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The Arcana prefer to whisper their secrets in silence, and so, silence is what Hawkins seeks…as a rule.
When his questions turn too compulsive, the answers evade him; coil away from his grasp like the corners of burning paper. His latest readings—about the route he should pursue in this New World, or about his newly minted alliances—have proven to be unfruitful.
Now, the Grudge Dolph rests at a nameless port, and Basil Hawkins finds himself among strangers. Relaxing, some would say—well, the uninitiated would say; he is merely grounding himself, inviting the answers to approach him, as if they were a wary, but curious, animal.
Still, before his leave, Faust has meowed for him to “have fun.”
The Manticore is the kind of tavern that welcomes all misdoers. Nested between the roots of an ancient tree, the walls are gnarled, and liana curls like old fingers around the chandeliers. Despite the heat, and the damp chatter all around him, there is something in this earthy place that draws Hawkins in. He has chosen a sitting spot at the far back to nurse his warm absinthe…and watch the cards float, trying to be welcomed back in their taciturn rhythm.
“Huh? What are you on about?” Hidden from Hawkins' view, some sinner or the other keeps raising their voice. “The newspaper delivery came yesterday, right? Can’t have been drunk for so long.”
“You useless git,” someone else says. Hawkins recognizes that as the owner; not a pirate, but pirate-adjacent, hard-boiled. “The whole world's waitin' for this! They're deciding right now, the seagulls be comin' any second now…special issue, important for pirates everywhere…you should pay more attention!"
Hawkins mulls over this particular piece of conversation. Around the bark, he watches the drinker's crooked back, the barman fiddling with glasses like glinting mirrors.
Important for pirates everywhere. The cards float, turn.
Cold air fills the Manticore, and with it, new steps barge in. This time it's not the conversation that Hawkins picks up on, but rather the stillness…the tension, how the pirates suddenly seem caught between fight and flee.
Hawkins watches the tall, broad newcomer hunch over the bar. Pinstripe, a blinding yellow. Eloquent hands. Tinted sunglasses. When he talks, the squeeze in Hawkins’ entrails leaps into quiet panic.
“Oh…just the usual, please …?”
At the bar, the drinker squints, points. “Hey…I think I know this guy.”
“This guy?” The owner cackles. “If you know 'im, no you don't.”
“…make it double, will yo~ou…?”
A few pirates are already tip-toeing toward the entrance. It’s still not too late. He could do the same.
Except, in his urge to avoid the masses, Hawkins has cornered himself at the very back of the bar…
Precisely where Kizaru is now dragging his languid eyes, taking his sweet time to pick a booth.
Hawkins bows his head.
Don't move. Don't breathe.
Step after ominous step, out of the corner of his eye, the bright monster approaches.
“Oh, a fortune teller…”
The deck shuffles, a nervous tic. Cards plop down in piles.
Kizaru invites himself to the seat across from Hawkins. Spreads wide, with a nonchalance that tells the world nothing is new. He might not look like he is on duty, but Hawkins is past wishful thinking.
He turns a card. Kizaru lets out a noise of surprise, like a mosquito buzzing past Hawkins' ear.
“So~o does it work…?” His whiskey circles on the rocks. “Can you…predict the future?”
Behind the curtain of his hair, Hawkins glares up.
"That is,” frankly ignorant, but in the interest of leaving this conversation alive he says, “reductive.”
“Oh, I apologize…” Kizaru shows Hawkins his palms— what will we do about that? —then, as if smelling the cold goosebumps down his spine, he squints and adds, “I'm…sorry, have we met before…?”
“I don't know.” Hawkins shuffles again. “Have we?”
“I, ah, haven't been around here in quite a long time…”
Inside Hawkins' skull, alarm bells ring. Admiral Kizaru is playing cat and mouse; he might look unthreatening, even distracted…but the man that defeated Hawkins at Sabaody—that wiped the floor with Apoo and Drake in the same breath—also approached him while babbling about meeting his nephew.
Hawkins talks to the table, hands spidering about the deck, playing along.
“Past, present, future,” he says. “The shape that your current energy gives your actions, flowing into what must yet come. That, all of it, is in the cards.”
Kizaru hums and tilts his head, as if trying to decide if he's interested.
Then he signals for the bartender, and Hawkins finds himself with a second absinthe in front of himself and no easy way out.
“So… how does it work…?” Kizaru says. “Do we hold hands and say, ah, some magic words…?”
Hawkins ignores the quip. It's hard to tell the moment where he stops watching his escape route; perhaps this conversation, letting him read, is a sort of bargain.
“If you truly want it to work,” he says, “ask a question.”
He doesn't wait for a reaction. He turns, shuffles, pulls until the cards’ own hum winds up around him.
Three stacks, to begin with; past, present, and future. He focuses on the past, the composition of a picture he is trying to paint.
“The cards speak of conflict in your years,” he starts without prompting. He finds the Three of Pentacles a couple of times, now upright, then reversed. The Five of Wands. The Chariot, too. All of his pulls, reflected in Kizaru’s sunglasses. “Not stark, but constant. A clash between forces in your environment. A clash that defines you…” he turns the King of Cups, stops at Justice. “There is a contradiction here, too. Whichever is the problem you are thinking about, the role it has given you…is to be a force of harmony.”
Kizaru chuckles. “Now you are just flattering me~e…”
“Not me,” Hawkins says. He also finds that idea preposterous; if anything, Kizaru is a catastrophe waiting to happen. But alas, he is experienced enough to know that everything lies in the eye of the beholder. Hawkins’ own path, his own carefully crafted escalation of power, he sees as a victory—but his victims would describe it much differently. “The shoe fits, I assume.”
Kizaru sips from his glass, shrugs. Hawkins splays the cards in his favorite disposition for a more in-depth read. Present—the Wheel of Fortune, reversed. Below—the Five of Swords. “Perhaps the conflict has escalated, to the point that a cycle needs breaking…even if the consequences are negative, they will be lasting.” Above—the Eight of Swords, a card that has shown up often in Hawkins’ own readings. A self-inflicted loss of control, though why he cannot tell.
Hawkins' own, gaunt face reflects back at him in the silver cup. This, too, is a lesson he hasn’t wanted to look in the eye; the reason why he came here, seeking space from himself.
Perhaps it is similar for Kizaru. Arms crossed, smile crooked, he looks almost uninterested but doesn’t rebut anything Hawkins says. Back at Sabaody, Kizaru looked at him the same way, the predatory instinct peeking out from behind his distracted haze, effortless strength radiating from him. A force to be feared. But also to be admired, coveted.
“Should I stop?” Hawkins says, almost defiant.
A sigh. “I am all ears, soothsayer…”
He turns another card. More swords; apt for a soldier, he supposes, for a body that can make itself as thin as air.
“Loss,” Hawkins mutters to himself. “The Seven of Swords is a card of transition. Fear of change, though inevitable.” It is also a card that might have described Hawkins’ own fears; it entails all that can be lost, protected, grieved. The more one invested in it, the longer it took to achieve it.
“You talk so much about the present,” Kizaru says. “But…? I did ask a question, didn’t I…?”
Hawkins’ fingers twitch over the last card. The outcome.
He turns it, about to formulate an interpretation…a positive one. But Kizaru's frown tightens, for once genuine, as if recognizing something that worries him.
Hawkins drops his look.
To the Knight of Wands, upright; fire engraved on his armor, the land barren behind him.
What is it that he is reading?
“Oh, thank you very much for your time,” the Admiral says, the gravity gone. He stands up, holding a polite hand to his breast. “What did yo~ou say is your name…?”
When he reaches for his inner pocket, Hawkins is caught off guard. Flinching, his body furls, limbs ready to turn into straw…
…Kizaru produces his wallet, leaving a couple of notes on the table.
You really don’t remember me. The realization stings more than relieves Hawkins, a shattering of granite in his insides…but his own pride doesn’t justify refusing an easy escape.
“Basil,” he answers. No reaction. Only a thoughtful nod before Kizaru vanishes, scatters.
Since Hawkins seems to be the only customer left, it’s him that the owner approaches when Morgans’ seagull finally raps on the door, granting the man his breaking news.
“A full week of deliberation, and they ain't decided,” the old man shakes his head, flicking at the paper. “Them Government schmucks say one thing, Sengoku says another. So they decided to let ‘em tear at each other for the position.”
Hawkins blinks. Scans the print, fast, under his deck's ghostly glow.
“Hey, we could make a pretty penny putting bets on the winner. Whatcha say? Is it gonna be Akainu or Aokiji? See it in your cards?”