Chapter 20
Ace
Ace was meditating, his shackles removed, in his cell. Over the last four days, he and the devil had worked out a relationship, leaving Ace firmly in control. The only dangerous time came at night, when nightmares and triggering dreams could make his emotions spiral out of control. The Assistant had given him a Kairoseki ring and bracelet. Ace wore the ring at night to keep everything in check. The bracelet was a backup. During the day, he kept both in a special blue pouch strapped around the left leg of his shorts, below the empty gun holster.
It was nice, Ace mused, to have his things back. Most of them, anyway. Everything had been so hectic in the beginning that his missing knife and gun hadn't registered. But now that the Assistant had returned the sheath and holster, Ace was feeling their absences keenly.
His clothes were washed and mended. Those that weren't burned beyond repair, anyway. Figuring out his powers—how to set himself on fire, how to be fire, without destroying everything he was wearing—was taking serious practice.
Letting out a breath, Ace held up his right wrist, which had a sweatband on it. The Assistant had given him a small pile of them, since they were apparently the only clothing item around this base that was both cheap and disposable. Ace bit his lip, clenched his hand into a fist, and ignited. His hand burned brightly, the flames throwing light all over the cell before Ace put them out.
The sweatband was still there. Half of it. Ace peeled off the melted remnants with a grimace, tossed it onto the pile of other rejects, and slid a new one onto his wrist. Where did the devil draw the line?
"Let's try this," Ace muttered, staring intently at his new sweatband. "We don't burn what belongs to me, yeah?"
His eyes pulsed in response to the surge of light when his hand ignited again. When the flames went out, the sweatband was there, whole and unburned. Ace grinned.
"You look pleased with yourself."
Ace jumped and cursed. "Stop sneaking up on me like that."
The Assistant leaned against the bars and crossed his arms. There had to be a smirk under that black mask of his. "Not my fault you get too focused on your work to notice me."
Ace stretched out one of the sweatbands and launched it at the Assistant, who didn't even bother moving aside. The fuzzy band smacked against his facemask and fell to the floor.
"Nice shot."
"Thanks." Ace shifted into a more comfortable position to look up at his visitor. "What brings you down here today, Assistant? Can't say I've accomplished much since we last chatted."
"It's only been a day." The Assistant pushed off the bars and crouched down. "And two weeks since you got that devil of yours under control. Still having dreams?"
Ace flicked another sweatband. "Don't worry about it. I'm fine. More importantly, when are you giving me the tour of this place? I'm too big for this cell."
"Your paperwork is still getting worked through, and you haven't even had your interviews yet."
"Oh, I'm great at interviews."
"I'm sure. I am supposed to check up on you often, you know. I do need you to answer my questions."
Ace groaned and lay back. The ceiling stone didn't have to answer any questions like these. "Seriously, the dreams are fine."
"'Fine' doesn't tell me whether you're still getting them or, if you are, how bad they are. I need more details than you're giving, Portgas."
Ace closed his eyes. Those dreams of fire hadn't gone away after finding the devil fruit. If anything, they'd only gotten more intense as the devil worked its way through Ace's subconscious, finding any reasons it could to burn. All the scenarios were getting more personal, more tailored, more difficult to ignore.
"You worry too much. I'm having them less and less often. Like I said, it's fine."
"Portgas. I know you're lying."
"Oh?" Ace braced one elbow against the floor. "What makes you so confident? I'm telling the truth. Tell me how I'm doing it wrong."
"Where to start," the Assistant mused.
"You're stalling."
"Bold of you to—"
Beep.
The Assistant raised his wrist.
"Your comm is blinking," Ace pointed out helpfully.
"Thanks. Never would've noticed." The Assistant stood and walked a few steps away. "Give me a second."
Ace lay back while the Assistant chatted. He couldn't hear any of the conversation, of course, since the secretive bastard had turned off his external speakers.
In the weeks since he'd stopped being a raging human flamethrower, Ace's only choices for passing the time had been eating, sleeping, exercising, or practicing his powers. He was bored out of his mind, and he'd been making that as clear as he could every time the Assistant passed by. But no, he didn't get anything else. Just questions about his dreams and mental state. He hadn't even gotten more news about Marco, since that "delicate situation" or whatever was apparently ongoing.
The first tremor was so slight that Ace dismissed it. The second, easily ten times as strong, knocked dust from the ceiling and rattled the shackles still stuck into the wall. Ace shot up, staggered, but kept his feet. The Assistant had braced himself against the far wall, wrist held up to his face, shoulders hunched with urgency.
"What's going on?" Ace asked, wrapping his hands around the bars.
"Enemy attack," the Assistant said, pushing off the wall. He stumbled to Ace's cell, fumbling with a key. Ace released the cell bars before the sea stone in them drained all his strength and stepped back as the Assistant opened the door. "We have to get to the armory."
"What?"
"I've been ordered to escort you to an escape ship." He didn't sound happy about it.
"Why am I so important?" Ace asked while he ducked out of the cell. "I'm just a prisoner."
"Your ISPC experience, devil fruit, and lineage apparently make you a rather important asset. Trust me, I just had this conversation."
Ace stopped cold. "Lineage?"
"I didn't ask. Come on, we have to go."
The Assistant grabbed and tugged Ace down the hallway. Ace shook himself and picked up the pace.
"Who's attacking?"
"UBMC." The Assistant yanked open the door and ushered Ace through. These hallways were narrow and unpainted, the exposed stone lined with bare bulbs, pipes, and wires. "Take a right, then the next left. We'll be using the stairs to go down."
"How'd they find you?"
"There's only one possible explanation," the Assistant said grimly. "They must've cracked our encryption, whether by force or by espionage. They were just waiting for the right time to exploit it. They already targeted IPEC. We were overdue." They skidded around a corner. "To do it so easily, though—it's disconcerting."
The base shook again, throwing Ace off his feet. The Assistant caught him.
"It's more than that," Ace grunted.
When they reached the stairwell, the Assistant slammed the door open. It banged against the inside wall. The echo reverberated up and down the concrete stairs. Ace winced.
"Down there!"
"Hurry!"
Ace followed the Assistant down, trying not to pay attention to the voices and pounding footsteps coming from overhead. All the cell exercise in the world couldn't make up for stamina training, and his lungs burned. Still, he kept going, every impact of his boots on the stairs sending shocks all the way to his hips. The railing was cold under his palm, the walls even more so when his shoulder knocked into them on the turns.
The Assistant stopped on the B4 landing and ushered Ace through the door.
Ace stopped immediately, eyes crossing to focus on the gun in his face.
"What are you doing?" the Assistant snapped, but it was directed at the revolutionary holding the gun, not Ace. The man jumped and snatched the gun away from Ace's face.
"Oh, s-sir! Sorry!"
"Where's the rest of your squad?"
"Ambushed in our quarters. I was the only one to escape. They're swarming in from the top, and with this leg I had to take the elevator down. Was walking this way when I heard you coming."
Ace eyed the guy's pajamas. He had a nasty burn wound on one thigh, and he was leaning hard against the wall to compensate. He was also clearly in his pajamas.
"The hostage play," the Assistant muttered. The man nodded. "Well, we're not good hostages, and we've got at least a full squad in pursuit. Can you make it to the armory?"
The man pursed his lips. "Frankly, sir, it's taking all I have to stay standing."
Ace catalogued the myriad of bruises and welts on the man's visible skin. The laser burn was just the most obvious injury. There were tens of others.
"I'll carry him," Ace said.
"Can you?"
Unable to see the Assistant's expression, Ace guessed that it was tinged with concern for both Ace and the man. Sure, Ace wasn't in the best of shape, but he hadn't been just sitting on his ass. And the devil knew better than to burn an ally.
"Yeah, I can." Ace slung the man's right arm over his shoulders. "Good?"
The man nodded. The Assistant unholstered his LG pistol and took point, keeping a careful eye for ambushes. There was no way to know for sure whether the UBMC strike teams had made it down this far or not.
"Be careful," the man said as they hobbled down the hallway. "They're using hardware. Real bullets."
Ace nearly stumbled on his next step. "Seriously? That crap's crazy expensive."
"But it pierces shields far better than any laser-based equipment," the Assistant growled. "Bastards." He glanced back at Ace and the man. "Just hang on. We're almost there."
Ace hoisted the man's arm a little higher, offering a quiet apology when the man groaned in pain.
"You're running hot," the man mumbled.
"Adrenaline and exercise'll do that," Ace said. "Stay with me, you hear?"
The man grunted.
"Hey. Verbal response."
"I'm here."
"Good."
The Assistant paused at the next corner. Ace stopped right behind him, leaning both himself and the man against the wall.
"I'm reading movement," the Assistant muttered. "At least ten."
"Let me guess," Ace said. "That's where we need to go."
"It's the armory entrance."
"Are they trying to break in?"
The Assistant's mask was as inscrutable as always. "I don't know, Portgas, why don't you ask them?"
"Why don't you go fu—"
The man went limp. Surprised at the sudden weight, Ace folded, barely catching himself in time to avoid crashing against the ground. His knees protested, but he unhooked the man's arm from around his neck and lowered him all the way down.
"Hey," Ace whispered, waving a hand in front of the man's face. The man moaned, his eyelids fluttering. The Assistant crouched next to him. "What's wrong with him?"
"The laser wound isn't enough. If he was brawling, it's possible he suffered an internal injury."
"Can we save him?"
The Assistant checked the man's pulse, then gently pressed down on a few different parts of his abdomen. Then he shook his head.
"You can feel it just below his floating rib on the left side. He isn't going to make it without immediate, professional medical attention."
Ace gritted his teeth. "Stay here."
"What are you planning?" The Assistant stood with Ace and grabbed his wrist. "Portgas, there are—"
"I know," Ace snapped. "I'll handle it. Watch him, watch my back."
The devil stirred, sensing Ace's intent. Heat rushed through his veins as the devil's excited fury bled into Ace's rage. Flames raced up Ace's arms, and the Assistant released him and stepped back.
"You'd better know what you're doing," he said. "And you'd better keep your head."
Ace clenched his hands into fists, which ignited an instant later. There was no time to worry. Either the devil stayed with him or it didn't. He rolled his shoulders. "Shoot me if I don't."
"Portgas—"
Ace rounded the corner. Instantly, ten rifles lifted and aimed at his head, the soldiers trying to crack the door abandoning the effort at the mere hint of trouble. Ace took in the white uniforms, the hostile gazes, and the unmistakable UBMC logos stitched on the suits' breastplates.
Luffy's face flashed through his head accompanied by a lightning-quick jolt of the fear he'd felt reading about that explosion. He cocked his fist and then brought it forward with a roar.
A torrent of flames far greater than anything Ace had expected burned up the distance to the marines before any of them could react. A few screamed, backpedaling as their standard-issue suits blared heat warnings. Ace shot forward, loosing another wave to keep them distracted. The nearest marine was on his back when Ace reached him. Ace put his hands on either side of the soldier's helmet and willed his hands to get as hot as they could. Golden lines of heat traced down his veins and gathered on his palms. The marine screamed, writhing under Ace's grip. The reinforced material of his helmet began to hiss and bubble. Then the marine went still. The whole process took only a few seconds.
Ace picked up the man's rifle, newly solid hands hands finding their grip. As Ace's earlier flames cleared, Ace sighted up his targets.
The hardware rifle kicked against his shoulder, spitting out lethal round after lethal round. Each marine got a double tap to the facemask. The first bullet cracked the masks; the second, if the first didn't, finished them off. Once their confusion gave way to reflex, the marines began firing back, but their bullets just passed through Ace. The devil howled, its fury making the air in the hallway shimmer with heat.
"Ace!"
Ace glanced behind him, gun still ready, only to see the Assistant standing a yard away with his hands in the air. Ace lowered the gun. Smoke and steam wafted in the air, turning the hallway hazy. Sweat streaked Ace's skin.
"You got them all," the Assistant said. "You can relax now."
Glancing around, Ace realized that yes, all the marines were dead. He exhaled. How long had he just been standing there?
He shook his head and coaxed the devil back beneath his skin. The flames receded. Ace kept the rifle, though, swapping out its spent magazine for a fresh one off a nearby body.
"Our friend?" he asked. The Assistant shook his head.
Inside the armory, Ace took in racks and racks of weapons, suits, and various other implements of mayhem. Behind him, the Assistant closed the door, the warped metal groaning, and locked it.
"There's a secret exit in the back," he explained. "Several evacuation plans use this room as a fallback point."
Ace looked around. There was no one else here, which could only mean that the other people supposed to be here hadn't made it. He squared his shoulders.
"Where's my stuff?"
The Assistant, already halfway into an aisle, pointed to his right. "Section D, rack four."
Ace found his stuff. The Revolutionaries had even patched up his half-slagged suit, even if the colors didn't quite match. He also nabbed a change of clothes from the piles of shirts and shorts. Apparently, the Revolutionaries had a uniform…of sorts. Probably just for the grunts. Or it was safer to have stock clothing than to let members do shopping in Mainline.
Newly armed and armored, Ace found the Assistant back by the entrance, where a new group of marines was trying to break through the doors. So far, the metal was holding.
"We can't let them take the armory," the Assistant said. "The last thing we want to do as Revolutionaries is provide the UBMC with cutting-edge weaponry. Did you grab everything you needed?"
"Yeah." The clothes were safely tucked inside his jumpsuit, and everything else was back in its proper place. He felt whole again.
"Good. We're blowing the place."
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