It's You!

"Caught anything yet?"

On the northern end of the island, waves lapped against the shore of a tiny cove, leaving behind small shards of driftwood and other bits and bobs on the sand, wind whispered through the tall grass, as if beckoning for others to listen, and rocks stood as barriers to the outside world, barring access to prying eyes. To a passerby, the beach wouldn't even be visible. But, under closer inspection, one could see a natural path formed in the rocks, leading to the small inlet. And with noon just around the corner, that small piece of nature was left in a picturesque light, no shadow left to mar the scene. It was probably one of the most serene locations on the island and it made a perfect fishing spot for those who knew where to look. And, currently, the people who knew where to look were an old man and his granddaughter.

Digging her feet into the sand, the granddaughter knew that there was no point in answering the question. They were sitting only about a meter apart, so they would know whether or not the other caught something.

But, in an attempt to alleviate her boredom, she responded, "Nope… nothing at all."

The grandfather leaned back, using his arms to prop himself up in a slouched position. Sighing, he cast his gaze across the blue expanse that made up the West Blue that stood before them. He reminisced on simpler times when he was once free to travel the world to his liking and see sights that any man would dream to see.

But those times came to an end with the coming of the war.

Decades of his life were taken in the form of enlistment to the Marines and their efforts to quell the storm. During his time in the Navy, he felt little satisfaction in what he did, fearing his efforts were going to waste. He was only released from service when he had grown too old to serve, and upon returning to civilian life, he realized his biggest fear had been true. Now he was stuck on that island, forced to stay even if he did feel like sailing again, his life made stagnant by a war that shouldn't have happened. He cursed under his breath for perhaps the thousandth time over the course of five decades those that had dragged him into it…

Following her grandfather's gaze, the girl stared out at the sea as well, wondering what it was like to explore it. She'd been told horror stories of what it was like to live out on the sea: Sea Kings, pirates, disease, storms, starvation. She'd heard it all. But something about the mystery of what could happen and possibility of adventure seemed to draw her in. Internally, she shook her head. Like something like that will ever happen, she thought. She returned her sight to the sea, the big 'What if?' still hanging in her mind.

But as she gazed, she noticed something to the Northeast of them sitting on the horizon. At first, she thought it was a trick of the light or something, so she blinked a few times and rubbed at her eyes, expecting it to go away. It was still there. Curious now, she shifted position to get a better look, scooting a little to the left in the sand and craning her neck. From there, she was able to watch as the object slowly drifted into clearer view, allowing her to discern what it actually was.

A rowboat.

Shocked, the granddaughter sprang to her feet, startling her grandfather out of his own thoughts. A quick word between the two let the old man know what was happening. Brushing sand off his clothes, the old man lurched to his feet, leaning against his fishing rod and squinting his eyes to try and see. As the boat drifted closer and closer, the two realized that the current would bring the boat in in only a matter of minutes. Judging the angle of the boat's prow, the granddaughter estimated where the boat would land and sprinted off to go meet it, her grandfather stumbling to keep up behind her.

Dashing through the tall grass that covered the northern shore of the island, the granddaughter felt pain shoot across her every time one of the numerous switches whipped her body. But still, she kept her pace until finally she reached where she had assumed the boat would land. Doubling over, the girl gasped for air, her lungs and throat burning. Soon after, the old man caught up to her, wheezing with every step. Standing by her side, the old man basically collapsed to sit on the sand, his broad shoulders rising and falling with every raspy breath. The granddaughter soon followed suit.

For about a minute, the only thing the two could see was sand. The run had taken a lot out of them and now they barely had enough energy to even see where the boat was. Panting to the ground, the girl wondered why she was even so excited for it in the first place. There would basically be no point in sailing away in it, they had no provisions at the ready. Also, she sure as hell couldn't leave her brother behind in a place like-

Scrunch.

Train of thought broken, granddaughter and grandfather alike looked up as the rowboat grated into the shore. Exchanging a look, the two scrambled to a standing position, the same curiosity burning inside them. The two began creeping towards the boat, slowly moving in anticipation at what could be inside. Treasure was the girl's first thought, but it quickly turned to a more practical vision of dried provisions; the old man thought worse. Methodically, the two finally reached the side of the boat, letting out a collective gasp at what was inside.

It was a man.

Actually, a better description would be a young man. He only appeared to be about a year older than the granddaughter, who was seventeen at the time. Their attention was then immediately drawn to his hair. A mess of slightly dirty blond hair sat on his head, although it appeared multiple attempts had been made at shaping it into a pompadour of some kind. But while blonde hair was slightly uncommon in the West Blue, it wasn't the strangest thing about him. In fact, the strangest thing about him was what surrounded him: it appeared as if he had little to no provisions anywhere in his boat, save a near-empty water skin. The only thing that could even be considered food of any kind was the seagull that had begun making a nest in the prow of the boat.

In short, he looked like a homeless bum, and the salt-stained clothes didn't do him any favors. The only thing that looked to be of any value in the boat was a pistol holstered at his side, and while everything about the young man appeared to be dulled and worn down, what little metal that could be seen showed no signs of rust and appeared to be shined regularly.

Curiosity finally getting the better of her, the granddaughter slowly leaned into the boat despite the grandfather's quiet warnings. Taking a good look at his face, the granddaughter thought he looked familiar, but she couldn't place where she'd seen him before. Resigning to figure out the mystery man's identity later, she decided that the best course of action was to figure out if he was still alive. And to do that, she poked him sharply in the forehead.

"Hey, are you still alive? Mystery sea man?"

Ignoring her grandfather's silent panic behind her, the granddaughter continued poking the young man until he finally began to stir. But as he did, the seagull that had been contentedly napping in its nest awoke, disturbed from its slumber by the granddaughter's rocking of the boat, and began screaming directly into her ear. Shocked, the girl tumbled from the boat's gunwale and back onto the sand, ears slightly ringing. In the boat, the young man was just as startled as the granddaughter, coming immediately to a sitting position and quickly glanced from left to right, looking for some kind of attack. To the grandfather's relief, he didn't immediately go for his pistol.

Finally sure that no attack was coming, the young man relaxed his shoulders, taking a deep breath as he absentmindedly raised a hand in an attempt to tame his hair. Now that he was calm again, he turned a glaring eye to the seagull which had resumed its napping, as if nothing had happened. He muttered under his breath, "'Knew I shouldn't have given you those sardines."

The granddaughter and the old man gave each other a glance, as if hoping the other would know how to proceed. Unfortunately, the young man in the boat began to carry the conversation.

"Honestly this is probably the saddest greeting party I've ever met," he said as he hopped out of the boat, "I mean, I thought tourists were greeted with women in maid outfits in the West Blue. Or was that the East Blue? I can't remember. Either way, all I'm greeted by is an old man and his… I assume granddaughter? 'Lady Friend' would probably work, too, but you know what they say about assuming…"

At this point, the pair had gone from being dumbfounded by the man's words to being angered and insulted. The two thought closely along the lines of, Who does this punk think he is, although the granddaughter had quite a bit more profanity in her train of thought.

Stepping forward, she was about to let the tirade going through her mind come out of her mouth, but before she could get a word out, the young man interrupted again. "Anyway, I'm just gonna head into town and see what's up. Maybe get a new boat since this one," he kicked the boat, splinters raining down from its side, "isn't cutting it anymore."

Once again, the two were left too stunned to speak, no word coming from either of them as they watched the stranger begin to march through the tall grass and towards their home town. The chain of emotions they had been left with from just him talking to them had been a roller coaster ride from start to finish, leaving them with the uncertainty of what to feel. The two shared another glance between themselves, hoping that the other had the answer, but none could be found in either's gaze. Turning their attention back to the newcomer, they were slightly surprised at the distance he had covered despite only being at a walking pace.

Without turning around, the strange young man raised a hand in farewell, calling back, "Good luck with your fishing!"

When he said this, the two realized that they had left their fishing gear unattended to back in their small cove, free for anyone to take. Taking one last glance at the rowboat, the two could finally take a look at the full dismal picture. Without the young man in the way, one could see the kind of damage it had taken: holes had been stuffed with various pieces of fabric, appearing to have once been a coat of some kind, and the planks making up the bottom appeared to have been gnawed at by some kind of bug, leaving long, slim strips eaten away. Even an amateur could tell that the boat wouldn't be able to sail for long. Accepting this fact, the granddaughter and grandfather began slowly making their way to the cove to collect their things

But as they walked, the girl kept thinking about the young man, wondering why he seemed so familiar to her. She was sure she had never met him before – she would surely remember someone who talked like that – but she knew he'd seen his face before somewhere. Furrowing her brow, she thought to herself, Is he some kind of celebrity in the newspaper? She physically shook her head. No, I doubt someone like him could ever get famous… unless he was a criminal or something. Inwardly she smiled, laughing quietly at her own joke. But as her mind kept mulling over it, she finally realized where she'd seen his face before.

She stopped dead in her tracks.

Alarmed at his granddaughter's sudden stop, the grandfather asked what was wrong, but the girl was too enraptured with her thoughts to answer properly. Thankfully, whenever she got like this, she would begin to think out loud in a low mumble. Knowing both his grandchildren did this, the grandfather managed to not lose his hearing with age.

"…and if that's actually who he is, and then he finds out about it, then…" Breaking from her thoughts, the granddaughter turned to her grandfather, saying, "We have to get back to town."

Without skipping a beat, the two began to make their way back to town as quickly as they could, still a bit winded from the sprint they had earlier. They could get their fishing gear later. Nobody would find the cove, probably. Right now, they just had to stop whatever was about to go down from happening. And that meant stopping the stranger and his big mouth from causing a scene.

"You know, if you guys opened a window every once and a while, maybe you could air out the smell of old men, stale ale, and piss," the stranger stated to the full, dim bar.

After wandering around town for a bit without finding anyone, the young man decided that the next best place to look would be inside the town's saloon. After that would have been the morgue. But thankfully he had managed to find seemingly the entire town's male population when he opened the bar's door, minus the children, of course. With the door opened, sunlight was able to make its way unfiltered by shutters into the building, leaving the young man in a silhouette and with a good view of a sight about as dismal as his former boat.

Despite it being basically noon, the bar was almost completely full, with some men leaning menacingly against the wall. Along with that, all of the windows were shuttered. Except for the door, the only light that would come into the building came in in thin slits. The majority of the lighting instead came from candles and dimmed bulbs hanging from the ceiling, leaving the rest of the room in a shrouded state. Someone was sitting at the piano, but no music was being played and no music was probably expected to be played, as it would ruin the mood. All eyes were on the young man, and they were glaring.

For about a minute, the room was silent, as if what the stranger had just said was still sinking in. Every creak of wood from someone shifting in their seat could be heard, and if you listened hard enough you could even hear the low hum of the electricity running through the lights. The strange newcomer silently clenched his fists, preparing himself for what was about to come next.

The air became filled with laughter.

Slightly stepping back, the stranger was hit by the force of laughter, eyes slightly widened from the reaction. As he looked around, the men's glares turned into smiles as they began clinking their drinks among their table buddies. From the side of the room, the man sitting at the piano began playing a jaunty tune, sending the building into even higher spirits. Even the room seemed brighter. Getting over his slight shock, the young man smiled and let the door swing closed behind him, his eyes adjusting to the newly dimmed room. Once he was finally able to see, the stranger promptly made his way to the bar, plopping himself down on one of the only barstools available.

Ambling his way to the young man, the bartender had a big grin on his face, making him look slightly handsome despite his bald head.

"I've gotta say," the barkeep began, "That was probably one of the stupidest things I've ever seen someone do in my bar in the past twenty years of me working here."

Putting on a grin of his own, the young man replied, "Yeah, well let's just say that I haven't had the best track record with that line."

Chuckling, the bartender asked, "Oh yeah? Well how many times have you used it?"

Holding up a hand with all fingers outstretched, the young man replied, "At least five."

Raising an eyebrow in newfound curiosity, the bartender asked, "And how many black-eyes has that line gotten you?"

The young man dropped his pinky finger, saying, "At least four. But don't even ask about the concussions. I stopped counting after number one. Kinda hard to after that, don't you think?"

Throwing back his head in laughter, the bartender let out a laugh that seemed to fill the room, something that was very difficult as the other men did a good job of doing that already. As he finished, he placed a full and frothing mug in front of him, saying that it was on the house. The young man took a polite sip, grimacing slightly at the taste. It was too early for booze. As he thought this, the young man looked around the bar again, taking in the jovial scene as people began to dance, the alcohol obviously taking affect. The stranger asked why so many were in there at that time.

Sighing, the bartender leaned back against the shelf behind him, casting his gaze skyward. After about a minute of contemplation, the bartender looked back at him, a pained look on his face.

"The thing is, most of these men are living the last days of their lives."

The young man raised an eyebrow of his own. Curious now, he motioned for the bartender to continue as he raised the mug to take another sip.

Looking past him, the bartender scanned the crowd and pointed at someone dancing a little more aggressively than the others. "That's Frank over there, the one in the flannel. I'd say he's only got another month or two in him. He has a wife and a kid on the way, and the only way he can support them is by working in the mines like everyone else. Problem is, the people running this island use… let's just say… archaic practices, and most of these men now got the black lung," the bartender leaned back against the shelf, throwing his eyes to the ceiling, "Of course, most of these people would probably leave this island, but the price for ship fare is so high that if they even made it to another island, they'd have nothing and would probably die a beggar."

Looking back at the young man, the bartender noticed the raised eyebrow while he sipped from the mug again, the question pretty obvious to him. "Yeah, I say 'if' because one guy actually pulled it off. Guy by the name of Gord. Best accountant on the island, if nothing else. Managed to save enough money and buy a ticket," a wistful smile grew on his face, "I swear, half the island saw him as a traitor and the other half saw him as a hero," the smile disappeared, "But then a rumor started spreading that they killed him and dumped his body. Now no one is willing to save that kind of cash to maybe die at sea. The Marines won't do jack shit because we have no way of contacting them and I doubt they'd care even if we begged. What's one tiny island to an entire empire?"

Throughout their entire one-sided conversation, the two were in their own sort of bubble, the other patrons completely ignoring them as they continued their midday festivities. The barkeep finally stopped, realizing that he had been ranting for so long without giving his young customer a chance to speak. He further realized that he had just dumped all of his thoughts, feelings, and emotions on a complete stranger, and he began to feel guilty for it. But the stranger didn't seem to mind, as they had gone through about one fourth of their drink during the conversation despite not liking the taste. Wiping the corner of his mouth, the young man picked back up the tankard and went to take another sip. Barely lifting his mouth from the tankard and without looking at the bartender, the stranger spoke into the cup his first words of the conversation.

"That sounds like a 'you' problem."

It was like a slap to the face. Of all the things the young man could have said, it was one of the few things the barkeep didn't expect. Despite the fact that he barely knew him, it still felt like some kind of betrayal of trust, and a sour one at that. His mood quickly became sour as well.

"Well, I guess you could say that," the barkeep said, aggressively wiping a dirty glass, "But it'll soon be your problem as well. Let's just say the people up top offer a pretty sizable reward for the report or capture of a newcomer to the island."

As he said this, the young man pricked up his ears, turning his head slightly to face the door. Shrugging, the stranger moved back to take a sip, muttering, "Now that's what you call good timing."

The bartender was only left confused for a moment before the door was slammed open. Suddenly, the room was relit by the harsh sunlight making its way through the open door. Along with the light, a small group of four men streamed into the building and lined up in front of the door. The guns in their hands shone in the sun.

The bar had once again gone quiet as all the men turned to face the group, an air of frustration beginning to swell as the men put their glares back on. Ignoring the stares they were getting, the men split down the middle in unison, allowing the person who was clearly the leader of this group through. Marching forward, the leader took one last drag on his cigarette before tossing it to the floor. The grumbles from the men only grew louder as they watched him step on it. Ignoring them like he had been doing it his entire life, the leader slowly cast his gaze over the crowded bar, silently taking note of any discrepancies. Finally, his eyes settled on the young stranger who had kept his back to the door. Walking forward, a big grin began to spread across his lips

"Well now, you must be the new fella that all the window watchers were on about," the leader said, taking his time as he approached the young man, the contempt dripping from every word. "Not everyday we see a new face around these parts, and it's fairly understandable that someone like you wouldn't know our ways," he placed a hand on the stranger's shoulder, "Ya see, we have this little thing called the… 'price of admission'. If ya want to be admitted onto this island – even for just a day – then ya gotta pay this price… that is unless you want to spend the rest of your life in the brig?"

Seconds passed, with the entire bar spectating the two, waiting to see who would make the first move. Letting out a sigh, the young man bent forward slightly, inattentively sending a hand to slick back his hair. Looking down at the countertop, he closed his eyes and mumbled something too quiet for the leader to hear.

Putting on a show, the leader mockingly leaned in, moving his free hand up to his ear as he said, "What's that, boy? I couldn't hear you?"

Reacting instantly, the young man slammed his head into the man's nose. Lurching back a step, the leader clutched at his nose and sputtered out a curse as he gripped even tighter on the stranger's shirt. Keeping pace, the stranger immediately grabbed the leader's arm that was still clamped to his shoulder and pulled him back in to receive a punch to the face.

Looking at the downed leader, the stranger said, "I said: 'Rule One of fighting me: don't piss me off.'"

With the leader laid out on the floor, the other men jumped to attention, ready to avenge their fallen comrade. But instead of engaging, the young man rushed past them and towards the door.

"He's trying to run!" one of the men shouted, assuming temporary command over the other three.

Turning on a dime, the men raced to catch the stranger, happy to have another coward to run into the ground. But the young man had other plans. Instead of shooting out the door like they had thought he would, he stopped just before the exit and, with eyes closed, slammed the door shut.

Cut off from the sunlight, the men came to a sudden stop as their eyes began to adjust to the dimmed room. Stumbling around, the men kept their eyes wide and a tight grip on their guns, unsure of what was going on. But just as the room was beginning to reshape itself, the men felt something liquid splash into their faces. For about the first five seconds they didn't react. Then came the pain. Several guns hit the floor as the men began grasping at their eyes. They couldn't help letting out yelps of pain as the young man's beer from earlier seeped into their eyes. With his enemies distracted, the stranger began to lay into them. Slamming his fist into the first man's stomach, he continued his seminar on facing him in combat.

"Rule Two of fighting me: I always have home-field advantage."

With the first of the four men handily taken care of, the stranger turned to the other three. At this point, their vision had cleared just enough so that they could see his blurry shape. Blinking past the pain, the second man, who had managed to hold onto his gun despite the pain, raised it to shoot. But before he could pull the trigger, the stranger reacted like lightning and kicked the gun out of his hands, sending it spiraling somewhere into the crowd. The second man was soon on the ground, probably with a bad concussion, too.

The final two men, thinking they had strength in numbers, charged. Drawing knives from their belts, the two began sending wild slashes at the young man, who began backpedaling away. At first, they thought they had the advantage as they watched the young man's shape narrowly avoid their knives. What they couldn't see, though, was the smirk beginning to form on the stranger's face as he nimbly dodged another slash to his throat.

Tired of the chase, one of the men lunged forward with their knife, with the other following close behind. Instead of leaping back to avoid the two knives, the young man stepped to the side, letting the two men stumble into the puddle of weaponized beer. In an attempt to regain their balance, the two men threw their hands into the air along with their knives as they clumsily floundered in the pool of booze, but it was too late and the men began to their hard descent. Again, the young man had other plans. Instead of letting them fall to the ground, he grabbed them by the collars and hoisted them off the ground and, in one fluid motion, sent both of them out the shuttered window with a crash.

The young man let out a sigh. "And Rule Three of fighting me: just don't."

With the window broken open, sunlight was able to stream unopposed into the bar, the light finally falling on the stranger's face and giving the bar their first full picture of who he was. All eyes were on the stranger who was no longer a stranger and they were all filled with shock. Gasps filled the air and several of the more able-bodied men jolted to their feet to get a better look. But the person with the most extreme reaction was the leader from earlier.

"Ib's you!" he shouted, having awoken from his little nap just in time to witness his men being tossed out the bar. Blood was flowing freely from his nose, but he made no attempt to stop it. Instead, he used his arm to wildly point at the young man, his eyes bugging out from his apparent shock. Raising his voice again, spittle mixed with blood began to fly, "You're the one they're abter! The one that cabe from that desbicable fabily!" His wild pointing turned to the wall, and every eye followed and saw where his finger clearly lead. It was a wanted poster with a bounty of one hundred million, and the bounty clearly belonged to…

"You!" the leader shouted again, "You're Lynn Tacken!"

A/N: Just a little tidbit, but if I were to choose an opening song for this series at this point, it'd probably be Dream Catcher by Set it Off