[Standing in the middle of the sidewalk, one hand clutched to his cowboy hat and the other hooked in the straps of his backpack, Ace lets out a low whistle at the sight in front of him.
He's seen trains, motorized carriages and boats -- hell, the raft he'd been using for the last few years had been a mechanical breakthrough -- but nothing back home compared to this. There were cars just floating through the air, bubble technology noticeably absent. Screens were held in hands, plastered on the sides of buildings, on display in shop windows. But even beyond that was just... the feel of everything. This isn't a small island town, it isn't even an island kingdom.
This place is stationary, still. It's hardy, but also unused to constant attacks and storms and rebuilding. It's hardened, from the pavement below his feet to the rooftops overhead, and something about how solid this world feels has Ace's skin itching. Has him yearning for the smell of salt and fish, of cutting through waves and feeling the sun and sea against his face.
There's a gasp, a call from somewhere to his right, and Ace turns to be met with a couple of women running up to him, babbling something about "selfies" and "blogging" and some sort of "celebrity". But while the cameras in this world look a little different from the ones back home, they're still cameras. And Ace is still more than willing to sling his arms around their shoulders, grinning wide and bright as they do some positioning with the flimsy little things held in their hands.
.... And honestly, he can't be blamed for the shrieking that's suddenly interrupting their little photo session. It's not his fault that the combination of sunlight and friction got his shoulders sparking! Hell, the lady is burning her purse more by hitting him with it than when he'd just been idly burning next to her.
Really, she should be thanking him for an amazing picture, not chasing him down the street because of it!]
III.
[Tucked back in one of the seedier parts of Maurtia Falls is a small pub. It opens its doors to just about anyone who thinks they can bump elbows with punks and hustlers and pickpockets. So really, it's a not an uncommon sight for the little place to attract a bit of a crowd. Only tonight, the crowd isn't jeering on a fight, isn't formed of two rival groups getting drunk and rowdy. No, tonight, the crowd is a mixture of confused and... slightly concerned.
After all, it isn't every day that a man just kind of dies in the middle of his dinner.
But sure enough, sitting at one of the tables off to the side, his face 100% buried in a mixture of mashed potatoes and french fries, is a body. He's unmoving, his arms slumped down and hanging limply off the sides of the table, and there's not even the slightest sign of movement from him. Not a twitch, not a shift, nothing.
Maybe you were drawn by the crowd, maybe someone actually thought to call for help, or maybe you were there when the man just cut off mid-sentence and faceplanted. Either way, it seems the only way to see what really happened is to go closer.
So, what do you do?]
IV.
[The sound of baseball was what first drew Ace towards the field. The crack of a ball against wood, the cheering and laughter of the crowd. What makes him stay, however, is the surprise he feels at seeing something familiar in such a weird world.
He'd run across the sport a few times during his travels, a few islands had adopted variations of it, but it's still strange to see it here. So, he'd plopped himself down on the grass, watching the proceedings with an easy grin and lazy, half-lidded eyes. At least until someone had spotted the strangely dressed man and accurately pinpointed him as an imPort.
It hadn't taken too much to get Ace up on the pitcher's mound, his hat slung back and hanging on his back as he sized up the disgruntled looking batter in front of him.]
You don't have super strength or anything, do you kid? [The coach who'd spotted him asks brightly, clapping Ace good-naturedly on a bare shoulder.
The pirate just laughs at that, shaking his head as he answers.] Super strength? Nah, not that I know of.
[He tosses the ball up and down in the air as the players settle back into position, waiting until the batter gives up his attitude and taps his bat against the ground before getting back into a ready position.
Snatching the ball out of the air, Ace turns, rolling his shoulder once before pulling back into a messy pitching position. He can see the smirk on the batter's face, can see his expression going from annoyance to that smug sureness one gets when they think they're dealing with an amateur. But more than that, Ace sees the challenge suddenly sparking hot in the air.
......... Which is why he decides to put maybe a little too much power behind the throw. His fingers catching the ball on fire just as he releases it, sending it sailing fast as a bullet past the motionless batter, burning the air next to the catcher's head, and burning its way right through the protective netting and fencing at the back of home plate.]
Hmmmm... [Ace frowns, reaching up and shielding his eyes with one hand as he tracks the ball, his other hand propped up on his hip.] Went a little too far left.
Portgas D. Ace | One Piece
He's seen trains, motorized carriages and boats -- hell, the raft he'd been using for the last few years had been a mechanical breakthrough -- but nothing back home compared to this. There were cars just floating through the air, bubble technology noticeably absent. Screens were held in hands, plastered on the sides of buildings, on display in shop windows. But even beyond that was just... the feel of everything. This isn't a small island town, it isn't even an island kingdom.
This place is stationary, still. It's hardy, but also unused to constant attacks and storms and rebuilding. It's hardened, from the pavement below his feet to the rooftops overhead, and something about how solid this world feels has Ace's skin itching. Has him yearning for the smell of salt and fish, of cutting through waves and feeling the sun and sea against his face.
There's a gasp, a call from somewhere to his right, and Ace turns to be met with a couple of women running up to him, babbling something about "selfies" and "blogging" and some sort of "celebrity". But while the cameras in this world look a little different from the ones back home, they're still cameras. And Ace is still more than willing to sling his arms around their shoulders, grinning wide and bright as they do some positioning with the flimsy little things held in their hands.
.... And honestly, he can't be blamed for the shrieking that's suddenly interrupting their little photo session. It's not his fault that the combination of sunlight and friction got his shoulders sparking! Hell, the lady is burning her purse more by hitting him with it than when he'd just been idly burning next to her.
Really, she should be thanking him for an amazing picture, not chasing him down the street because of it!]
After all, it isn't every day that a man just kind of dies in the middle of his dinner.
But sure enough, sitting at one of the tables off to the side, his face 100% buried in a mixture of mashed potatoes and french fries, is a body. He's unmoving, his arms slumped down and hanging limply off the sides of the table, and there's not even the slightest sign of movement from him. Not a twitch, not a shift, nothing.
Maybe you were drawn by the crowd, maybe someone actually thought to call for help, or maybe you were there when the man just cut off mid-sentence and faceplanted. Either way, it seems the only way to see what really happened is to go closer.
So, what do you do?]
He'd run across the sport a few times during his travels, a few islands had adopted variations of it, but it's still strange to see it here. So, he'd plopped himself down on the grass, watching the proceedings with an easy grin and lazy, half-lidded eyes. At least until someone had spotted the strangely dressed man and accurately pinpointed him as an imPort.
It hadn't taken too much to get Ace up on the pitcher's mound, his hat slung back and hanging on his back as he sized up the disgruntled looking batter in front of him.]
You don't have super strength or anything, do you kid? [The coach who'd spotted him asks brightly, clapping Ace good-naturedly on a bare shoulder.
The pirate just laughs at that, shaking his head as he answers.] Super strength? Nah, not that I know of.
[He tosses the ball up and down in the air as the players settle back into position, waiting until the batter gives up his attitude and taps his bat against the ground before getting back into a ready position.
Snatching the ball out of the air, Ace turns, rolling his shoulder once before pulling back into a messy pitching position. He can see the smirk on the batter's face, can see his expression going from annoyance to that smug sureness one gets when they think they're dealing with an amateur. But more than that, Ace sees the challenge suddenly sparking hot in the air.
......... Which is why he decides to put maybe a little too much power behind the throw. His fingers catching the ball on fire just as he releases it, sending it sailing fast as a bullet past the motionless batter, burning the air next to the catcher's head, and burning its way right through the protective netting and fencing at the back of home plate.]
Hmmmm... [Ace frowns, reaching up and shielding his eyes with one hand as he tracks the ball, his other hand propped up on his hip.] Went a little too far left.