- Location
- Oregon, USA
I want him to see that the bicycle thing wasn't made up.
Fire No Guns, Shed No Tears [One Piece No Metaknowledge SI]
- Thread starter industrious
- Start date
- Crossover Fantasy
Crossposting this from SB, since it serves as an explanation for some of the events in-story.
Note: This is pure fanon in regards to how breveting works in the World Government Navy.
Smoker, as a Vice Admiral, can Brevet people only up to the rank of Captain - he did so with Barrett, who wasn't in the Marines when they first met. Giving out a permanent commission requires an actual Admiral to sign off on it.
Due to Smoker's philosophy, the Admiral he has the best working relationship with is Fujitora. Given Barrett's successes, he requested that the Admiral formally give Barrett the rank.
However, given how Barrett operates, the moniker the enlisted men gave him, and how his reports are written - he kills every bountied pirate he's sent after - he looks like a devotee of Absolute Justice. Not helping things is that he doesn't talk about his own personal philosophy with the other officers. Because of this outside impression, Fujitora rejected Smoker's application.
This rejection by Mr. Moral Justice, on the other hand, got the attention of Akainu. And so Akainu sent one of his protégés to Base G-5 to get a better read on the so-called Implacable Man....
Note: This is pure fanon in regards to how breveting works in the World Government Navy.
Smoker, as a Vice Admiral, can Brevet people only up to the rank of Captain - he did so with Barrett, who wasn't in the Marines when they first met. Giving out a permanent commission requires an actual Admiral to sign off on it.
Due to Smoker's philosophy, the Admiral he has the best working relationship with is Fujitora. Given Barrett's successes, he requested that the Admiral formally give Barrett the rank.
However, given how Barrett operates, the moniker the enlisted men gave him, and how his reports are written - he kills every bountied pirate he's sent after - he looks like a devotee of Absolute Justice. Not helping things is that he doesn't talk about his own personal philosophy with the other officers. Because of this outside impression, Fujitora rejected Smoker's application.
This rejection by Mr. Moral Justice, on the other hand, got the attention of Akainu. And so Akainu sent one of his protégés to Base G-5 to get a better read on the so-called Implacable Man....
Hey I just wanted to let you know that even though I only know much the basics of either setting, I'm really enjoying the fic. I especially like the character interactions and the musical choices you included. The lines you took from Hamilton for the dueling chapter in particular were great.
Chapter Five
Chapter Five
"...Once again, I am deeply sorry for shooting at you," I informed Yates Digsby III as I sipped the cup of tea they'd so thoughtfully provided.
It was good tea, too. It blended beautifully with the honey they'd insisted I add - which was also the best goddamn honey I'd ever had.
I'd literally wept at the first sip.
"We understand, old bean," the lead wasp waved one of its front legs lazily. "You humans can be frightened by the damnedest things."
Yates - along with the other members of his coterie - wasn't actually speaking to me directly. I couldn't understand the complex buzzes and mandible movements that comprised his language; Navi was translating.
The little Ghost had taken my injunction to never appear where humans (and fishpeople) could detect him a bit too literally, it seemed.
He was also attempting to do different voices for each of them. It was… a mixed bag, to say the least.
"We thought you were a rival invasion," one of the others - either Clarissa or Ainsley, I could not tell the twins (or any of the sweater-vested wasps, really) apart, and Navi's attempt at a falsetto was decidedly one-note - chirruped. "Those brutes from Concordia Hive would have happily torn you apart. We are nothing like those wasps, oh ho ho."
I nodded, mostly for the sake of politeness - I wasn't going to get involved in another species' politics.
"You have been a very polite human, and your amazing, stupendous, marvelous companion is a delight and treasure of a conversationalist," Yates added.
I raised an eyebrow. Navi blushed. I'm not sure how.
"Okay," the Ghost said. "Maybe that last clause was a bit exaggerated."
"Navi is my closest friend," I said, pointedly speaking to Yates, not Navi.
"Now, human," Yates affected a more somber tone. "What business have you here? Your kind has never come this far into the forest before. You tend to stick to your plantations and cities."
"I, ah, landed in the wrong part of the island," I deflected, hoping the wasps were too polite to inquire further. "Don't have a ship to travel by water, so I'm trying to get back to the capital-"
"Oh you poor dear!" Ainsley-or-possibly-Clarissa gasped. "You must be terribly lost."
"Just a tad," I acknowledged, though Navi had been acting as my personal GPS. "If it wouldn't be too difficult-"
"But of course!" the wasps all seemed to chorus. "We shall point you to the nearest road at once!"
I wasn't sure what Yates was doing, but some intuition or instinct told me he was giving me the wasp body language equivalent of the side eye.
"That being said, Master Barrett… there is a service that you could render us as well."
"Of course." I could hardly say no - not that I wanted to, of course. Yates and the rest of the wasps had been exceedingly understanding and pleasant throughout our entire encounter.
Getting a quest from a wasp… still not the strangest thing I've experienced on this planet.
"The islander's paper plantations," his mandibles worked hungrily. "The quality of the paper- the whiteness… the softness…"
"Do remember your diet, old chap!" One of the other wasps - not Ainsley or Clarissa, possibly Ernst? Ernst, Blake, or Winston. Or Gerald.
Navi was trying really hard, but he did not have the range.
"Yes, yes, quite quite," Yates verbally backspaced. "But the humans are so very jealous of their bounty- as a human yourself, if you could procure some for us…."
"I would be delighted to," I answered. Really, it was no skin off my back to do so; I earned nine million bellies a year as a Captain, and the Marines had paid for pretty much everything while I was on base or on a mission, so long as I filled out the appropriate paperwork (and didn't get too greedy). "But rather than try to acquire some by-" I hesitated, not wanting to offend. "Shall we say, expeditious and direct methods in the future-"
Yates nodded approvingly.
"-You could barter for it. I assure you - your honey is sublime, Master Yates."
The wasps were silent after my statement, the only sound the low buzzing of their wings.
"Trade? With the local humans?" Navi's impression of Yates sounded quizzical. Or constipated. Probably quizzical. "How ever shall we manage that?"
The fuck if I knew how to overcome a language barrier and millennia of instinctive aversion to stingy insects. But I couldn't exactly tell them that.
"You are all wasps of indubitable culture, intelligence, and sophistication," I said instead. "I am sure that you will persevere through ingenuity."
And after finishing my cuppa, and with the directions of the wasps of the Wimblewright Hive, I began to make my way once more from the forests of the island into the capital city of Ket.
Half an hour later, I found a road.
It was night when I finally arrived at the city proper, looking down at the urban expanse from the slopes of the volcano. There were precious few lights at this hour - this was no modern city - and yet I could still see some small islands of clear, steady illumination - though by far, the largest of them came from the Marine outpost by the harbor.
It was time to get to work.
Every Marine bar looks the same. Hell, it's practically in the same place every time - the bar closest to the Navy's base is the one the troops will go to. Keeps things simpler too - less chance to stagger home drunk, make a fool of yourself, and get written up by an MP or officer.
Sure, the exteriors are sometimes different, but once you walk in, you could be anywhere from Paradise to the West Blue. You'll be greeted by the same whitewashed walls; the same painting (you know the one) hangs across from the entrance; the same selection of basic booze plus whatever house special they have. The pool table in the corner is the twin to every other Marine bar billiards table there ever was - there has to be a factory somewhere cranking them out, complete with scratches and short back left foot propped up by an old reg manual.
It's always owned by some retired non-com, their flag and badges memorialized at the point of pride behind the bar, over the shotgun and next to the dusty bottle of top shelf rum that only gets cracked open when someone retires without a casket. At the left corner of this particular bar was a stuffed seagull - that, too, was part of the template. Sometimes people would glue cigs to the beak, or give him a jauntily-angled hat or a tie. Once, it'd been a stuffed nurse shark instead - that'd been a good bar.
The barkeep here was a lady with greying, once-puce hair, muscles straining over her sundress, a tattoo of an anchor over her face made darker by five o'clock shadow.
The burly Marines all stared at me when I walked in, and the three piece band in the corner (accordion, bongos, saxophone) stopped playing. I wasn't wearing my mantle - there wasn't anything to identify me as Navy. I could feel the weight of their stares with every step I took towards the mismatched stools - every one of them stolen from the nearby base's lounges and officer's mess.
No Marine base ever got rid of the things naturally.
They continued to stare me down as I sat down, a good two seats away from the nearest occupant. Nobody would try to kick me out - this was a Marine bar, but money was still money. I wasn't going to be getting a welcome, though.
"What's'yer order," the bartender demanded.
"Rum," I answered. "Three year. Neat."
"Fifteen-hundred bellies."
The same pour would, at a normal bar, be around a thousand. For the regulars, nine hundred - with the understanding that the extra hundred was a tip for their retired comrade-in-arms.
Three five hundred belly coins clinked onto the worn down (but only slightly dirty) wood.
She grunted.
The music started up again; the Marines went back to their regular braggings. There was a game of darts going in the back by the pool table; a wanted poster of Big Mama had been cut between the steel wires and the cork board.
Nice.
I don't know what kind of sugar-cane swill the bartender brought me, but it wasn't three year sipping rum. She used one of the drunkard's shot glasses too - a pony shot glass with a thick bottom.
I knocked it down anyway.
"Yeah," I wheezed. "That's the stuff."
"Mmhmmm."
This wasn't a tourist destination. She didn't need to be friendly with me.
"Another."
Three more coins, and another overpriced, subpar-quality drink.
Five shots later, and I judged myself sufficiently drunk enough, and standing up from the bar, began to make my way towards the corner, staggering and swaying all the while.
I ignored the bartender when she grunted for a tip - she knew what she was doing.
Now, I wasn't actually sufficiently drunk to do the rampant idiocy that I had planned, but that was only because I was a goddamn Guardian and I could burn a bit of Light to counter the effects of whatever methanolic shit the bartender had conned me into drinking.
Like, what? I was going to call her out? In her bar? Filled with loyal Marines?
That was exactly the wrong kind of damfool idea that would get me killed one of these days.
"Hey," I called out to the band, slurring my words a little, just for the effect, no other reason. "Hey!"
I reached into my breast pocket, and pulled out my harmonica - a nifty little silver thing I'd picked up in… fuck what was that island called? The one with the really good food and craftsmanship, the one I'd taken two days leave at.
...Eh, didn't matter.
"Can'u play this tune, lads?"
The band was all female. Their faces were stony.
I threw a pair of thousand-belly notes into their collection box.
They nodded with bright, cheerful smiles.
"Eyyy."
The harmonica is a favorite of cowboys and other such persons for a reason. It's light, easily portable, and exceedingly forgiving when played by novices. I wasn't even close to mastery of the instrument, but I was passingly competent; practicing scales and improvising old tunes from my past life was a decent time-waster in a world with no internet, and therefore, no internet porn.
I played the opening riff and the first few bars of the song in question - which had never been heard by anyone in this bar - and then looked at them questioningly.
"Can you do that last bit?" I asked. "Just sort of the bum ba-da-dum ba-da-dum bits. And follow along, as best you can."
The band looked skeptical.
I threw another pair of notes into the money pit.
Now you might think I was being irresponsible with my bills - overpaying for drinks, and then bribing a trio of musicians to try and play something they'd never done. Maybe.
But if you think I wasn't charging all of this shit back to the Navy afterwards, then I don't know what to tell you. When you're on the job, you're on the job, and it's the company who should be paying for it.
The band had stopped playing during our negotiations, and so every eye in the room was turned towards us. A pregnant calm before the shitstorm, as it were.
God I loved my job.
"Oh, better far to live and die~" I began to sing, letting my diaphragm carry me through the works of Masters' Gilbert and Sullivan. "Under the brave black flag I fly~"
Oh, that got a reaction, alright.
Every face in the bar spontaneously developed sunburn. With every syllable, I could see the murderous cogs turn behind their eyes.
The band stopped playing after the first stanza. Then quietly, hurriedly left the stage very shortly thereafter.
"I am a Pirate Kiiiiiiii~"
The punch was ill-formed, sloppy, and delivered with all the drunken strength the marine could muster. It would have been child's play to stop it.
It knocked my drunk ass right onto the floor.
Now, this was the true test, you see.
Under the laws of the World Government, suspicion of piracy was enough for any marine to make an arrest and haul someone off to the nearest Naval brig. It generally wasn't a good idea to do so, but when a drunk stranger starts singing songs that glorify their sworn enemies, no magistrate or officer would begrudge them this.
But the Navy was made up of people, you see. Ordinary, regular people. None of them were saints in this sinner's world. Some of them were trying to do the best they could.
A lot of them were more than happy to abuse their authority. And a Navy bar, friendly crowd, jackass stranger?
What kind of rank-and-file was I dealing with here?
I spat my blood onto the grimy floor, and took in another deep breath.
"And it is," I wheezed out. "It is, a glorious thing - TO BE A PIIIIIIIRATE KIIII~"
A kick to the head then. Not from the puncher.
"Justice!" I heard someone cry out.
"Show this fucker who he's messing with!"
The first punch - even the follow-up - were pretty much fair game. But as my teeth had been sent flying from the kick, my singing days were over. Possibly even my solid-food eating days, in the short term.
"Get 'em boys!"
I shielded my head with my arms as best as I could, but having so many bodies around me made things real hot and sweaty, and they were not holding back at all.
You had to admire their esprit-de-corps, really.
...Nah, fuck that, gettting gangkicked hurts like a bitch.
It was almost a mercy when they started using broken bottles.
As far as deaths go, getting shanked in a round robin? Definitely below average.
Navi revived me in the alley behind the bar, where the arm of my still-cooling corpse was hanging freely from the dumpster.
Wait, they had dumpsters here? That bumped my opinion of this island up a notch.
"Ooof," I groaned, arching my back and feeling the vertebrae crack into place. "Can't you revive me sans the backache?"
"I've done that before," my Ghost pointed out. "And you told me that it felt like you were robbed of the experience."
"...damn, past-me is wise in the ways of science," I stuck my tongue out at the little floating dodecahedron, and he favored me with a pleasant little spin of his own.
"So, I guess this batch of Marines is right out, then."
Pity - it was nice to have a bit of support on these assignments. I didn't let anyone see me in action, but having a trusty pair of hands to help clean up the inevitable mess or get me closer to where my targets were hiding would have been nice.
"They didn't even bury or burn you," Navi observed. "This indicates that the Marines here have more control over the local populace than normal."
"That tracks," I mused. "This place is a ways away from Smoker's usual hunting grounds. The Councilor-"
"-Master Qard-"
I bobbed my own head. "Yes, him, went above the local forces for this. Either he doesn't think they're capable or they're working with the slavers."
"Oh dear," Navi drooped slightly. "That's… not good."
"That's why they pay me the big bellies," I corrected him. "And now that we've got the mettle of the local constabulary-"
"-technically not the local constabulary-"
"I say we get ourselves some free room and board, shall we?"
Navi let out a long-suffering sigh. "I do not understand you humans at all," the little AI complained.
The bar I'd been killed in was right across the street from the main entrance to the Naval base. As such, heading to the night receptionist's desk was a piece of cake.
Even better - one of my killers was now staring at a now-mantled-up-and-also-alive yours truly. Clearly, he was back on shift. Somehow. Right after drinking.
"Can I help you?" the blonde behind the counter asked.
"Yes," I said, holding eye contact with the rapidly paling Marine - a Sergeant, now that his uniform was on. It was like he'd seen a ghost, or something.
But not my Ghost, obviously.
"Captain Elcid Barrett, reporting in." I showed her my badge, and for good measure - "Recognition code is Whiskey-Tango-Foxtrot-Sierra-November-Alfa-Foxtrot-Uniform."
Recognition codes were custom, personally-chosen codes used to determine missing officers' identities; a naval base would be able to snail one of the records offices the Navy held and match the code to a particular officer, in case the one claiming to be said officer didn't have their badge or id on them.
They did not have the NATO alphabet in this world.
"No need for that," the receptionist said, waving me off. "How can we assist, Captain?"
"I need a berth," I said shortly. "A bath, and whatever you can scrounge from the kitchens at this hour. I've been sent on an urgent mission from Vice Admiral Smoker himself."
At my words, Sergeant Own Goal promptly fainted.
I love my job.
- Location
- Elsewhere
I feel like you're having trouble adapting to the One Piece world.
Shooting the wrong person?
It happens.
Sometimes people are inconsiderate enough to exist in your firing lines.
Making friends with them afterwards?
Perfect!
You know they can take a joke!
Apologizing!?
Sincerely!?!?
What wishy-washy nonsense is this!?
Everything you do is deliberate, dammit!
No matter how stupid or clumsy it is!
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pingas plight
-Most cunning scientific fuck-up in all of Mobius
Sasuga, you brilliant, hilarious muhfukah
Vaalintine
Wild Wondorous Wolfalope
Is it odd I find myself imagining one of the giant wasps enlisting?
Chapter Six
Chapter Six
I awoke to a pounding at the door of the small guest quarters I'd been assigned. Still groggy, I cast a peek beyond the curtains of the miniscule window the room had - the price for an ocean view in a fortress.
The world outside was still black as pitch; neither the orange glow of the rising sun or even the cool silver of one of the planet's five moons to be seen.
I wanted to inflict violence.
Instead, I breathed deeply, and with that breath, drew in the Light that was mine to wield as a Guardian. My fatigue washed away, and with it much of my irritation. Scrambling to put at least a shirt on, I cracked open the door to find a pale-faced ensign - doubtless the newest officer on the base and therefore assigned to the graveyard shift - on the other side.
"Sir!" the man - I say man, he couldn't have been more than twenty - snapped off a shaky salute. "We have a Den Den Mushi for you, sir! It's Vice Admiral Smoker, sir!"
…Ah.
"At ease, Ensign." I didn't open the door any further, though - it wouldn't do to flash another Naval officer. "Let me get in uniform and you can escort me to the Den."
Den Den Mushi were one of the more useful oddities I'd run into in this place. The snails worked similar to old-fashioned radios-slash-telephones, to the point where while the commander of a garrison or base would have one on their desk, everyone else would head to a singular room dedicated to long-range communications.
Even setting aside their ansible nature, I had no idea what manner of evolution had produced snails with organic microphones and the ability to replicate human speech near-perfectly; I didn't even want to think about how they rang.
I dressed briskly and efficiently, and joined the ensign in the corridor, and with the ensign's help, we made our way towards the Den.
I was still pretty annoyed at losing hours of sleep, but the interruption was now understandable. I figured that the Den Den Mushi were a relatively recent invention, given that the World Government had yet to figure out such things as "Time Zones." It was probably a perfectly reasonable hour for my CO on the other side of the Grand Line.
He probably had gotten a full night's worth of sleep, the ornery bastard.
Most Dens - the Navy's term for what would be the radio room equivalent back on Earth - were fairly standard, utilitarian affairs: wooden tables, practical chairs, filing cabinets, that sort of thing. This Den, however… was a den. I'm talking couches, coffee tables, a dartboard, the works.
The snail placed in front of me was an old geezer - I knew this, because it had big, thick, bushy gray eyebrows and a beard that could audition for ZZ Top.
Picking up the bell-shaped black shell that served as the creature's microphone, I poked the creature - which was napping - and once its eyes were glaring at me, spoke up.
"This is Barrett."
"Moshi Moshi, Barrett-san!" Needless to say, the chipper voice on the other end of the call was decidedly not the Vice Admiral. "This is Lieutenant Yoshi - transferring you to the Vice Admiral now."
Upon which my damn snail immediately fell asleep again. Or maybe it'd died; I did not have the technical expertise to diagnose a biological impossibility.
I was halfway through playing "Thinking Time" on the harmonica when a passable imitation of the Vice Admiral's voice came out of the Den Den Mushi's mouth.
"This is Smoker."
I played a few more notes, just out of spite, and for the pleasure of hearing the man sigh, a thousand leagues (or however far) away.
Smoker sounded grouchy. Of course, he always sounded grouchy. "I have news from Navy Headquarters. Both of your white papers have been approved for publication in this quarter's edition of the Posse."
One of the internal magazines the Navy published was a quarterly journal called the Captain's Posse - Captains (and on occasion, Commanders) could submit short white papers outlining various reforms to policies or regulations, and those which passed whichever brass were in charge of the journal - I presumed one of the Admirals was nominally in charge, though a Vice or Rear Admiral probably did all of the actual work - got their ideas circulated around the top ranks. I wasn't sure how often said proposals were actually enacted (presumably, only when the authors reached the rank to implement them themselves) but publication in the Posse was a good sign that you were on the up-and-up in the internal politics of the organization.
A few months ago, Smoker had called Tashigi and I in and ordered us to submit our own proposals, "to better hone your sense of justice." He'd then outright refused to assist further - everything, from the proposal to the word choice had to be ours.
Smoker had never gotten published in the Posse and now it was too late.
"My article was about the need for increased focus on less-than-lethal sword techniques in standard Marine training." Tashigi's simulacra was tinny, but far more accurate than Smoker's - this particular Mushi probably hadn't needed to mimic a woman's voice in a while. The Navy didn't have a surfeit of females among either the officers or the enlisted. "What was yours, Barrett-san?"
I grunted, buying myself a little time.
"Just a thought exercise about Impel Down," I said at last. "A purely positive analysis."
"Eh?"
"...Purely without reference to moral values," I hastened to explain. "And sticking just to the facts. What is, rather than what ought to be."
This was… not entirely true. My paper had been phrased entirely for the Navy's benefit - my actual reasons for the reform were entirely different.
"You're being obtuse, Elcid," my fellow captain took on a slightly sharper tone. "What did you propose?"
Shit.
"...Can we talk about this after I get back from my mission?" I asked instead. "It'll be easier in person."
I wasn't lying about that - my attention was drifting a bit. The Light was better than caffeine but that good old fashioned shut-eye was the gold standard for a reason, dammit. For combat the two were damn near identical - for intellectual processing and debate? Not a chance in hell.
"Hmmm." That was Smoker, now. That particular grunt contained a great deal of information; unlike Tashigi, it seemed like he'd actually read my paper. "The article will be published in approximately two weeks. Barrett. You will need to explain yourself then."
There was a click, and the old mushi fell asleep once more.
And as I summoned the Lt. once more, I looked forward to the same fate.
"I do believe that I must say, Captain, that this is very improper, very improper indeed."
Commander Eustace J. Dagobert, the man in charge of Freemarque's naval garrison, had a far nicer office than Smoker's. His desk was carved from what looked to be a single slab of yellowed ivory; there was an entire matrix of ship-in-a-bottles behind him; and the carpets were plush red paisley things made of fine wool.
I'd awoken once again, this time fully refreshed at reveille, and after helping myself to a cup of strong coffee with liberal amounts of cream and sugar, as well as a bowl of oatmeal, found that I'd been summoned to the commander's office. This wasn't unusual - mid-ranking officers showing up in the middle of the night was far from a common occurrence, and even if my codes had been validated, it was well within the commander's rights to question why I was on his base.
What was unusual - what I'd increasingly noticed - was the decidedly plush accommodations at Dagobert's base.
"We don't get a great many visitors, you see," the middle-aged man continued. Reaching into a drawer, he drew out a mortar and pestle; the man then opened a small box on his desk, and drew out an insectoid corpse the size of my palm. "Freemarque is an excellent example of World Government… ah… governance."
Crunch, crunch went the beetle-like thing in the mortar, reedy-looking arms pounding away with relaxed familiarity.
"Really, I don't see why you're here at all, Captain."
"Be that as it may, sir," I began. "My orders come from Vice Admiral Smoker himself."
Technically, I outranked Eustace J. Dagobert. The reality was more complicated.
"Yes, yes, the White Chaser himself," he let out a small tsk-tsk; peering into the mortar, Dagobert let out a satisfied chuckle, and took out a pinch of fine, slightly opalescent powder. He ran it down his left index finger in a narrow line, and without further ado, snorted it with apparent gusto. "Ahhhh…. Yesss….
I raised an eyebrow. "Sir?"
His eyes blinked slowly, lazily. "Right, right," he murmured. "Would you care to indulge-"
"No thank you, sir," I shook my head, my opinion of the man now sinking to the Mariana Trench. I fixed him with my best Smoker impression - eyes slightly narrowed, mouth set in a line. I was well under six feet, so it probably lost something in translation, but you couldn't have everything. "Commander, I am here because the Councilor's Circle of Freemarque requested assistance with slave raids occurring in their dominion. As sworn officers of the World Government Naval Forces, it is our duty to safeguard the lives and well-being of the citizens of Freemarque."
"Of course, of course," his head bobbed up and down like one of those drinking birds. "I understand completely, Barry-"
"That's Captain Barrett-"
"But we run a very good crew here, and as for the slave raids… I sent out a bounty, did I not? Isn't this what the professionals are for? You know… bounty hunters, pirate hunters, that sort of thing."
"I am the professional, Commander," My response was crisp and icy. "And this is, in fact, what I am here for."
He peered at me. "Are you quite sure?"
At this point, I was well within my rights to declare the man unfit for duty. I could have him sent to medical until he sobered up, or even to the brig if I felt he was being an active obstruction to my mission. I could take temporary command of the base myself, or elect his immediate subordinate to take up the acting role of garrison commander. I could Den Den Mushi headquarters or G-5 to get more reinforcements.
I did none of those things, because it was clear that this was a longstanding issue at the Freemarque garrison; because I was unsure of exactly how competent the Commander's subordinate was; and because if the man was this horrific and unprofessional, then there was almost probably a reason why, and Smoker had precious little political capital to spend willy-nilly. Dagobert, for all his questioning of my abilities and authority, had still provided a berth for me; I was fairly certain that nobody would be trying to assassinate me for the time being.
I would complete my mission, and my report regarding Freemarque would be scathing enough for the Navy to send someone who specialized in clearing out the rot from this place. Working with limited support from the local forces just meant that I had more freedom to use my abilities without fear of exposing their extent.
"Yes, sir."
"Oh." His head tilted slightly to the side. He was tripping. Or at the very least, stumbling. "...Good."
I would have asked if the Commander had any further information, but it was pretty clear that the bumblefuck had no idea what he was doing. I left the office shortly thereafter with a salute (which was half-heartedly returned) and not so much as a by-your-leave.
I still had a contact with the Councilor's Circle. With luck, I could pursue the slave raids from that end, instead.
Time to meet Lord Councilor Qard.
I awoke to a pounding at the door of the small guest quarters I'd been assigned. Still groggy, I cast a peek beyond the curtains of the miniscule window the room had - the price for an ocean view in a fortress.
The world outside was still black as pitch; neither the orange glow of the rising sun or even the cool silver of one of the planet's five moons to be seen.
I wanted to inflict violence.
Instead, I breathed deeply, and with that breath, drew in the Light that was mine to wield as a Guardian. My fatigue washed away, and with it much of my irritation. Scrambling to put at least a shirt on, I cracked open the door to find a pale-faced ensign - doubtless the newest officer on the base and therefore assigned to the graveyard shift - on the other side.
"Sir!" the man - I say man, he couldn't have been more than twenty - snapped off a shaky salute. "We have a Den Den Mushi for you, sir! It's Vice Admiral Smoker, sir!"
…Ah.
"At ease, Ensign." I didn't open the door any further, though - it wouldn't do to flash another Naval officer. "Let me get in uniform and you can escort me to the Den."
Den Den Mushi were one of the more useful oddities I'd run into in this place. The snails worked similar to old-fashioned radios-slash-telephones, to the point where while the commander of a garrison or base would have one on their desk, everyone else would head to a singular room dedicated to long-range communications.
Even setting aside their ansible nature, I had no idea what manner of evolution had produced snails with organic microphones and the ability to replicate human speech near-perfectly; I didn't even want to think about how they rang.
I dressed briskly and efficiently, and joined the ensign in the corridor, and with the ensign's help, we made our way towards the Den.
I was still pretty annoyed at losing hours of sleep, but the interruption was now understandable. I figured that the Den Den Mushi were a relatively recent invention, given that the World Government had yet to figure out such things as "Time Zones." It was probably a perfectly reasonable hour for my CO on the other side of the Grand Line.
He probably had gotten a full night's worth of sleep, the ornery bastard.
Most Dens - the Navy's term for what would be the radio room equivalent back on Earth - were fairly standard, utilitarian affairs: wooden tables, practical chairs, filing cabinets, that sort of thing. This Den, however… was a den. I'm talking couches, coffee tables, a dartboard, the works.
The snail placed in front of me was an old geezer - I knew this, because it had big, thick, bushy gray eyebrows and a beard that could audition for ZZ Top.
Picking up the bell-shaped black shell that served as the creature's microphone, I poked the creature - which was napping - and once its eyes were glaring at me, spoke up.
"This is Barrett."
"Moshi Moshi, Barrett-san!" Needless to say, the chipper voice on the other end of the call was decidedly not the Vice Admiral. "This is Lieutenant Yoshi - transferring you to the Vice Admiral now."
Upon which my damn snail immediately fell asleep again. Or maybe it'd died; I did not have the technical expertise to diagnose a biological impossibility.
I was halfway through playing "Thinking Time" on the harmonica when a passable imitation of the Vice Admiral's voice came out of the Den Den Mushi's mouth.
"This is Smoker."
I played a few more notes, just out of spite, and for the pleasure of hearing the man sigh, a thousand leagues (or however far) away.
Smoker sounded grouchy. Of course, he always sounded grouchy. "I have news from Navy Headquarters. Both of your white papers have been approved for publication in this quarter's edition of the Posse."
One of the internal magazines the Navy published was a quarterly journal called the Captain's Posse - Captains (and on occasion, Commanders) could submit short white papers outlining various reforms to policies or regulations, and those which passed whichever brass were in charge of the journal - I presumed one of the Admirals was nominally in charge, though a Vice or Rear Admiral probably did all of the actual work - got their ideas circulated around the top ranks. I wasn't sure how often said proposals were actually enacted (presumably, only when the authors reached the rank to implement them themselves) but publication in the Posse was a good sign that you were on the up-and-up in the internal politics of the organization.
A few months ago, Smoker had called Tashigi and I in and ordered us to submit our own proposals, "to better hone your sense of justice." He'd then outright refused to assist further - everything, from the proposal to the word choice had to be ours.
Smoker had never gotten published in the Posse and now it was too late.
"My article was about the need for increased focus on less-than-lethal sword techniques in standard Marine training." Tashigi's simulacra was tinny, but far more accurate than Smoker's - this particular Mushi probably hadn't needed to mimic a woman's voice in a while. The Navy didn't have a surfeit of females among either the officers or the enlisted. "What was yours, Barrett-san?"
I grunted, buying myself a little time.
"Just a thought exercise about Impel Down," I said at last. "A purely positive analysis."
"Eh?"
"...Purely without reference to moral values," I hastened to explain. "And sticking just to the facts. What is, rather than what ought to be."
This was… not entirely true. My paper had been phrased entirely for the Navy's benefit - my actual reasons for the reform were entirely different.
"You're being obtuse, Elcid," my fellow captain took on a slightly sharper tone. "What did you propose?"
Shit.
"...Can we talk about this after I get back from my mission?" I asked instead. "It'll be easier in person."
I wasn't lying about that - my attention was drifting a bit. The Light was better than caffeine but that good old fashioned shut-eye was the gold standard for a reason, dammit. For combat the two were damn near identical - for intellectual processing and debate? Not a chance in hell.
"Hmmm." That was Smoker, now. That particular grunt contained a great deal of information; unlike Tashigi, it seemed like he'd actually read my paper. "The article will be published in approximately two weeks. Barrett. You will need to explain yourself then."
There was a click, and the old mushi fell asleep once more.
And as I summoned the Lt. once more, I looked forward to the same fate.
"I do believe that I must say, Captain, that this is very improper, very improper indeed."
Commander Eustace J. Dagobert, the man in charge of Freemarque's naval garrison, had a far nicer office than Smoker's. His desk was carved from what looked to be a single slab of yellowed ivory; there was an entire matrix of ship-in-a-bottles behind him; and the carpets were plush red paisley things made of fine wool.
I'd awoken once again, this time fully refreshed at reveille, and after helping myself to a cup of strong coffee with liberal amounts of cream and sugar, as well as a bowl of oatmeal, found that I'd been summoned to the commander's office. This wasn't unusual - mid-ranking officers showing up in the middle of the night was far from a common occurrence, and even if my codes had been validated, it was well within the commander's rights to question why I was on his base.
What was unusual - what I'd increasingly noticed - was the decidedly plush accommodations at Dagobert's base.
"We don't get a great many visitors, you see," the middle-aged man continued. Reaching into a drawer, he drew out a mortar and pestle; the man then opened a small box on his desk, and drew out an insectoid corpse the size of my palm. "Freemarque is an excellent example of World Government… ah… governance."
Crunch, crunch went the beetle-like thing in the mortar, reedy-looking arms pounding away with relaxed familiarity.
"Really, I don't see why you're here at all, Captain."
"Be that as it may, sir," I began. "My orders come from Vice Admiral Smoker himself."
Technically, I outranked Eustace J. Dagobert. The reality was more complicated.
"Yes, yes, the White Chaser himself," he let out a small tsk-tsk; peering into the mortar, Dagobert let out a satisfied chuckle, and took out a pinch of fine, slightly opalescent powder. He ran it down his left index finger in a narrow line, and without further ado, snorted it with apparent gusto. "Ahhhh…. Yesss….
I raised an eyebrow. "Sir?"
His eyes blinked slowly, lazily. "Right, right," he murmured. "Would you care to indulge-"
"No thank you, sir," I shook my head, my opinion of the man now sinking to the Mariana Trench. I fixed him with my best Smoker impression - eyes slightly narrowed, mouth set in a line. I was well under six feet, so it probably lost something in translation, but you couldn't have everything. "Commander, I am here because the Councilor's Circle of Freemarque requested assistance with slave raids occurring in their dominion. As sworn officers of the World Government Naval Forces, it is our duty to safeguard the lives and well-being of the citizens of Freemarque."
"Of course, of course," his head bobbed up and down like one of those drinking birds. "I understand completely, Barry-"
"That's Captain Barrett-"
"But we run a very good crew here, and as for the slave raids… I sent out a bounty, did I not? Isn't this what the professionals are for? You know… bounty hunters, pirate hunters, that sort of thing."
"I am the professional, Commander," My response was crisp and icy. "And this is, in fact, what I am here for."
He peered at me. "Are you quite sure?"
At this point, I was well within my rights to declare the man unfit for duty. I could have him sent to medical until he sobered up, or even to the brig if I felt he was being an active obstruction to my mission. I could take temporary command of the base myself, or elect his immediate subordinate to take up the acting role of garrison commander. I could Den Den Mushi headquarters or G-5 to get more reinforcements.
I did none of those things, because it was clear that this was a longstanding issue at the Freemarque garrison; because I was unsure of exactly how competent the Commander's subordinate was; and because if the man was this horrific and unprofessional, then there was almost probably a reason why, and Smoker had precious little political capital to spend willy-nilly. Dagobert, for all his questioning of my abilities and authority, had still provided a berth for me; I was fairly certain that nobody would be trying to assassinate me for the time being.
I would complete my mission, and my report regarding Freemarque would be scathing enough for the Navy to send someone who specialized in clearing out the rot from this place. Working with limited support from the local forces just meant that I had more freedom to use my abilities without fear of exposing their extent.
"Yes, sir."
"Oh." His head tilted slightly to the side. He was tripping. Or at the very least, stumbling. "...Good."
I would have asked if the Commander had any further information, but it was pretty clear that the bumblefuck had no idea what he was doing. I left the office shortly thereafter with a salute (which was half-heartedly returned) and not so much as a by-your-leave.
I still had a contact with the Councilor's Circle. With luck, I could pursue the slave raids from that end, instead.
Time to meet Lord Councilor Qard.
- Location
- Elsewhere
Or the time zones are just as nonsensical as everything else in the Grand Line.
Maybe they follow latitude, like racing stripes around the world!
So he was helping!
"If you want to get published, do the exact opposite of what I did."
Reforming the Purpose of Impel Down: A Positive Analysis
Title: Reforming the Purpose of Impel Down: A Positive Analysis
Principal Investigator: Elcid Barrett, Captain (Brevet)
Background: Since the breakout of approximately 250 individuals from the great prison fortress Impel Down, various reforms and adjustments to containment procedures have been implemented to reduce further risk of inmate non-detainment. However, given the nature of the inmates assigned to the prison, these procedures may prove insufficient given the increase in threats to the Navy and nations of the World Government. I therefore propose a radical reform of the prison system in order that these security risks be managed more effectively.
Approach: As the inmates of the great prison fortress Impel Down have been convinced of such crimes including murder, grand larceny, and piracy, and other felonious offenses against the peoples of the World Government, I submit that rather than continue our present mass incarceration efforts, all current occupants of the prisoners should instead be liquidated, with continued liquidations upon arrival of any new "inmates."
A key security concern regarding this proposed measure is regarding the succession of Devil Fruits consumed by a number of inmates. Given our understanding of Devil Fruit propagation (see Vegapunk File RDX-544), I therefore propose the creation of an orchard in the upper levels of the prison containing a large sampling of the fruits most commonly mutated by Devil Fruits. I estimate that as high as 70 percent of all Devil Fruits reintroduced to the world will be captured by this garden. Furthermore, any remaining released Devil Fruits will either fall into the hands of the Navy or Navy-sympathetic personnel; or be utilized by pirates unfamiliar with their newfound powers, even as the Navy understands the effects and weaknesses associated with any particular fruit so released.
Objectives:
1. Mitigation of Prisoner Escape Risk. The mass breakout of inmates from all five levels of Impel Down has led to a fundamental disruption of the current balance of power on the Grand Line. Further breakouts would lead to the release of further hardened criminal elements into the wider seas, causing devastating effects on civilians and Navy personnel alike.
2. More Flexible Deployment of Key Assets. The Warden of Impel Down is well-understood to be a key asset to the World Government given his Paramecia; however, his strength is tied down due to the need for personnel of sufficient strength in case of prisoner confinement escape attempts. Other key Naval assets, including several battleships, must also remain stationed at Impel Down. This reduction of mission scope will allow for more flexible deployment of the Warden and associated personnel and materiel to other battlefields or pirate engagements.
3. Cost Savings from Personnel Reduction. This drawdown in mission scope at Impel Down, will require far fewer prison guards and other support personnel than present. Cost savings will naturally accrue. In particular, the Enhanced Interrogation Program sustained at Impel Down has produced at most middling results with respect to actionable Naval intelligence; prisoner liquidation would remove entirely the need for this program
4. Management of Reputational Risk to the Navy. The increased boldness of dissident movements, such as the "Revolutionary Army," comes from perceived moral deficiencies regarding Naval personnel and strategy. The closure of the Enhanced Interrogation Program would remove any reputational risk, or "propaganda victories" by dissident elements. Disclosure of the extent of the Enhanced Interrogation Program to the public would serve to inflame tensions and contribute to increased alienation between the Navy and constituent governments of the world, as well as reduce naval recruitment figures below minimum force maintenance projections.
5. Enhanced Personnel Life Expectancy. While Naval Personnel can and often do bring in criminal pirates alive, this strategy, in particular with respect towards Devil Fruit Users, has led to increased casualty rates among enlisted or conscripted men. Given the ultimate outcome of all prisoners regardless of capture status under this proposal, personnel would no longer be restricted with respect to tactics which prioritize the capture of pirate criminals over their own preservation.
Cost Breakdown: This proposal is expected to be revenue-positive. The breakdown of proposed costs is as follows…
Principal Investigator: Elcid Barrett, Captain (Brevet)
Background: Since the breakout of approximately 250 individuals from the great prison fortress Impel Down, various reforms and adjustments to containment procedures have been implemented to reduce further risk of inmate non-detainment. However, given the nature of the inmates assigned to the prison, these procedures may prove insufficient given the increase in threats to the Navy and nations of the World Government. I therefore propose a radical reform of the prison system in order that these security risks be managed more effectively.
Approach: As the inmates of the great prison fortress Impel Down have been convinced of such crimes including murder, grand larceny, and piracy, and other felonious offenses against the peoples of the World Government, I submit that rather than continue our present mass incarceration efforts, all current occupants of the prisoners should instead be liquidated, with continued liquidations upon arrival of any new "inmates."
A key security concern regarding this proposed measure is regarding the succession of Devil Fruits consumed by a number of inmates. Given our understanding of Devil Fruit propagation (see Vegapunk File RDX-544), I therefore propose the creation of an orchard in the upper levels of the prison containing a large sampling of the fruits most commonly mutated by Devil Fruits. I estimate that as high as 70 percent of all Devil Fruits reintroduced to the world will be captured by this garden. Furthermore, any remaining released Devil Fruits will either fall into the hands of the Navy or Navy-sympathetic personnel; or be utilized by pirates unfamiliar with their newfound powers, even as the Navy understands the effects and weaknesses associated with any particular fruit so released.
Objectives:
1. Mitigation of Prisoner Escape Risk. The mass breakout of inmates from all five levels of Impel Down has led to a fundamental disruption of the current balance of power on the Grand Line. Further breakouts would lead to the release of further hardened criminal elements into the wider seas, causing devastating effects on civilians and Navy personnel alike.
2. More Flexible Deployment of Key Assets. The Warden of Impel Down is well-understood to be a key asset to the World Government given his Paramecia; however, his strength is tied down due to the need for personnel of sufficient strength in case of prisoner confinement escape attempts. Other key Naval assets, including several battleships, must also remain stationed at Impel Down. This reduction of mission scope will allow for more flexible deployment of the Warden and associated personnel and materiel to other battlefields or pirate engagements.
3. Cost Savings from Personnel Reduction. This drawdown in mission scope at Impel Down, will require far fewer prison guards and other support personnel than present. Cost savings will naturally accrue. In particular, the Enhanced Interrogation Program sustained at Impel Down has produced at most middling results with respect to actionable Naval intelligence; prisoner liquidation would remove entirely the need for this program
4. Management of Reputational Risk to the Navy. The increased boldness of dissident movements, such as the "Revolutionary Army," comes from perceived moral deficiencies regarding Naval personnel and strategy. The closure of the Enhanced Interrogation Program would remove any reputational risk, or "propaganda victories" by dissident elements. Disclosure of the extent of the Enhanced Interrogation Program to the public would serve to inflame tensions and contribute to increased alienation between the Navy and constituent governments of the world, as well as reduce naval recruitment figures below minimum force maintenance projections.
5. Enhanced Personnel Life Expectancy. While Naval Personnel can and often do bring in criminal pirates alive, this strategy, in particular with respect towards Devil Fruit Users, has led to increased casualty rates among enlisted or conscripted men. Given the ultimate outcome of all prisoners regardless of capture status under this proposal, personnel would no longer be restricted with respect to tactics which prioritize the capture of pirate criminals over their own preservation.
Cost Breakdown: This proposal is expected to be revenue-positive. The breakdown of proposed costs is as follows…
pingas plight
-Most cunning scientific fuck-up in all of Mobius
Wait, what does "prisoner liquidation" even mean? It sounds stupid, but do they just mean making big vats of seawater and chucking inmates in them?
- Location
- Elsewhere
Alternate title: Why is a show about pirates rated PG?!
I assume it involves a blender.
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Blinktwice13
Underpaid Struggle Bus Attendant
- Location
- Eastern US
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Holy Capital Punishment, Batman!
Firedon
Lazy Sleepy Cat
- Location
- Germany
It's a synonym for murder. Which tbh, I'm weirdly okay with. In general I'd say no, capital punishment sucks, but I would view it as an improvement to daily torture. Ironically, the least tortured prisoners are down in level 6, where the unpersoned people go. They're mostly just held in their cells instead of being chased through a forest of blades with sharp grass, chased by giant monsters, kept on the brink of starvation, forced to work in horribly high temperatures, being dunked into boiling blood, being dangled over open flames, or having to survive a frozen wasteland with vicious wolves while the food provided to you is frozen to the point of being inedible and you're at constant risk of death or frostbite.
So yeah, plans to unfuck even parts of impel down, let alone abolish the entire thing? Great!
Its the polite way of saying executing them
pingas plight
-Most cunning scientific fuck-up in all of Mobius
Would that be better or worse than just sea-water baths for the devil fruited prisoners?
Firedon
Lazy Sleepy Cat
- Location
- Germany
Worse, unless the baths include attempted drowning, in which case it goes back to frequency and duration of torture vs finality. Afaik, the actual effect of seawater on devil fruit users is mainly just making them feel really weak and messing with their powers a bit, though I don't remember how or if it changes between active fruits and passive fruits. I *want* to say you can't actively use your powers while in a sea water bath, but there was the bit during the early Arlong Arc when I think it was Nami had to hold on to Luffy's head to keep it above water, which kept his neck stretched since the rest of his body was buried under some rubble in the pool, so it can't be a full "poof power gone you're a normal human+weakness".
Plus, Luffy being able to fight underwater by keeping his head and torso in an airbubble as another example. Though the counterexample is seastone cuffs completely negating your ability to use your devil fruit.
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If One Piece wasn't a zany shounen manga, Impel Down would be completely unexplainable. No sane person would build something of that size just to throw in every pirate they get and torture them until they die while leaving a significant fraction of their forces there to defend it, even with devil fruits. The chance whoever gets it next isn't a random mass murderer/ actual pirate/ one of the pirates who don't do anything/ unpersoned is pretty high, after all.
As much as I believe capital punishment to be somewhat overused and to require stricter standards I feel like this change to their rather dangerously structured prison system is needed and hope that it succeeds and sparks further reform.
The latter part is especially important after all I doubt I'm the one here that believes the death penalty for grand larceny is excessive or that the world government and even some real world governments should have separate punishment standards for the events of elimination of reasonable doubt vs what one can generally consider absolute certainty.
The latter part is especially important after all I doubt I'm the one here that believes the death penalty for grand larceny is excessive or that the world government and even some real world governments should have separate punishment standards for the events of elimination of reasonable doubt vs what one can generally consider absolute certainty.
MrMalix
Smiling Devil By Your Side
Of course the Guardian is concerned about the loot drops.
- Location
- Oregon, USA
The REAL truth behind impel down:
The reason they don't execute everyone is because some CD way back when saw all the crimes of some dude getting executed and thought 'Why is this guy getting off so easy? We should make him suffer, THEN kill him!'
The reason they don't execute everyone is because some CD way back when saw all the crimes of some dude getting executed and thought 'Why is this guy getting off so easy? We should make him suffer, THEN kill him!'
Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
It was raining when I left the base: fat drops of water pouring down like a drunken god against the wall of a dodgy celestial alleyway, a deluge of uncomfortably warm water from an overcast sky that would inevitably peter out within the hour. I kept the hood of my waxed cotton cloak up - this one a regulation tan instead of my usual black - and trudged through the mid-morning streets, nodding with approval at how the water swirled into well-placed gutters.
The streets around the garrison were nearly deserted. The establishments there consisted mainly of navy bars and cheap brothels, which tended to see more trade during the night, but the lack of foot traffic in the area painted more of a picture as to the state of affairs. There were no street meat carts; no fruit hawkers. The usual tattoo parlors and liquor stores were present, but they were staffed by former Marines - you could tell it by their stride and manner.
None of the regular, more innocent amenities around a military base seemed to be run by locals. That painted a pretty damning picture as to how the Navy was viewed around here.
The further I got from the base, therefore, the busier it became. Soon I became merely one man among many; everyone was jostling on their way to whatever daily errands they were on. The sound of beggars and vendors and con men all plying their trades echoed off the buildings; I personally stopped by a cart that was selling what looked like (and was) beef satay - big chunks of meat on wooden skewers and smothered in a peanut sauce.
It was only after my second skewer that I realized I was an island.
At this point, the streets were packed like a Manhattan subway - and yet I stood in a circumference of bare cobblestones maybe a foot or two wide.
I chewed thoughtfully on my final satay as I watched the population a bit more closely.
It was pretty damn obvious that I was an outsider - I wasn't wearing anything with the actual Naval insignia on it, but pretty much everyone was wearing the same sort of thing. A literal jumpsuit - with the "jacket" and pants a single garment in, zipped up to the chest, and a collared shirt or blouse beneath it. Ties were worn by most of the men, in varying colors and patterns from the subtle to the eye-scorching; women clutched at handbags - the smaller the bag, the more luxurious it appeared to be. Men's jumpsuits were uniformly black or gray, plain or pinstriped; women had the full palette to choose from.
Most of them did not choose well.
"You do stick out here, don't you?" Navi's voice buzzed in my ear. I flinched, turning around in a vain attempt to find the Ghost.
"Don't worry," he soothed. "I just figured out a neat trick. By tuning the sub-harmonics of the pocket dimension I hide away in… and you're not going to understand it, are you?"
I didn't answer verbally, but raised a scientifically ignorant eyebrow.
"...I can't see your expression, but I can imagine it right now. Fine. Just so you know… I don't really understand the process either."
If Navi were present - corporeal, rather - I'd probably have given his chassis a nuggie for that. Affectionately.
"Handy," I told him, and began to make my way to the center of the city.
Architecturally, Ket looked like Wilmington, Delaware - not I'd never actually been there, or even seen a picture of that particular city. I'd only ever viewed it as a line of white text against the green of an interstate exit sign, but even still, there was an image of it fixed in my brain, and Ket had pretty much nailed it. Lots of mid-rise buildings built in the seventies and eighties by people who were not getting paid extra for style. The unadorned box was the dominant architectural feature; lots of brick, lots of what looked like concrete but probably wasn't, very little ornamentation to be found anywhere.
In the center of the city stood the Capitol Building for the Confederation of Freemarque. It looked like the Parthenon, if the Parthenon had been designed by accountants and inspired by actuaries. The sole feature of interest was the mosaic over the entrance: it looked somewhat like a more ornate Greek key pattern, only with the motifs sequestered away from each other.
"It looks almost as if it's Charlemagnian." Navi commented.
That… wasn't a language but Navi had some very peculiar ideas about history. He'd once claimed that Zapp Rudder was an actual person; even I, a caveman when it came to history, knew that the first Holy Roman Emperor was Carolingian - off in that weird area that was either France or Germany depending on which century you were in.
"Oh?" I asked, because I wasn't a complete asshole to my partner. "What does it say, then?"
"bopei bn asud bfqw efaiwejt asld fijkwsef asold fa!" Navi reported, somehow pronouncing the unpronounceable.
That bit of gibberish, I was going to let stand on its own.
The reception area looked straight out of a dental office from the Seventies - yellowing plaster walls, cheap looking carpet in a "fun" shade of gray with random flecks of color, battered old chairs with rudimentary wooden arms and rough synthetic cushioning. The only difference was the size and the logo on the wall - an abstract representation of weights and measures, set against the odd semi-compass of the World Government.
"Can I help you?" asked the woman behind the receptionist's desk - 270 degrees of laminated particleboard, stacks of paperwork a foot high, and no less than a dozen dozing Den Den Mushi.
"Captain Elcid Barrett, Navy, ma'am," I showed her my badge. "I'm here to see Master Qard."
She looked decidedly unimpressed, the platonic ideal of every gray-haired secretary who'd seen it all… everywhere. "Do you have an appointment?"
"No ma'am." The acknowledgement came easily; it wasn't as if I'd expected them to roll out the red carpet for me. "But I can wait."
"Please have a seat," I was informed. "We have periodicals on the table in case you have need of any entertainment."
The seats were exactly as uncomfortable as you would expect - somehow, the coarse fibers of the upholstery were able to reach straight through my rain cloak and pants and rub irritatingly against my buttocks, even when I wasn't moving. This was a fabric that probably had been specifically chosen because it was one-hundredth of a penny cheaper by the yard than one that hadn't gotten all of the needles removed from it.
"-ello Edna," the receptionist was saying into a thoroughly bored snail. "Yes, a Marine Captain. I guess he's kind of handsome? I don't know, I haven't even looked at a man since Gerald left me for that hussy. Oh, well isn't that nice? Sure thing, hon. Sure. Sure. No, not since New Year's-"
I grabbed what I thought was a magazine (the cover of which was a very plain navy with gray lettering) and started reading before I went insane.
As it turned out, the Confederation of Freemarque thought that the best thing to kill time while waiting for a government official were matte-bound reports regarding the country's economic statistics. Mostly out of idle curiosity, I picked up the thinnest one they had - titled "Summary Output, Short Form, Paper And Paper Products Industry"; it consisted of compilations of inputs and output tables, condensed interviews with factory owners, and explanations of statistical penetration into other markets. Extremely dense, highly technical stuff.
Apparently, Freemarque accounted for something like 13 percent of all paper output in the world. That was actually down from a high of 15 percent about three years ago.
Fascinating stuff. Seriously.
I was midway through a labor costs breakdown of a representative factory when the receptionist's shadow fell over the report.
"Master Qard will see you now."
"Excellent," I stated, rising to my feet, report still in hand. "...Can I keep this?"
The hallway pretty much met my expectations from the waiting room - though the literal blank pieces of paper which they had framed did get me for a double take.
"Size A4, Grade AA" the brass plate below one of them read, along with the year it was apparently produced.
Three intersections and one flight of stairs later, I stood in front of a set of double doors made of a dark stained wood.
The receptionist knocked firmly on a bronze plate that had been affixed to the wall immediately to the left of the doors.
"Come in!" A somewhat harried-sounding voice echoed faintly from the other side.
Councilor Qard was a ruddy-faced, balding man who looked like he should be wearing glasses even if he wasn't. As he stood up from his desk, I saw that he had the figure of a nine months pregnant woman - pear-shaped, with stick-like legs that belonged on a stork or, perhaps, given his complexion, a flamingo. He wore the same jumpsuit-suit that every other local I'd seen on Ket wear, and had accessorized with a red tie. A pin with the flag of the World Government was affixed to his lapel, and the pinprick of blood on his index finger told me the suddenness with which it had been placed.
"Captain Barrett!" He exclaimed, reaching over the desk to shake my hand. For all the public-sector squalor of the rest of the building, the Councilor's office was actually quite plush. The double doors were backed with upholstered leather; a well-stocked bar cart rested to the side of his big, official, probably-not-compensating-for-anything desk. "Welcome to Ket! Please, sit, sit!"
"Thank you, Master Qard," I grasped his hand firmly, as he frantically pumped it. I lowered myself into one of the two seats meant for visitors - and repressed a sigh of utter relief and contentment.
So that was where the chair budget had gone.
"I must say, Captain," Qard informed me. "I wasn't aware that anyone from the Navy was coming."
I frowned. "I was under the impression that the government of Freemarque had requested our assistance."
He blinked. "Assistance? For the- oh, for the labor losses, you mean."
Well, wasn't that a new euphemism.
Having settled comfortably into my chair, I reached into my chest pocket - ignoring the sudden tension in Qard's face as I did so - and pulled out my most vital and useful tool.
A small, spiral-bound notebook, and a pen.
"I was briefed by Vice Admiral Smoker, Councilor," I informed him, flicking through the pages. "You've had issues with slavers for a number of months, if I am not mistaken?"
"Ah… yes… certainly we have," he gave me a queasy-looking smile. "But the Council went through the proper channels for that - spoke with the local garrison, that sort of thing. I only mentioned it in passing to Chase-"
I made a small, choked sound in the back of my throat. Technically speaking, Smoker had a first name. But I'd never actually heard anyone use it to refer to him.
"-would you care for a drink?" He motioned at the bar cart.
I held up a hand. "Some water would be appreciated."
"I, ah… don't have any on hand. Would a cola suffice?"
I wasn't even aware that this planet had cola.
"Yes please!"
The dark soda came in a glass bottle frosted over with condensation, with a figure that could only be found back home in the factories down old Mexico way, with a bright red crimped bottletop. Qard produced a opener from one of his desk drawers, and I could hear the pop and fizz of glorious carbonation.
It took a not inconsiderable amount of willpower to not snatch the thing from his hand before he placed it in front of me.
I wasn't even that much of a soda fan to begin with. But it had been over a year since I'd had any-
My tongue went numb the moment the bubbling liquid poured into my mouth.
…Ah.
"A cold Pember is fantastic when I really need to get some work done," Qard nodded. "Now then, yes, we have the issue, but I was under the impression that Commander Dagobert was handling it."
Of course the cola on this planet would have cocaine in it. Really, I should have expected it to. What was next? I'd find out that lollipops were also around, albeit laced with LSD? Jello with flavors consisting of bourbon, vodka, and gin?
I was fine, everything was fine, I'd just ask Navi to blast me with Light the moment I was out of this goddamn office.
"Dagobert has his areas of expertise," I said diplomatically, though for the life of me I wouldn't be able to name any. But you weren't supposed to badmouth other Navy officials to outsiders. Even if they were ain't nothing but bitches and hos. "But I am particularly well suited to hunting down pirates, Master Qard. Any information you can give me would be most helpful."
He nodded. My heart was beginning to pound. There couldn't be that much cocaine in the bottle, could it? This was just the nocebo effect, there wasn't time for the drug to be hitting my system.
I felt flushed, hot. Instinctively, I took another gulp of cola-
-Fuck.
"If it means that my people are safe," Qard fixed me in his beady little eyes. The man was now acting like it was election season - though I didn't know if Freemarque had those. "Then I can hardly object to more support from the Navy. What do you need?"
To not be dosed with cocaine, Councilor, but I couldn't exactly tell him that. The damn stuff wasn't banned by the World Government - nor had it been back in the States until around the turn of the century.
"I'd like to speak with the families of those who were taken," I informed him, practically vibrating in the chair. "Access to any files any peace officers or their employers might have on them. That sort of thing."
"You'll have it," he promised. "My son, Miles, is a Partner of the Watch." I could hear the capitals in his words. "I'll contact him immediately. He should have all the resources you need."
Things never went this smoothly. I didn't trust it. I didn't trust anyone.
Fuck. Cocaine. Navi. Had to get Navi to cure me.
He better not laugh at me, dammit. Or I'd wring his shell out like a shirt.
"Thank you, Councilor," I said, and got up - sprang up, more like - from my chair. "Rest assured, Captain Barrett isonthecase!"
It was raining when I left the base: fat drops of water pouring down like a drunken god against the wall of a dodgy celestial alleyway, a deluge of uncomfortably warm water from an overcast sky that would inevitably peter out within the hour. I kept the hood of my waxed cotton cloak up - this one a regulation tan instead of my usual black - and trudged through the mid-morning streets, nodding with approval at how the water swirled into well-placed gutters.
The streets around the garrison were nearly deserted. The establishments there consisted mainly of navy bars and cheap brothels, which tended to see more trade during the night, but the lack of foot traffic in the area painted more of a picture as to the state of affairs. There were no street meat carts; no fruit hawkers. The usual tattoo parlors and liquor stores were present, but they were staffed by former Marines - you could tell it by their stride and manner.
None of the regular, more innocent amenities around a military base seemed to be run by locals. That painted a pretty damning picture as to how the Navy was viewed around here.
The further I got from the base, therefore, the busier it became. Soon I became merely one man among many; everyone was jostling on their way to whatever daily errands they were on. The sound of beggars and vendors and con men all plying their trades echoed off the buildings; I personally stopped by a cart that was selling what looked like (and was) beef satay - big chunks of meat on wooden skewers and smothered in a peanut sauce.
It was only after my second skewer that I realized I was an island.
At this point, the streets were packed like a Manhattan subway - and yet I stood in a circumference of bare cobblestones maybe a foot or two wide.
I chewed thoughtfully on my final satay as I watched the population a bit more closely.
It was pretty damn obvious that I was an outsider - I wasn't wearing anything with the actual Naval insignia on it, but pretty much everyone was wearing the same sort of thing. A literal jumpsuit - with the "jacket" and pants a single garment in, zipped up to the chest, and a collared shirt or blouse beneath it. Ties were worn by most of the men, in varying colors and patterns from the subtle to the eye-scorching; women clutched at handbags - the smaller the bag, the more luxurious it appeared to be. Men's jumpsuits were uniformly black or gray, plain or pinstriped; women had the full palette to choose from.
Most of them did not choose well.
"You do stick out here, don't you?" Navi's voice buzzed in my ear. I flinched, turning around in a vain attempt to find the Ghost.
"Don't worry," he soothed. "I just figured out a neat trick. By tuning the sub-harmonics of the pocket dimension I hide away in… and you're not going to understand it, are you?"
I didn't answer verbally, but raised a scientifically ignorant eyebrow.
"...I can't see your expression, but I can imagine it right now. Fine. Just so you know… I don't really understand the process either."
If Navi were present - corporeal, rather - I'd probably have given his chassis a nuggie for that. Affectionately.
"Handy," I told him, and began to make my way to the center of the city.
Architecturally, Ket looked like Wilmington, Delaware - not I'd never actually been there, or even seen a picture of that particular city. I'd only ever viewed it as a line of white text against the green of an interstate exit sign, but even still, there was an image of it fixed in my brain, and Ket had pretty much nailed it. Lots of mid-rise buildings built in the seventies and eighties by people who were not getting paid extra for style. The unadorned box was the dominant architectural feature; lots of brick, lots of what looked like concrete but probably wasn't, very little ornamentation to be found anywhere.
In the center of the city stood the Capitol Building for the Confederation of Freemarque. It looked like the Parthenon, if the Parthenon had been designed by accountants and inspired by actuaries. The sole feature of interest was the mosaic over the entrance: it looked somewhat like a more ornate Greek key pattern, only with the motifs sequestered away from each other.
"It looks almost as if it's Charlemagnian." Navi commented.
That… wasn't a language but Navi had some very peculiar ideas about history. He'd once claimed that Zapp Rudder was an actual person; even I, a caveman when it came to history, knew that the first Holy Roman Emperor was Carolingian - off in that weird area that was either France or Germany depending on which century you were in.
"Oh?" I asked, because I wasn't a complete asshole to my partner. "What does it say, then?"
"bopei bn asud bfqw efaiwejt asld fijkwsef asold fa!" Navi reported, somehow pronouncing the unpronounceable.
That bit of gibberish, I was going to let stand on its own.
The reception area looked straight out of a dental office from the Seventies - yellowing plaster walls, cheap looking carpet in a "fun" shade of gray with random flecks of color, battered old chairs with rudimentary wooden arms and rough synthetic cushioning. The only difference was the size and the logo on the wall - an abstract representation of weights and measures, set against the odd semi-compass of the World Government.
"Can I help you?" asked the woman behind the receptionist's desk - 270 degrees of laminated particleboard, stacks of paperwork a foot high, and no less than a dozen dozing Den Den Mushi.
"Captain Elcid Barrett, Navy, ma'am," I showed her my badge. "I'm here to see Master Qard."
She looked decidedly unimpressed, the platonic ideal of every gray-haired secretary who'd seen it all… everywhere. "Do you have an appointment?"
"No ma'am." The acknowledgement came easily; it wasn't as if I'd expected them to roll out the red carpet for me. "But I can wait."
"Please have a seat," I was informed. "We have periodicals on the table in case you have need of any entertainment."
The seats were exactly as uncomfortable as you would expect - somehow, the coarse fibers of the upholstery were able to reach straight through my rain cloak and pants and rub irritatingly against my buttocks, even when I wasn't moving. This was a fabric that probably had been specifically chosen because it was one-hundredth of a penny cheaper by the yard than one that hadn't gotten all of the needles removed from it.
"-ello Edna," the receptionist was saying into a thoroughly bored snail. "Yes, a Marine Captain. I guess he's kind of handsome? I don't know, I haven't even looked at a man since Gerald left me for that hussy. Oh, well isn't that nice? Sure thing, hon. Sure. Sure. No, not since New Year's-"
I grabbed what I thought was a magazine (the cover of which was a very plain navy with gray lettering) and started reading before I went insane.
As it turned out, the Confederation of Freemarque thought that the best thing to kill time while waiting for a government official were matte-bound reports regarding the country's economic statistics. Mostly out of idle curiosity, I picked up the thinnest one they had - titled "Summary Output, Short Form, Paper And Paper Products Industry"; it consisted of compilations of inputs and output tables, condensed interviews with factory owners, and explanations of statistical penetration into other markets. Extremely dense, highly technical stuff.
Apparently, Freemarque accounted for something like 13 percent of all paper output in the world. That was actually down from a high of 15 percent about three years ago.
Fascinating stuff. Seriously.
I was midway through a labor costs breakdown of a representative factory when the receptionist's shadow fell over the report.
"Master Qard will see you now."
"Excellent," I stated, rising to my feet, report still in hand. "...Can I keep this?"
The hallway pretty much met my expectations from the waiting room - though the literal blank pieces of paper which they had framed did get me for a double take.
"Size A4, Grade AA" the brass plate below one of them read, along with the year it was apparently produced.
Three intersections and one flight of stairs later, I stood in front of a set of double doors made of a dark stained wood.
The receptionist knocked firmly on a bronze plate that had been affixed to the wall immediately to the left of the doors.
"Come in!" A somewhat harried-sounding voice echoed faintly from the other side.
Councilor Qard was a ruddy-faced, balding man who looked like he should be wearing glasses even if he wasn't. As he stood up from his desk, I saw that he had the figure of a nine months pregnant woman - pear-shaped, with stick-like legs that belonged on a stork or, perhaps, given his complexion, a flamingo. He wore the same jumpsuit-suit that every other local I'd seen on Ket wear, and had accessorized with a red tie. A pin with the flag of the World Government was affixed to his lapel, and the pinprick of blood on his index finger told me the suddenness with which it had been placed.
"Captain Barrett!" He exclaimed, reaching over the desk to shake my hand. For all the public-sector squalor of the rest of the building, the Councilor's office was actually quite plush. The double doors were backed with upholstered leather; a well-stocked bar cart rested to the side of his big, official, probably-not-compensating-for-anything desk. "Welcome to Ket! Please, sit, sit!"
"Thank you, Master Qard," I grasped his hand firmly, as he frantically pumped it. I lowered myself into one of the two seats meant for visitors - and repressed a sigh of utter relief and contentment.
So that was where the chair budget had gone.
"I must say, Captain," Qard informed me. "I wasn't aware that anyone from the Navy was coming."
I frowned. "I was under the impression that the government of Freemarque had requested our assistance."
He blinked. "Assistance? For the- oh, for the labor losses, you mean."
Well, wasn't that a new euphemism.
Having settled comfortably into my chair, I reached into my chest pocket - ignoring the sudden tension in Qard's face as I did so - and pulled out my most vital and useful tool.
A small, spiral-bound notebook, and a pen.
"I was briefed by Vice Admiral Smoker, Councilor," I informed him, flicking through the pages. "You've had issues with slavers for a number of months, if I am not mistaken?"
"Ah… yes… certainly we have," he gave me a queasy-looking smile. "But the Council went through the proper channels for that - spoke with the local garrison, that sort of thing. I only mentioned it in passing to Chase-"
I made a small, choked sound in the back of my throat. Technically speaking, Smoker had a first name. But I'd never actually heard anyone use it to refer to him.
"-would you care for a drink?" He motioned at the bar cart.
I held up a hand. "Some water would be appreciated."
"I, ah… don't have any on hand. Would a cola suffice?"
I wasn't even aware that this planet had cola.
"Yes please!"
The dark soda came in a glass bottle frosted over with condensation, with a figure that could only be found back home in the factories down old Mexico way, with a bright red crimped bottletop. Qard produced a opener from one of his desk drawers, and I could hear the pop and fizz of glorious carbonation.
It took a not inconsiderable amount of willpower to not snatch the thing from his hand before he placed it in front of me.
I wasn't even that much of a soda fan to begin with. But it had been over a year since I'd had any-
My tongue went numb the moment the bubbling liquid poured into my mouth.
…Ah.
"A cold Pember is fantastic when I really need to get some work done," Qard nodded. "Now then, yes, we have the issue, but I was under the impression that Commander Dagobert was handling it."
Of course the cola on this planet would have cocaine in it. Really, I should have expected it to. What was next? I'd find out that lollipops were also around, albeit laced with LSD? Jello with flavors consisting of bourbon, vodka, and gin?
I was fine, everything was fine, I'd just ask Navi to blast me with Light the moment I was out of this goddamn office.
"Dagobert has his areas of expertise," I said diplomatically, though for the life of me I wouldn't be able to name any. But you weren't supposed to badmouth other Navy officials to outsiders. Even if they were ain't nothing but bitches and hos. "But I am particularly well suited to hunting down pirates, Master Qard. Any information you can give me would be most helpful."
He nodded. My heart was beginning to pound. There couldn't be that much cocaine in the bottle, could it? This was just the nocebo effect, there wasn't time for the drug to be hitting my system.
I felt flushed, hot. Instinctively, I took another gulp of cola-
-Fuck.
"If it means that my people are safe," Qard fixed me in his beady little eyes. The man was now acting like it was election season - though I didn't know if Freemarque had those. "Then I can hardly object to more support from the Navy. What do you need?"
To not be dosed with cocaine, Councilor, but I couldn't exactly tell him that. The damn stuff wasn't banned by the World Government - nor had it been back in the States until around the turn of the century.
"I'd like to speak with the families of those who were taken," I informed him, practically vibrating in the chair. "Access to any files any peace officers or their employers might have on them. That sort of thing."
"You'll have it," he promised. "My son, Miles, is a Partner of the Watch." I could hear the capitals in his words. "I'll contact him immediately. He should have all the resources you need."
Things never went this smoothly. I didn't trust it. I didn't trust anyone.
Fuck. Cocaine. Navi. Had to get Navi to cure me.
He better not laugh at me, dammit. Or I'd wring his shell out like a shirt.
"Thank you, Councilor," I said, and got up - sprang up, more like - from my chair. "Rest assured, Captain Barrett isonthecase!"
- Location
- Elsewhere
"I've mostly sorted out the part where it liquefies your brain."
"...Why don't I remember this?"
"Well you know how sometimes it takes longer for you to revive than other times? I need to get my bug testing in somewhere..."
That definitely explains Frankie.