[ After Marineford sinks into the sea, left as little more than glorified pebbles to line the floor of the world's greatest fish tank, the news continues to extol the Navy's grandest of successes: the deaths of Whitebeard and "Fire Fist" Ace. As the Holy Land would not seek to disprove the version of history that their propaganda machine was frantically pushing ( — that the monstrous get of history's boogeyman was executed with exceptional prejudice ), the eyes of the world are easily blinded to the truth of the harried rescue of the young Commander.
Days, weeks, months later. It's a painful relief, to gaze upon the news and see that history accounts him for dead; it's a syrupy-sick guilt that spreads like strangling vines throughout his ribs, to know that his old crew walked away with nothing to show for all their pain and anguish. Whitebeard's dead, immortalized with a monument atop a sunny, flower-spangled cliff. To the remnants of his family, Ace's body was never recovered from the field — he's heard through the ether that they prayed, at the very least, whatever was left of him had fallen into to the sea. That even having nothing for themselves was better than imagining whatever the World Government could and would do to abuse him in death, as they had in life.
What gets him to the Red Force, anchored at a small orchard-island called Carpos, is nothing short of a dead man's determination, as if he were en route to another gallows. Swaddled in layers of cloth, drawn tight to obscure his most iconic features, he makes landfall at dusk and follows the flow of traffic through the market to where the pirate crew he seeks has taken up space, vibrant and alive and deadly-sharp as ever. It's shocking, that he remembers all their faces. The act of having to wade through them in that cold, tightly-packed cave to reach their captain had been nerve-wracking. Exciting.
It's not as exciting now. The swagger's all but gone, replaced with a morose quiet — a severity, a focus. The normal civilians won't recognize him from Jack, once he slips in among the ebb and flow of their eventful evening; a harvest festival, by the looks of it, inspiring their generosity and joy in a way that'd be infectious to anyone else. Anyone not on a mission to approach Red-Haired Shanks. From behind, yes. ( In his blind spot? No. Never. ) Counting on Shanks knowing the figure approaching his back, no matter the disguise, he walks with purpose to his right side and pushes a note into his palm.
A record of where he'll be is written on it. Ace doesn't stay, though. Seconds after he delivers his message, he steps away from Shanks's back and weaves away — back into the crowd, into the night, and out of sight for the time being. They can't talk securely anywhere they haven't shored up the defenses on themselves, not even in the middle of a celebration. ]
my icons may not be done, but my hands work
Days, weeks, months later. It's a painful relief, to gaze upon the news and see that history accounts him for dead; it's a syrupy-sick guilt that spreads like strangling vines throughout his ribs, to know that his old crew walked away with nothing to show for all their pain and anguish. Whitebeard's dead, immortalized with a monument atop a sunny, flower-spangled cliff. To the remnants of his family, Ace's body was never recovered from the field — he's heard through the ether that they prayed, at the very least, whatever was left of him had fallen into to the sea. That even having nothing for themselves was better than imagining whatever the World Government could and would do to abuse him in death, as they had in life.
What gets him to the Red Force, anchored at a small orchard-island called Carpos, is nothing short of a dead man's determination, as if he were en route to another gallows. Swaddled in layers of cloth, drawn tight to obscure his most iconic features, he makes landfall at dusk and follows the flow of traffic through the market to where the pirate crew he seeks has taken up space, vibrant and alive and deadly-sharp as ever. It's shocking, that he remembers all their faces. The act of having to wade through them in that cold, tightly-packed cave to reach their captain had been nerve-wracking. Exciting.
It's not as exciting now. The swagger's all but gone, replaced with a morose quiet — a severity, a focus. The normal civilians won't recognize him from Jack, once he slips in among the ebb and flow of their eventful evening; a harvest festival, by the looks of it, inspiring their generosity and joy in a way that'd be infectious to anyone else. Anyone not on a mission to approach Red-Haired Shanks. From behind, yes. ( In his blind spot? No. Never. ) Counting on Shanks knowing the figure approaching his back, no matter the disguise, he walks with purpose to his right side and pushes a note into his palm.
A record of where he'll be is written on it. Ace doesn't stay, though. Seconds after he delivers his message, he steps away from Shanks's back and weaves away — back into the crowd, into the night, and out of sight for the time being. They can't talk securely anywhere they haven't shored up the defenses on themselves, not even in the middle of a celebration. ]