Mass x Acceleration
By Dixxy Mouri
Chapter Four: Snow
It was the worst thing that had happened since they'd arrived on the island.
It was the day after they'd met the seamstress and her family. The morning had been very good, and looked like the start of a great day for the young man and the young woman. Ria had come by to visit, bringing them the clothing they'd discussed. They'd gone downstairs for the first time and sat down at Mac's dining room table for breakfast and lunch. The young man had even been allowed to make the latter – chicken sandwiches, a simple noodle soup, and sliced apples with caramel drizzled over them for dessert.
Seeing the young man back in the kitchen again was one of the best things the young woman had seen in a long time. He hadn't had his hands on so much as a measuring cup in what felt like forever, but it hadn't taken him long at all to familiarize himself with the mayor's kitchen. He relished every bit – baking the chicken, stirring the soup, even just the simplicity of cutting the apples brought a light back into his eyes she hadn't seen since their days as pirates.
The young man had wanted to make dinner, too. Mac, having thoroughly enjoyed the midday meal, didn't object to the notion – he asked his guest if he'd be all right on his own, to which the cook nodded and smiled. Kitchens were his natural environment – by all means, he should have been perfectly fine on his own. The mayor politely excused himself to attend to some work.
The young woman had stayed with him for a bit, watching him cook with content interest. Eventually she felt the need to move around, quietly excusing herself. She used the lady's room, grabbed a book from the study, and headed back to the kitchen. Maybe she could read it aloud while he companion cooked – as much as he loved cooking, he might like the gesture.
As soon as she stepped back into the kitchen, she dropped the book.
There was the kitchen, with raw meat on the counter in the middle of being cut and tenderized, and a bowl of vegetables waiting to be sautéed. Several spices were lined neatly on the counter, ready to season the meal for the evening. The beginnings of an apple pie sat lonely by the fridge, waiting to be filled with apples and cinnamon and a sugar.
The young man was nowhere to be found.
The young man felt his skin go cold.
It had been a perfectly normal day – the old geezer was yelling at him and the other cooks just like always, Patty and Carne had challenged him to a fight over something stupid (he'd won - easily), and there had been a particularly nasty brawl between the cooks and the latest gang of pirates that thought they could take the Baratie. He was making a large pot of soup when he heard the hissing behind him.
He turned his head and saw a giant snake with the head of a man glaring at him. He felt his hands starting to shake – how could such a monster get into the restaurant unnoticed? Shouldn't there have been screams and shouting and some kind of warning? Someone would have called for him – he was strong, he could fight, but seeing the cold eyes of the snake-man creature made his knees feel weak and helpless.
The head of the snake-man was bald with dark facial hair. There was a cold, scientific look in his eyes that lacked any "good" qualities – compassion, empathy, kindness, none of it. It was like they were nothing but ice. The monster opened his mouth and a serpentine tongue slithered out, flicking the young man's cheek and making his blood run cold. He knew the man with the slithering body.
Tesla.
The young man covered his mouth, too afraid to scream, and ran out of the kitchen. He ran through the halls of the restaurant as the mad scientist snake chased him, hissing and thrashing about. The young man kept looking back, never really gaining any ground on the monster as it destroyed stoves and doors and tables and chairs in its mad pursuit for him.
He ran as hard and as long as he could, stumbling along the way – the Baratie was infinitely bigger than it should have been, but he kept running anyways. He had to get away from that man, that snake. If he didn't, he was going to get him and do horrible things to him. He'd had quite enough of that – no more, no more. He didn't want to be hurt anymore.
A fallen tree branch got in his way and he tripped and fell into cold, wet snow.
The young man blinked, feeling confused and disoriented as he looked up and saw sky and trees and branches above, not the ceiling of his beloved restaurant. Below him was snow and twigs and mud, and there was even more snow falling all around him. The Tesla snake was nowhere to be found. He sat up, struggling to his feet – the jeans and sweatshirt Ria had given him were wet and cold.
Wait. That's right. I haven't been on that boat in a long time. Then how . . .
Realization struck him in the gut. He covered his mouth as horror and dread crept through his veins. It had all been a hallucination, a waking nightmare. He hadn't been on the Baratie. There hadn't been a Tesla snake. The day as he remembered it hadn't gone like that at all. No, Ria had come by with clothing for him and his companion and they got to wear real clothing for the first time in a long time, and he and the young woman had started to explore more of their host's home. He'd gotten to cook in Mac's kitchen – not breakfast, but he had made them lunch, and he'd started dinner.
And then, sometime later . . . he forgot where he was.
And he'd run.
Now he was standing alone, in the middle of the woods on an island he was unfamiliar with.
He looked around and saw his footprints. He had to follow that path back to Mac's house fast – it wouldn't be long before the snow completely swallowed up his trail and he ended up hopelessly lost. Shivering, he crossed his arms tighter, keeping his hands in his armpits, and started the trek back to the mayor's home.
The wind began to blow and the snow started to fall faster.
The young man didn't know how long it had been, but he had lost the trail to Mac's house – the snow and the wind had made it impossible to see where he was going, and the path he had blazed was either far away or buried in the storm. Worse, it was dusk, and he was quickly losing light as he wandered around in the cold, dark wilderness of the island.
He wasn't dressed for a snowstorm, so he shifted into his half man, half fox form to try and stay warmer. Much to his dismay, it did nothing to help. Unlike the other Zoan users he had seen, his half and half form was sleek and skinny – he was built for speed and agility in this form, not raw strength and muscle. Come to think of it, the fox form he took was also . . . tiny. Maybe some Zoan fruits were just like that, or maybe it was him, or whatever the scientists had done to them. Come to think of it, Chopper's middle form (not counting whatever the Rumble Ball let him do) was much smaller than his reindeer body or his mostly human form.
It didn't matter. Snow and ice passed through his fur like it was nothing, kissing and biting the skin underneath. He shivered. It did him no good. Seeing that his fur coat was useless – perhaps even more so, he guessed, considering that his fur could get wet and freeze on him – he shifted back into his human form.
Was he going to die out there alone in the snow? What would the young woman think? Did they realize he'd disappeared yet? Would Mac go out to look for him? No, no, the mayor seemed to have a bad knee – if he was lucky, maybe Cobbler would find him again and lead him back to the mayor's house.
He fell to his knees. He was getting tired. This wasn't like the time he had been to Drum Island – he was healthier, more fit, and much better equipped back then. He was able to stand up to the harsh conditions. Now, he was soaked and cold and shivering. He wanted to start crying. After everything he'd gone through to get away from that man, after he'd gotten a chance to enjoy a little taste of freedom, he was going to die like a dog anyways.
"Hey! HEY!"
The young man barely heard the voice, but he was aware of something warm and soft being draped over his shoulders. He looked up and saw a figure – a man in a heavy sweater, hat, and scarf – hovering over him. He blinked, too cold to think or protest as the man picked him up, one arm under his knees and the other cradling him to his rescuer's chest, and they started to walk.
In the darkness, the young man barely recognized their destination as a blacksmith's forge. Was this where his rescuer lived? So then was he the local blacksmith? This piece of information slowly made the cogs of his mind churn, and then the realization dawned on him. Mac had mentioned that one of their rescuers was the island's blacksmith . . . Birchburg? Beebarn? Something like that.
"You're the blacksmith," he said.
"Yes," the man responded. "Did Mac tell you about me?"
The young man nodded as the blacksmith brought them inside of the forge. "He said you were one of the ones who found us – and thank you for that! But, um, sorry you had to save me again," he said dryly as he was placed on some sort of couch or loveseat or something. He pulled the coat Braeburn had draped over his shoulders tighter. How did I get so weak? People keep needing to rescue me and save me – what happened to the days when I was the one doing that? He clenched his eyes shut, remembering all of the times he had saved his friends and the young woman – especially her – during their pirating days.
Now he wasn't even able to be trusted alone and was getting carried around.
"Well you're lucky I was passing through. I was on my way home from a friend's place when I found you, but I gotta ask – what were you doing by yourself in the middle of the woods?" The blacksmith was busy lighting the fire in the fireplace and soon it roared to life, giving the young man his first good look at the blacksmith.
The man was built like Zoro, but at least a head taller than the green haired swordsman and had dark skin the color of chocolate. He was bald, and when he turned his head the young man saw his mouth was framed with nearly trimmed facial hair. Bright emerald eyes glinted back at him, and he gave his charge a wide, boisterous grin. "Relax, I'm going to get in touch with Mac so he and your little girlfriend don't start panicking."
"Shouldn't you just take me back to the mayor's house?"
The man shook his head. "This storm is going to get worse before it gets better. I'm not going out again, and like hell am I letting you go out by yourself like that – even with me as an escort, I don't think that would be good for you," he said. He shook his head. "Now, I'm going to ask again – what, exactly, were you doing out there? It's snowing. You are sick or something. And you're dressed like that."
The young man felt himself get tenser – his shoulders actually hurt from it. He continued to stare at the blacksmith in fear. He didn't want to sound weak. He didn't want to sound like he needed to be taken care of. I don't need this man's pity. He sat quietly, his heart racing in his ears. The blacksmith raised an eyebrow.
"I'm not going to judge you. Were you just getting cabin fever or did something happen and you needed to run?" He lowered his eyes and leaned in closer to the young man. "Seriously. You need to tell me what the fuck happened. Did something happen at the mayor's house? Is anyone else hurt? If I need to be there to protect the mayor you need to tell me."
He still felt tense. "Nothing happened to Mac. Or my friend. Not that I know about."
"So then what happened to you?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
The blacksmith snorted. "What pride and dignity are you trying to protect?"
"The scraps that I still have."
"Well isn't it better to swallow them for now so you can build yourself back up so you have something more than 'scraps of pride and dignity' to protect? I won't laugh. I won't think any less of you. Unless you hurt someone, then I will hurt you. So just swallow your pride for a second, tell me what happened, and let me help you get better."
The young man stared at the blacksmith in wonder. He remembered sitting on the deck of the Baratie with a different man more than a year ago. He remembered that other man refusing the meal he was giving him even though he was on the brink of starvation, and he remembered the words he told that man.
"Eat. Don't you think it's better to live now and save your pride for something worth fighting for?"
". . . dude, what are you crying for?"
The young man swallowed. "The place I was before . . . they were giving us drugs that made us hallucinate. And . . . I don't know why, Gala hasn't been giving us any medicine, but I had another one." He clenched his eyes shut. "I thought I was being chased. And I must have run. And when it was over I was lost in the middle of the woods." He lowered his eyes. "You must think I'm pathetic."
"No, I don't." The blacksmith mulled this new information over. "Hallucinations, huh?"
". . . yeah. Normally it was just stuff like bugs crawling all over me or something but-"
"Hey, hey, try not to talk about it – what if you talking about it make another happen? I don't know how to deal with that, okay?" The blacksmith held up his hands. "First things first. I'm getting you some dry clothes – I apologize, they're probably going to be a little big on you. Then I'm going to call Gala to let him know you've got this hallucination head shit going on, then we'll call Mac so he and your girlfriend know you're okay, and then I'm going to make us some dinner. You hungry?"
"Um, I can cook. You're putting me up for the night so it's the least I can do."
"You sure you don't need the rest? What if you have another hallucination or something?" said the blacksmith, his arms crossed as he looked at the young man with worry. "I don't mind making dinner and you should get some rest – after we get you into some dry clothes. You don't need to do anything for me."
"I love cooking, and if I get started now – or after getting some dry clothes – then we'll have a head start on dinner, right?" He smiled, trying to convince his host. "I've been a cook since I was a kid. I just got to cook again for the first time in a long time this afternoon, and even though I knew I missed it, I didn't realize how much until I was back in one. Besides, it's not like I'm any worse off in the kitchen if I hallucinate again, right?"
"Maybe, but you probably should relax."
"No, really, I do love cooking and it probably would relax me . . . uh . . . Bluebeard? Barnboy?"
The blacksmith laughed and extended his hand. ". . . 'Braeburn'. Marcus 'Braeburn'."
"Oh. Sorry."
"It's okay. And you are?"
The young man frowned. "Mac didn't tell you, huh?" He explained to Braeburn that he and the young woman were having difficulty saying their names, but avoided going into it any further. Braeburn nodded sympathetically, letting the topic lie were it was before gesturing the young man to follow him to dry, warm clothing.
Braeburn was right – the young man was several sizes too small for the sweater he lent him, and had it not been for a pair of drawstring pants then there would have been another problem, seeing as none of Braeburn's belts could have possibly been small enough to hold up any of the other pants. The clothes he'd been wearing were hung by the fireplace to dry overnight and the two men got to work on their plans for the evening – Braeburn on the Den Den Mushi, the young man in the kitchen.
The calls to Mac and Gala went as expected. Gala said he would get to work on some herbal remedies that might help remove the hallucinatory toxins from their systems, and Mac seemed quite relieved that the young man was all right – the young woman was panicking and he was going to need to calm her down before he called back so the two could talk to each other.
And then Braeburn sat down to dinner and didn't recognize any of the food that had been in his fridge. "Where the hell did you get all this fancy food?" he asked the young man. The young man raised an eyebrow in confusion and pointed at his fridge and pantry. "How the hell did you get this from what I had?"
"I can make do rather nicely with almost anything," said the young man.
Braeburn sat down. The steaks he'd bought looked . . . amazing . . . and smelled like the kind of stuff he used to get at a steakhouse near his hometown . . . except better. But he knew he'd bought subprime meat at a discount, yet this could have gone toe to toe with the finest cuts of fillet mignon. The vegetables still looked bright and colorful instead of dull and grayish and smelled just as wonderful – he could never figure out cooked vegetables and usually just ate them raw. The rice was white and fluffy and buttery smelling, not the porridge-like, gooey mess he usually came up with.
"All of this came from my kitchen?"
"Yeah. It did."
"Well let's put it to the test," said the blacksmith, looking over his plate and the spread on the table. Sure it smelled good but that didn't mean it tasted good, right? But there was only one way to find out. Braeburn started to cut his steak – it was practically falling apart on his fork. His mouth started to water – so tender, just from that little bit. He stuffed a morsel into his mouth, chewed, and then froze. "Oh my God."
The young man's eyes widened. "Is something wrong?"
"This is the best thing I have ever put in my mouth." The young man grinned as Braeburn continued to chew and swallow, then tried the vegetables. He chewed, stopped, and declared he was wrong – no, THOSE were the best things he had ever put in his mouth. The young man laughed and sat down to his own plate while Braeburn tried to articulate the sensations of taste going on in his mouth. "It's like . . . it's like . . . delicious! It's all . . . soft and meaty and . . . vegetable-y . . ."
"You like?"
"I might have a hard time bringing you back to Mac's house after this."
"Speaking of Mac," the young man started, "how is he? And my companion? Is she okay?"
"Mac thinks she'll be okay – she was a little panic stricken when you vanished on her, but he's going to calm her down and call us back in a little bit so the two of you can talk," said Braeburn. "You two must be really close. I'm sorry the storm's keeping you from her. But it's better to wait the storm out than risk a tragedy."
As they ate, the young man thought about their talk. "Den Den Mushi," he said.
"Huh?" Braeburn asked after washing down another mouthful of steak.
"Den Den Mushi! I can call-"
Braeburn held up his hand, an apologetic frown on his face. "Sorry. I know what you want to say but that that won't work here," he said quietly. "Some of the seabed surrounding this island has a mineral that gives off a strong magnetic field the Den Den Mushi have a hard time communicating through. They can talk fine with other snails on the island, but the farthest they can go is only about a knot or two away from the shore. Believe me, if we could we would have had you guys contact your families already."
The young man thought. He shrugged, deciding that he and the young woman would figure something out, like a letter or something, in the coming days. Braeburn was still looking at him, a slight hint of nervousness in his eyes – the young man decided to clear his throat and change the subject. "So, um . . . you like the food?"
"I think it might be better than sex."
Braeburn insisted on cleaning up after dinner and told his guest to make himself at home, which the young man took as an invitation to do some exploring. Not that he expected the blacksmith to be living in a palace worthy of "exploration", it was something to do and get his mind off the events of the day. He'd already talked with his companion for a short bit, but she sounded exhausted and upset and everyone thought it might be best if she get some rest. Braeburn promised to bring the young man back bright and early, which seemed fair enough.
He found himself in what he guessed would have been a spare bedroom had more people lived at the force, but instead of a bed and dresser, he found musical instruments. He cocked his head to the side. Braeburn had briefly mentioned he was in a band that was going on a hiatus during dinner but hadn't expanded much on it. This must be their practice space.
There were several books of sheet music – mostly real and fake books – and a set up "stage" area with a microphone, a bass, a guitar, and a full drum kit. There was an upright piano in a corner and a tuning fork hanging by the door. The room was dark and lonely, probably from lack of use over the hiatus. He left the music room, but was amused that Braeburn had dedicated an entire room in his small home to his hobby.
He found himself back in the living room and sat on the love seat again, looking around. It had a very manly, log cabin feel to it with lots of dark, rustic colors and earthy tones. The throws and rugs were all slightly off forest greens that didn't quite match but showed signs of effort. On the mantle of the fireplace were a few framed pictures, including one of Ria and her daughters and a few of her daughter's "masterpieces", very similar to the ones the twins had given him and his companion the day before.
It seemed like the blacksmith was somewhat close to the seamstress and her children, but it didn't seem like the family was living at the forge so he probably wasn't her husband. I wonder what's going on between Braeburn and Ria? Are they dating or something? Family, maybe? He frowned – he'd figure it out later.
The young man's eyes wandered to a corner and caught something interesting. Seeing a large hammer in a blacksmith's home shouldn't have been a surprise, but this wasn't a working hammer – at least, not that kind of work. He stood and walked over to get a closer look. This hammer wasn't a tool – this was probably a weapon, some kind of war hammer.
For one, it was way too big to be practical for hammering out a sword or a horse shoe. The head alone was easily as big as his torso – probably even bigger, considering his thinner build –with worn leather wrapped around the grip. The head was decorated a little, and strangely it looked like it had been crudely painted some time ago, hiding some of the designs. Odd, perhaps, but there were other details that couldn't be painted over, like some carvings and an almost golden sheen covering the blunt end of the weapon.
"I see you've found Rosalie."
The young man nearly jumped as Braeburn chuckled behind him. "I, um-"
"Relax, I'm not going to attack you or anything crazy like that – I like you and I don't hurt people I like." Braeburn slid beside him and crossed his arms, touching the tip of the handle. "I haven't had a need to use her in a long time and, God willing, I won't for a long time to come. Maybe never if I'm lucky. But she's still a lovely hammer, isn't she?"
"I guess? I don't know much about hammers. Except for some mallets you use in the kitchen for tenderizing and crushing, and I know what carpenter's hammers look like but I don't do much with my hands that would hurt them – I wouldn't be able to cook if I did," said the young man. "I mean, I guess it's a pretty hammer? It's got gold on it. Right?"
"Ah. That's not gold. That's orihalcum. I'm not sure which is harder, but it's in the same league as seastone," said Braeburn. "But just a little bit – it adds a little bit of an edge but it's still mostly steel. Orihalcum's way too expensive and too rare to make an entire hammer head out of– most of the things sold as 'orihalcum' are really just plated steel or some kind of alloy, so it's not the real deal. In this case it's a layer of plating on the blunt end."
"Oh," said the young man. He thought briefly back to the first battle he'd watched Luffy fight, against that asshole Don Krieg and his supposed "orihalcum" armor. Even as strong as Luffy was back then, it made sense that his captain was fighting an opponent with a knock off and not the real deal. "Just how rare is it?"
"Sometimes you find a nugget in a mine, but that's about it. That's why you don't have weapons or armor made of solid orihalcum – there just isn't enough of it," said Braeburn a little sadly. However, the dullness faded as he spoke again. "But I've heard stories about a mine full of it somewhere, just waiting to be found – the Mine of Volunder. You could make the best stuff in the world. Armor, weapons, kettles, jewelry, I don't care I would have a field day with a whole mine of unrefined orihalcum at my fingertips. "
The young man closed his eyes. "Have you ever heard of the All Blue?"
The blacksmith paused to think. ". . . I think so? It's like . . . something to do with fish?"
"It's a legendary sea where fish from all of the blues – East, West, North, and South – swim. For a cook, it's like your orihalcum mine – a dream, a paradise, because you have the freshest fish from all over the world right there waiting to be caught. You could make all kind of dishes that you normally couldn't make. But no one knows where it is, and a lot of people believe it doesn't even exists." He grinned. "But that's the reason I came to the Grand Line in the first place – if it's anywhere, it's got to be here."
Braeburn smiled. "Quite the story."
"It's out there," said the young man. He closed his eyes and smiled. "I'm going to find it."
"Of course you will. But let's get you healthy again first – it's not going to go anywhere in the meantime," said Braeburn. He laughed. "It's an ocean, right? They can't move, can they?" His eyes widened. "I think." He coughed. "Let's assume it's not going to go anywhere – if it's out there now, it'll be there when you're ready to set sail."
The young man nodded dreamily. "And the Mine of Volunder?"
"Pff. Anyplace with rocks is a likely candidate. If I ever tried to look, I'd be searching forever."
The young man frowned. "You won't ever find it if you don't try."
Braeburn sighed. "Yeah . . . I guess . . . but I don't know where I'd start looking, you know?" He turned to the young man and forced a smile. The young man tried to force one back, but could see that his host was putting on the happy face for his benefit. "In the meantime would I put some water on for tea or coffee or something – let me know what you'd like, okay?"
The young man nodded, but frowned as the blacksmith headed into the kitchen. What was holding him back? Come on, Braeburn, I can see it in your eyes – you want to find that mine just as bad as I want to find the All Blue – that must be your dream. So what's keeping you from searching for Volunder's Mine?
Morning came, and the young man hadn't slept a wink.
Braeburn nearly panicked when he found him looking worse than before, with heavy bags under his eyes and a lost, dazed look on his face. Despite taking the couch and letting his guest have the bed, thinking he'd be more comfortable there, it seemed this had done nothing for him. Thinking he had screwed up badly but knowing Gala would be headed to Mac's that morning anyways, he gathered up the young man and piggy backed him all the way to the mayor's house.
The young man was quiet, absently looking around as they walked now that he was outside in better light. The storm had passed and the sun was out – it was still cold, but at least it was sunny. He squinted – between the snow and the sun, it was hard to see, and he could only barely make out what was going on around him.
Trees. Ocean. Sky. Clouds. Snow.
He could see parts of the town to his right, but it was kind of far away and between his lack of sleep and still hazy eyesight, it was very blurry – he could only barely make out the some chimney smoke and some other moving things – could have been flags or laundry or who knew what. He was sure he and the young woman would see plenty of it once they got to explore the town some more when they were feeling better.
Braeburn had kept mostly quiet, focusing on getting him back to Mac's house quickly. He hadn't given the young man time to protest the piggy back ride, and in some ways he didn't really care. He was tired, dizzy, and truth be told he wasn't sure if he had the endurance to go however far it was to the mayor's anymore.
He clenched his fist. I will get that endurance back. All of it.
"You okay there?" Braeburn asked.
"Huh?"
"You have a death grip on my jacket."
"Oh. Sorry."
The young man was still a bit out of it, but wanted to talk. "Did you sleep well?"
"Meh. Couches aren't great but I've slept on worse."
They're a lot better than cold floors. "That's good."
"Hey, I appreciate that you want to talk, but you probably need the rest – even if you aren't able to sleep right now, try to relax. I'm not insulted – honest. I'll come by with something from town Gala would probably say 'no' to," Braeburn said with a laugh. "Or anything else you want, really. I don't mind."
"Thanks."
The mayor's house came into view, and Braeburn hurried his pace. It was only moments later he found himself being let into Mac's living room – or at least, a very dark and hard to see Mac's living room that was slowly getting lighter as his eyes adjusted to the lack of white – where Braeburn finally put him down.
He was vaguely aware of Mac putting his hands on his shoulders and asking if he was okay before he felt himself getting side tackled by the young woman, who buried her face in his shoulder and held him tightly – she was crying, but happy to see him. Mac was a little taken aback, but politely backed away as the young man returned the embrace.
"I was scared," she said. "You just disappeared on me."
"I'm sorry," he said, resting his head on hers. "I didn't want to."
"I know."
"I'll try to not do that again."
Mac and Braeburn barely caught them as they started to collapse, finally falling asleep now that they knew the other was safe.
Things were peaceful at Mac's for a while. The young man and young woman were carried back up to the guest room and laid out on the beds (although at an undetermined time later one of them ended up in the other's anyways – they just didn't seem like they could stay comfortable without the other close at hand) and Gala popped over to see how the drifters were doing. Ria and her children stopped by sometime later with a few more changes of clothing, then left with the blacksmith shortly after. The doctor left as well, and for several hours the mayor's house was quiet.
Until there was a knock on his door.
Mac looked at his wall clock – it was late for someone to be looking for him short of an emergency, but there were no dire shouts about a fire or a death or an accident so that didn't seem likely. Cobbler looked at him from his position at the bottom of the stairs in curiosity. "I don't know, boy," he said. He got up from his chair, walked to the door, and cleared his throat. "Hello? May I ask who's calling at this late hour?"
"I need to speak with the mayor of this town. I was told you were him."
Mac's eyes widened. Uh oh. A non-native. "Once again, who are you?"
"Please, sir. If you cooperate then I will not be forced to use aggression."
Mac swallowed. He opened the door and saw a pair of people in white lab coats waiting for him. The man was bald with black facial hair and the woman had blonde hair and thickly rimmed glasses. Cobbler walked over to investigate, saw them, and growled. "Cobbler, down!" Mac snapped. "All right, who are you and what are you after?"
The man grinned. "You may have heard of me. Does the name 'Thomas Tesla' ring a bell?"
Author's Notes
I apologize this took so long to get out. The next chapter will be en route to beta VERY shortly, possibly even by the time you're reading this.
The name of Braeburn's mine came from a quick Google search on blacksmiths to see what kinds of blacksmiths existed in various mythologies. I settled on one from Norse/German legends and then adjust the spelling a little. Otherwise I was having trouble coming up with good, One Piece-like names for it that made sense.
I purposely didn't look up Sanji's words to Gin, so it's a paraphrasing of what was the translators for the anime and/or manga put there and what Oda and Toei writing team originally wrote (and of course I don't actually OWN One Piece so most of these characters aren't mine ANYWAYS but y'all knew that).
As for the last part . . . it'll be okay. Trust me.
Dixxy