in so little words.

Marco: With all due respect, sir, my father was a weapons expert and dealer. He dealt with the same kinds of people everyday. So, believe me when I say that nothing can surprise me, and that I have seen the most delusional people in my life. There's no way that I will encounter any more delusional people than the ones I've seen when I was with my father. –gets tapped on the shoulder- …?

Voice: You must be new here, too. I'm Juzo!