Chapter Text
Friday, May 10, 9:44 PM
Marco stared at the report Izou had just handed him, leaning forward until his weight pressed his forearms into the worn edges of his desk and he stilled. Twelve hours back in town and already Ace was going to win his bet. He took a moment to read over the message under the blaze of the fluorescents, then read over it again, and finally let his eyes raise as he drawled, “We just received this?”
Izou hummed, melodious voice just loud enough to hear past the cloth-like paper of his fan and the faint clatter coming through the open windows behind him, “Mmm, that’s right. Our little Marine darlings thought we’d want to know one of our own was not only in Kaidou’s territory, but had also been arrested in Kaidou’s territory.” The man shook his head and sighed tragically, his impeccable dark hair not slipping an inch out of its ofuku styling, face and neck smoothly painted white but somehow not ghostly despite the harsh light and the dark frame of night behind him, “They didn’t know who it was.” He raised a painted brow knowingly, his free hand absently tugging the opening of his pink and purple kimono over his chest a bit more against the mild spring chill he’d just come in from, “If you ask me, it’s probably one of our newest brothers or sisters. You know how excitable they are.”
Marco hummed noncommittally, eyes returning to the torn and curling scrap of lined paper pinched between his calloused fingers to read it one more time, plastic pen spinning in his other hand. But there really wasn’t that much to read:
Reports of a Whitebeard found in Kaidou’s territory and supposedly arrested, but no further information at this time. Rumors that there were two culprits are unconfirmed. Will report when new information is available.
- TWM
Thatch’s explosive sigh managed to ruffle the paper’s edge all the way from where the cook was sitting behind the desk next to Marco’s, “Ah, to be young and full of energy! We need more excitement in our lives, Marco. Look at us!” He opened his fingers, letting the color-coded knots of strings in his hands drift to the pile of papers covering a once respectable piece of furniture that could now only kindly be called an abused skeleton of wood and steel, “Tied to our desks reading reports on a Friday night. Just what is this world coming to?”
Marco didn’t bother looking up as he flicked his pen at Thatch, a little bubble of satisfaction arising at the tink-clatter and the offended “ow!” he got in response, though he knew there was no sign of it on his face.
The First Division Commander raised his eyes to find Izou hiding a smile behind his fan, twinkling gaze on Thatch. Marco reached out to set the sliver of a report on his ‘Ongoing’ stack, drawing Izou’s attention over the chipped but orderly desk as Marco replied, “Thank you, Izou. Can you let us know as soon as your informants have more, yoi? We’ll have to organize bail money from our funds once we have an idea of who it is and how much it’ll cost.”
Izou lowered his fan and dipped his chin in a nod, rouge outlining a slightly worried smile, “Of course, Marco.” He snapped the decorated fan shut and turned, heels echoing across the warped and worn wood. He paused as he opened the door, making the most of the cool breeze by tossing a smile over his shoulder, kimono rippling around him in a pose only Izou would have the timing to take advantage of as he finished with a more genuine smile, “Our ducklings on the force are hard at work as we speak!”
The scarred and battered door clattered shut, the pneumatic closer too worn to bear the weight of the violently blue wood and just squeeing in a quiet, endless protest.
Thatch snickered and Marco must’ve been in a playful mood, because he didn’t even think about it as he flicked another pen at him and received another aggrieved “ow!”
Saturday, May 11, 3:10 AM
Marco leaned against the wall of crates behind him, elbow crooked over his raised knee, drink dangling between his fingers by his shin. The warehouse doors had been thrown open to allow the early spring night in while they off-loaded the ships, cool air swirling over the bonfires and setting the dozens of dangling string lights tinkling merrily in the breeze. The gentle slap of water whispered as a barely-heard undercurrent beneath the sounds of the party, its existence evidenced by the swaying masts rising above the strip of concrete between the warehouse and the drop to the ocean. Whiffs of brine wandered between the scent of burning wood and roasting meat, a familiar and comforting aroma as his returning brothers and sisters decompressed after their latest trip. Marco was pleased to see a few new faces, wondering what their stories were and subconsciously mirroring a quieter version of the smile he was imagining Whitebeard would don when he met them. The plunder they’d brought back promised fascinating and wild tales.
Thatch appeared next to him and leaned an elbow against the crate Marco was sitting on, the white of his rolled sleeves somehow still pristine despite his involvement in the heavily sauced animals turning over the spits, “Marco, Marco, Marco!” He waved his free hand at the crowd in front of them, the warehouse full of color and laughter, his grin widening with a deep inhale. Thatch almost had to shout to be heard, “What are you doing over here all by yourself? You should be dancing! Drinking! Eating!” The man produced a slice of cake on a flower-patterned paper plate from who-knew-where and held it up enticingly, a sly grin on his face, “Just finished this sucker and I thought you might want dibs on the first slice…” He stared at his empty hands.
Marco licked the strawberry and chocolate icing from his fingers, swiping the last dollop of whipped cream up before handing the flimsy plate back to Thatch.
Who beamed at him, teeth practically sparkling with reflected firelight, “How was the consistency? I added a couple of things since last week—”
“Smooth.” Marco’s hand cast a wavering shadow over Thatch’s arm as he tipped it side-to-side, “Heavier, but the whipped cream balanced it.”
Thatch threw his head back and pumped a fist, “Yes! Finally! Perfection has been achie—”
Marco hummed and said absently, “Too much chocolate, though.”
“—ved?” Thatch deflated, “Really?” He frowned at the plate in his hands, scraping a finger through what little was left of the icing, “I thought it was pretty good earlier…” He licked his finger slowly, gaze distant, “No… you’re right. It completely drowns out the strawberry. Rats! So close!” He refocused on the plate and narrowed his eyes, turning the plate to alternate it between firelight and shadow, “Maybe if I change the ratio to two tenths dark for the chocolate icing instead of four-tenths, and…”
Marco returned to watching the rest of the warehouse, finger tapping against the plastic rim of his cup in time with the music, leaving Thatch muttering ingredients beside him. He ran his tongue over his teeth, picking at the faint traces of chocolate left over before he took a sip of his drink and the ice-cold alcohol dominated his taste buds again.
He was humming under his breath to Bink’s Sake, an oldie but a goody, fingers of his other hand drumming against his thigh to keep time with the music, when his hand stilled and the vibrations died in his throat. The ever-present small knot around Izou was morphing to permit the laughing pink-clad figure from its midst. He traveled slowly, pausing to banter with various brothers and sisters with his typical friendliness, but there was an edge skimming beneath his skin like fish beneath waves.
And he was headed straight for them.
Marco stifled a sigh and waited, consciously loosening where his shoulders were attempting to ride up toward his ears.
“—absolutely, love! Swing by my room anytime with him and I’d be happy to give you both tips on makeup!” Izou called behind him, heavy sleeve sliding to his elbow as he waved to one of their sisters. But as he turned to Marco and Thatch, silhouetted by the twin bonfires and face thrown in flickering shadow, his smile drained until it was replaced by a somber frown. “Marco.”
Marco lifted a finger from his cup in acknowledgment and Thatch glanced up from his muttering to grin and shout, “Izou!” He squinted at him and gestured vaguely, “What’s with the face?”
Izou jabbed him in the gut with his fan so quickly the only noise to come out of Thatch was his fleeing breath, and then Izou snapped the folded cloth open over his mouth and said from behind the spiraling flight of birds and a swirl of smoke, “So rude, you barbarian! This is the face of beauty!”
Thatch’s breathlessly gaping face vanished as he bowed nearly in half before there was a wheezing suck and he said, voice audible only because it was a hissing undercurrent below the festivities around them, “You… You know that’s… that’s not… that’s not what I meant…”
Izou merely smirked and snapped his fan back shut, tapping the back of Thatch’s pompadour smartly with the purpled lacquered bamboo, “Say sorry and I’ll forgive you.”
Thatch choked out something suspiciously like ‘never’ and Izou shrugged, “Fine. I’ll just warn all the girls to stay away from the brute, no need for them to get their feelings hurt.”
“Wait… I’m sorry…!”
Izou merely singsonged, “Too late~”
He turned to Marco, his bright fuchsia lipstick framing his slipping smile, “I heard back from our darlings, Marco. They have some more information to add to the report from earlier…” He glanced around them, warm orange light glinting off cool, dark eyes, “We might want to move somewhere quieter, you’re going to want to hear this…”
Saturday, May 11, 3:32 AM
“What?”
Thatch’s voice echoed between the warehouses until it escaped toward the star-speckled sky, whisked away on the same breeze the thin scudding clouds were riding. He snatched the neatly creased slip of paper from Izou and squinted at it in the dim orange glow coming through the window in the door they’d just exited, “That’s not possible! He’s supposed to be at some fancy dinner!”
Izou’s scowl was difficult to see but trivial to hear, “Yes, well, they’re certain. And I quote, ‘need backup on Lion’s Den Row blank two Whitebeards under arrest, one of blank Fire Fist’.” They struggled for a moment as a many-limbed shadowy mass before Izou managed to retrieve the now-crumpled scrap, smoothed it flat(ish), and held it out for Marco to take as he continued, “They may not have gotten every word of the call, but there’s no mistake about it. Ace was the one who was arrested in Kaidou’s territory, along with some other poor soul he dragged along.”
“Bull.” Thatch fished his phone out of his pocket, blue light turning both his auburn pompadour and the plain wooden wall behind him an almost brackish brown-green, and started flipping through his messages. “He’s supposed to be at a dinner with his brothers. And I quote,” he scoffed, “directly from Sabo, ‘Thought you might be interested in the photo below. We’re going to a fancy dinner and I wasn’t about to show up with a half-naked Whitebeard, so I dressed him properly. Doesn’t he look like a gentleman?’.”
Izou gasped and clapped his hands, every word echoing on the crisp air in their small alley between warehouses, “OOOOOH! Ace dressed up? Let me see!” Painted and glittering nails reached for the phone.
Thatch darted behind Marco and squinted over his purple-clad shoulder, breath warm through the cloth though it wasn’t yet cold enough to cloud, “No you don’t! Not until you promise you’ll tell all the ladies what a wonderful, sensitive, heartwarming gentleman I am and they should come talk to me anytime!”
Marco shifted backward and pressed the heel of his sandal onto Thatch’s booted toes, eyes never leaving the report.
“OW! Marco!”
“Don’t ask Izou to lie, yoi. You’ll ruin his reputation.”
Thatch gasped dramatically, cold flushing Marco’s abruptly unprotected back as his cook stepped away. The blue light from his phone cast wildly dancing shadows as he floundered behind Marco, “Betrayed! Betrayed by my own brother!”
Marco shook the chill off and moved out of the way, pressing his back to the wood behind him to avoid the breeze trying to tug the report from his fingers. He’d already read it four times and it wasn’t likely to reveal further secrets so he watched his brothers. Izou took a step closer and tried to grab Thatch’s phone again, but the swordsman ducked the man’s hand and spun under his billowing pink sleeve until he was behind Izou. The Sixteenth Division Commander knew when he was outmatched. He turned and pouted at Thatch, fists on his hips, “Oh, fine! I promise not to tell them you’re a brute. Is that good enough for you?”
Thatch sighed and held out his hands in a shrug, “Oh, I suppose.” Izou reached for the phone with a greedy smile and Thatch pulled it back and held up a finger, “But. You will emphasize that brunch on Sunday is an excellent social event for ladies to attend. They’ll even get a free drink for groups of ten or more.”
Izou rolled his eyes, lashes fluttering, “Yes, yes, now show me the picture!”
Thatch grinned wickedly, “Oh, you thought there was just one? Sabo didn’t skimp. We got pictures of Ace and Luffy!”
Izou squealed, “OH, OH, LUFFY TOO?! SHOW ME!”
Marco folded the report and tucked it into his back pocket, safe from the whipping sea breeze, lips pursed faintly as he eyed the gently rocking ships along the pier. He pulled out his own phone and opened the group message from Sabo to him and Thatch, rereading the chain, only half-listening to Izou’s fawning over the photos. Arrested in Kaidou’s territory, huh… Sabo hadn’t given them an address, but there wasn’t a single thing in Kaidou’s territory that could be described as ‘fancy’, so what had Ace been doing there?
And getting arrested…
He definitely wouldn’t let him forget this one. Back in town for less than twenty four hours. It was a new record. Couldn’t Ace stay out of trouble for one night?
Saturday, May 11, 4:07 AM
Thatch braced an elbow on the counter and peered around the precinct, smug grin growing as he took in the unusually busy crack-of-dawn patrol. He let out a satisfied sigh, draping himself over the counter like a limp noodle, “Hey Smoker, we heard somebody got arrested, but we’ve been taking bets on who it was.” He leaned further over the counter and stage-whispered conspiratorially, voice barely rising over the ringing phones and Smoker’s loudly chirping radio, “So.” He ran his twinkling gaze over the scorch marks on the Marine’s jacket and asked innocently, “Is Ace here?”
Smoker stared at him, not noticing Marco’s attention on the faint soot streaked across the man’s temple. Several seconds passed before Thatch started shifting nervously and Smoker finally turned back to his report with a grunted, “No.”
Marco braced his elbows on the counter as well, carefully avoiding the column of smoke from the Marine’s three cigars, “Who got arrested then, yoi?”
Smoker seemed to be glaring at his paper, crappy ballpoint pen scrawling loudly as he bit out, “Ace did.”
Marco and Thatch traded a glance, ignoring the dirty looks they were getting from officers passing in and out of the doors behind them. Thatch laughed nervously, “Wait, so Ace did get arrested?” Smoker merely grunted his affirmation, shaking the pen with venom in an attempt to get a consistent stream of ink.
Thatch started snickering. “How the hell—”
Smoker sent his pen skittering across the desk, skipping over paper until it landed between a stapler and a heavily stained mug.
“But you said he’s not here…” Marco waited until Smoker finished digging a new pen out and glanced up before continuing, “Did someone else already bail him out?”
Cigar smoke drifted over the desk as Smoker bowed back over his report, shoulders hunching and crabbed handwriting flowing into such tiny letters it was nearly unreadable, “No.”
Thatch frowned, “So he got arrested and he wasn’t bailed out… But he’s not here?” His mouth moved slowly, eyes roving over the stream of Marines and cursing arrests coming through the door, “Sooo…” He splayed his hands and turned a full circle to indicate the precinct, “Where is he?”
Smoker crumpled the report in his fist and stood abruptly, causing Thatch to step back from the counter, though Marco just raised his eyes to track the man. He could’ve sworn he caught the slightest hint of a blush on the Captain’s face, but he turned away too quickly for Marco to confirm. Smoker grumbled under his breath as he walked away, “Hell if I know.”
Thatch raised a hand, about to call him back, but the words died in his throat after a moment and he frowned after the man instead, watching him vanish into the nest of officers and warren of hallways.
He traded another look with Marco.
Saturday, May 11, 4:20 AM
Thatch fished his phone out of his pocket with a scowl, boots clomping as they descended the stairs, “Well, that was useless. But if he’s not in jail then maybe he has his phone…” A few quick taps and then blue light faded to black as he was raising his phone to his ear, leaning his hips back against the railing and crossing his free arm over his chest against the predawn chill.
Marco stood to his side, eyes roving over what should have been a nearly-empty street. Instead it was as busy as it got, crowded with officers and a parade of hodge-podge arrests. Marco watched a gaggle of rough women in clown makeup go cursing and spitting up the stairs in chains, trailing after a grumbling and barking Marine. This would probably take a while. It was always a pain to get Ace to pick up when they calle—
He turned back to face Thatch as the cook smacked his arm frantically. He held the phone out from his ear a little bit and Marco leaned closer, ignoring the curious looks of those passing in and out of the precinct as he listened, “—en disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, plea…”
Marco leaned back, fingers wrapping lightly around the cool metal rail behind him, “Are you sure that’s the right number?”
Thatch’s dark eyes rolled and he gestured vaguely with the phone, gaze flicking to a small but cacophonous tussle going on at the bottom of the stairs between a Marine and a guy Marco thought might be one of Shanks’ people. Thatch said over the violent cursing below them, “Yes, I’m sure.” He waved the app-filled screen inches from Marco’s face, “It’s not like I have it saved or anything!”
Marco shrugged, attention roving over the street, “Maybe he turned it off. He’s with Luffy, right? Try his phone.”
Thatch grumbled something under his breath, but a few more taps and he was raising his phone back to his ear with a suspicious frown. But then his eyebrows flinched up in pleasant surprise and he paced a few steps forward to the bottom of the stairs, not missing a beat when he swung a foot out and tripped the Marine fighting with Shanks’ newbie and summarily ignoring the turning tables. Marco leaned back against the railing and crossed his ankles, watching Thatch as he nonchalantly paced out of the way of the Marine reinforcements stumbling toward the now-fleeing Red-Haired Pirate member. Getting Luffy to pick up was actually harder than getting Ace to.
Thatch tried three times before he finally threw his hands in the air and scoffed explosively up at Marco, “Nothing! Why do those two even have phones?!”
Marco scanned the dark sky before returning his gaze to the last trickle of cops giving chase to the escapee pirate. Thatch perked up as Marco straightened and jerked his head to the side, trotting easily down the last few steps, “Why don’t we head to Kaidou’s territory, see what they know?”
Thatch smirked, falling into step with him and shoving his hands in the pouch pocket of his brown sweatshirt, “It might start something. You sure Pops will be okay with that?”
Marco just strolled on, soft words drifting over his shoulder, “I suppose we’ll find out.”
Saturday, May 11, 4:56 AM
Marco propped his foot against the brick wall behind him and leaned back, grit falling past his collar as he adjusted his head to stare at the orange haze around the nearest street lamp. Thatch stood across from him, arms crossed and an easy smile on his orange-washed face. He stared at the two watchers at the intersection at the end of the road, eyes glinting as he tracked one of them slipping away, “Hmph. How long do you think it’ll take?”
Marco let the distant echo of sirens and traffic be his only reply on the otherwise deserted street. The accepted contact protocol between their gangs always worked at its own pace. Kaidou’s people could leave them standing here for days if they were so inclined, though they had never dared. Not all of the Whitebeards had patience, much less tolerance for disrespect. But if Ace really had been arrested down here then Marco suspected they wouldn’t be kept waiting for very long. If he hadn’t been… Well. They’d find out sooner or later.
Thatch hummed softly to himself as he paced back and forth, fingers tapping against his elbows in time with the ditty, his low voice calming in the tense atmosphere of the border territory. He slowed, staring at the sheared-off stop sign at the end of the street before spinning on his heel, stained concrete smooth under his boot, and stared at the remaining watcher, “What do you think Ace did?”
Marco slipped his hands into his pockets, eyes sliding shut, “Something stupid.”
Thatch snorted, “Well duh. He shouldn’t have been down here in the first place. But what could he—”
Marco caught the acrid reek of cigarettes and then: “Well, lookie what the cat dragged in.”
That had been quick. It didn’t bode well for Ace.
Marco let his eyes slide open, turning his head lazily to his left until he had the man in view. The mink fur on the collar of his vest was a dead giveaway; Kaidou and his obsession with animals seemed to trickle down the ranks and it showed most in the clothing choices. At least it was actually cold enough to warrant the fur, though Thatch seemed to be doing just fine in his thin brown sweatshirt and jeans. Marco wouldn’t really know, though. He was never cold.
Thatch spun from staring at the return of the second watcher until he could face the bald man before he raised a brow, “All alone?” He glanced at Marco, “Goodness, Marco. Are we really that nonthreatening?” He grinned and gestured vaguely in the air as he murmured, brows wiggling, “Should I bandy a weapon about? Get some more attention?”
Marco smothered his smirk, keeping his face blank as he straightened and took a few steps forward, Thatch seamlessly mirroring him until they could approach as a unit. He nodded at the pock-skinned face before them, “We’re here for information. Are you guys willing to deal?”
The man sneered, streetlight reflecting off three golden teeth, “Maybe we are, maybe we aren’t. What kind of info you looking for, birdbrain?”
Thatch hid his snicker behind a hand as he whispered just loud enough for Marco to hear, “Oh, he’s so creative.”
Marco ignored him. As if Thatch had never used that exact insult before. He kept his posture relaxed as he said, “A little birdie told us one of ours was here earlier tonight.”
The man guffawed and slapped his hand against his thigh, “A little birdie! Hah! Good one!” He shook his head and grinned, “That wasn’t so bad. For a Whitebeard.” He eyed them speculatively for a moment, then nodded his head, “Tell you what…” He waved a hand at the watchers on the corner, producing a cigarette from his back pocket and dropping it between his lips before saying around it to his two crewmates, “Let everybody know these two have permission to enter our territory. But”—he paused, lighting his roll and taking a slow puff before gesturing with the cig and turning his face skyward to exhale—“only to ask questions.” He eyed the two Whitebeards sidelong, “If you two cause trouble, all bets are off.”
Thatch pursed his lips disdainfully, but Marco merely replied beneath the settling smoke, “Deal.”
Saturday, May 11, 6:23 AM
It took much longer to find the right people than he’d been hoping for. Apparently ‘permission to ask questions’ didn’t guarantee answers to those questions. They’d gotten a name some time ago of someone who had ‘seen the whole thing’, but after passing Shrieking Scorpion Sandwich and Spirits for the twelfth time he was wondering how long Kaidou’s people thought their luck would hold. The only reason they put up with it was the curious scent—air cleansed through searing had a peculiar quality to it, even hours later. Without it, they may have written the infinitesimal blackened smears on the pavement off as anything other than ash.
Thatch was annoyed enough for the both of them, which meant Marco got the easy job of finding it all mildly entertaining. Did Kaidou’s people think they’d wear them out, maybe take out a couple of Whitebeard commanders in the process? Or maybe they wanted to test the limits of their patience. It was hard to tell, sometimes; Kaidou wasn’t particularly choosy about his followers.
Thatch slunk up to Marco’s side and whispered, “Er, Marco… You notice how there are an awful lot of people on this street?”
Marco let his eyes drift over the fur collars, fur coats, and leather around them in the still-gray early morning mist. As with the Whitebeards, life continued at a steady pace around the clock in Kaidou’s territory. The bars had turned out their last drunk patrons nearly an hour ago, all of whom likely would have gone home if not for the wandering Whitebeards. Confrontations with them had been hit or miss, but one of them had yielded information on a ‘Luis’ which had led them several blocks back into the heart of Kaidou’s territory. Every corner and alley they passed had more people at it, the all-night partiers loitering to see if there’d be blood. So much so that they’d sucked quite a few of those people into their wake as they walked by, a steady background noise of jangling chains and snickered dares. But really, these guys were all small fries. He wasn’t going to bother getting worried unless he caught sight of one of Kaidou’s heavy hitters.
Thatch clucked his tongue when he didn’t answer, hands rubbing absently to warm his arms as he muttered, “Fine, be that way.”
A phantom of a smile pulled at the corners of Marco’s lips.
They strolled past two more dark alleys, which meant two more groups not-so-stealthily joined the mass of people following them. Checking the street names, Marco slowed to a stop right in front of the third alley, one they’d passed a dozen times, and peered into the dim lighting and the thicker shadows residing there. “Is one of you Luis?”
A voice emanated from the darkness, “Who’s askin’?” But before Marco could answer, a hissed conversation broke out among the silhouettes.
“Yo, don’t you recognize the First Division Commander?”
“For real? Another one?”
“Hey, I think the other one might be a commander too!”
The voices were overtaken by a shuffling of feet and then over a dozen people streamed out of the alley, making a loose half-ring around the Whitebeards on the mist-wreathed street. More fur, more leather, studded belts, ripped jeans, mohawks and half-shaved heads. Their appearances were more uniform than the Whitebeards typically ran, which Marco supposed had pros that might outweigh the con of being so easily identifiable. He didn’t respond to the significant glance Thatch threw him, leaving his brother to huff and cross his arms, pouting at his warning being ignored.
The group made a hole in the center and one man ambled through it, eyeing them curiously and without hostility from beneath a cocked baseball cap. No doubt this was Luis. Marco noticed the little spark of interest in his pale green eyes as he stopped a few feet away and jerked his chin at them, “More Whitebeards?” He cocked his head, shoving his hands into the pockets of his low-slung jeans as he looked from one to the other, “You all really making a move on Kaidou?”
Thatch frowned, “A move? What nonsense is this?” He shot a glare behind him as he heard grumbling from their herd of pursuers and muttered, “Quiet from the peanut gallery!”
Marco sighed and ran a hand through his tuft of hair, “We just want to know if Smoker arrested one of ours here earlier. You know anything about it?”
Lots of traded looks. Marco’s gaze flicked over Kaidou’s people as whispers hissed at the edge of his hearing. Luis gave them a puzzled frown, a thin tendril of smoke waving in front of his face as he glanced at those around him, “Smoker? I ain’t seen him makin’ arrests down here in a coupla weeks. Anyone else?”
There was a chorus of murmured ‘no’s and Luis shrugged, pulling his cigarette from his lips and gesturing, “No Smoker down here.”
Thatch scowled and took a step forward, “So then Ace wasn’t arrested?” He glanced at Marco, the pink in his cheeks and nose growing more evident with every moment approaching sunrise, and said quietly, “Was the intel bad?”
Marco was about to answer when he caught sight of someone tugging on Luis’s baggy fur coat. He watched as the man bent to listen, and then blinked and turned quickly back to the Whitebeards, “Yo, you said Ace? You talkin’ ‘bout Firebrand?”
Marco traded a look with Thatch, who shook his head and mouthed ‘Firebrand?’ He faced Luis again and said, “We’re talking about Fire Fist Ace.”
Luis nodded, a smile growing across his face, “Why didn’t ya say, man? Ol’ Firebrand! Ooohhh, buddy. That kid was full of spunk. Lighting everything on fire like whoosh!” He threw a punch forward in a decent imitation of Ace’s signature move, chuckling with his friends before he straightened and shook his head ruefully, “But yo, you got it wrong. Smoker ain’t the one who arrested him, it was Donquixote. Right, y’all?”
A chorus of ‘yes’s this time, more exuberant than before. Marco raised his chin, eyes narrowing just the slightest, “Donquixote? As in Doflamingo?”
Thatch stared at them, “What? He couldn’t have arrested anyone. He’s a criminal, not a cop.”
A voice from the crowd shouted out, “Nah, ain’t Doflamingo who arrested him. It was his baby brother!”
Thatch spun to pinpoint the voice, but his attention was pulled away as someone else yelled out, “Yeah, Li’l Bro dragged Firebrand off!”
“What?” Thatch scratched at his head, sniffling against the chill before turning to eye them all, “But why would Doflamingo’s brother be arresting Ace?”
Luis took a drag on his cigarette before he shrugged and answered, “Dunno, Cannon-Head.”
Thatch’s jaw dropped and he drew in a breath, but before he could say anything, Marco asked, “Can you tell us when this was?” It earned him a scowl from Thatch, but the cook remained silent and just touched his hair with a frown.
Luis consulted with a few people behind him and then turned to face them again, “Around nine?” He glanced back at his people and shrugged, “Maybe ten?”
A bit of a wide range, but it would fit the time frame for when they’d gotten the first message about a Whitebeard getting arrested.
Thatch half-heartedly elbowed Marco out of the way as he stepped forward, which Marco chose to let slide because the cook was clearly exasperated as he asked, “Yeah, but what did Ace do?”
Marco didn’t like all the significant looks Kaidou’s people were tossing each other. Again. Someone in the crowd muttered, “They don’t know?”
Luis clucked his tongue, “Man, you don’t know neither? We were hoping you could give us the scoop.”
Another voice from the crowd, “Yeah, musta been something bad. Li’l Bro was bein’ rough.”
Marco turned in the general direction of the speaker, “Rough how?”
Multiple people spoke up then and Marco felt a headache growing as he caught each new snippet.
“Well we was fightin’—”
“—Bro chased him twelve blocks, man!”
“Like he was helping, but then he cuffed ‘im—”
“And he shoved pretty boy’s face into the pavement!”
“—didn’t say what he did—”
“—asked him to go easy—”
“—said he was gonna get the rough treatment—”
“Hey now, wait a second.” Thatch took a few steps forward and swept an uneasy smile at the crowd circled around them, “I don’t think Ace has ever even met Doflamingo.” He shot a hopeful glance over his shoulder back at Luis, “Are you sure we’re talking about the right person?”
Luis nodded. “Yeah, bro. It was definitely Firebrand—Fire Fist,” he amended. He shook his head, “He and his friend were dressed up all fancy.”
Thatch’s face fell, eyes still on Luis as he absently slid his hand into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He pulled up the pictures Sabo had sent as he walked the last few steps to Luis and then held it toward the man, asking apprehensively, “These two?”
Luis grabbed the bottom of the phone to steady it, several of his men peering over his shoulder and all murmuring assent as Luis nodded, “Yup, that’s them.” He released the phone, gaze sympathetic as Thatch groaned and covered his eyes with a hand. Luis patted his shoulder consolingly, his three scuffed rings golden bands against warm brown skin, “Sorry, man. Firebrand put up a real fight, but Li’l Bro wasn’t playin’. He took ‘em both when he left.”
Saturday, May 11, 6:45 AM
“But Marco, he even took Luffy, and Doflamingo never touches family.” Thatch threw his hands in the air, “What did Ace do?”
Marco ran a hand through his hair again, staring thoughtfully at the scorch-marks hidden in the concrete as they made their way out of Kaidou’s territory. Doflamingo, Ace, Kaidou, Luffy… He let out a little sigh and let his hand fall to rub at his neck, shaking his head. Thatch grimaced and unlocked his phone, fingers agitated as he dialed and held it to his ear. It wasn’t more than a few seconds before he cursed and tried again, and then again, and again. Marco glanced at him, “Still no luck?”
He shoved his phone in the pocket of his brown sweatshirt, shoulders hunching, “Luffy still isn’t picking up.” His brow puckered as he stared at the pavement, “And I’m still getting the out of service message for Ace’s number.”
Marco shoved his hands in the pockets of his capri pants, restless fingers toying with the seams as he picked up the pace, “We need to find that cop.”
Saturday, May 11, 7:31 AM
They jostled their way up the stairs to the station, two jackals in the midst of wolves. Marco pretended not to notice Thatch tripping everyone while simultaneously exuding what Thatch liked to call Marco’s ‘I’m-not-threatening-at-all-don’t-mind-me’ aura to anyone who looked their way. He ignored the looks it earned him and walked right in the front door, Thatch’s mischievous presence at his back. He swept the room quickly, but Smoker appeared to be absent in the madcap headquarters, his position at the front desk now filled by someone else.
Thatch strode straight to the desk and slammed his hands on the counter and the kid nearly spilled his coffee. He set it down hastily and leaned back as Thatch leaned forward to demand, “We need to see Sengoku.”
The young man’s eyes flicked up and widened when he saw Marco standing behind Thatch. His jaw dropped slightly and he stared for a moment, then seemed to remember himself and drew his gaze back down to Thatch, “Uh… I’m—I’m sorry, Sengoku-sama’s not in yet. Can—Can I help you with something?”
Thatch braced his elbow on the counter, using one hand to grab a tissue from behind the chest-high front as he jabbed a finger of the other hand toward the kid, “When does he get in?”
He blinked blankly at him, the scar tissue beneath his yellow bandana twisting as his eyebrows pinched together, “Uh…” He shook himself, just a little twitch from side to side, “Um, his shift starts at nine today—”
“NINE?!” Thatch threw his hands in the air, eyes rolling to the ceiling beseechingly. “NINE?!” He astutely ignored the glares thrown their way, leaving Marco to level calm stares at the offenders as his cook stared at one pink-haired cop in disbelief, “What kind of ship is he running? He’s the Fleet Admiral. Isn’t he supposed to be here at ungodly hours to whip you all into shape?”
The young man attempted a smile that lasted all of about half a second before his nervousness pulled his lips back down, eyes flicking between the two Whitebeards, “Ah, normally he is, but he had the evening shift last night…”
Thatch scoffed and turned around, wiping his tissue over his running nose, “Marco! Can you believe this?”
Marco braced his arm on the counter, reclining over it casually as he watched the kid lean back, “We’re looking for Officer Donquixote. He was on shift last night. Do you know where he is?”
The kid’s face brightened hesitantly, “Oh…! You know Rosinante-sama?” This second attempt at a smile was more successful, “He’s one of my mentors.”
Marco surprised himself by blinking. That name rang a bell.
“Your mentor is a—”
Marco kneed Thatch in the thigh, then braced both arms on the counter as Thatch curled around his leg and howled silently, one hand braced against Marco’s back for balance. Marco let his hands hang over the edge of the desk, fingers linked loosely, “Is that so? Would you be able to look up contact information for him…” His eyes flicked over the name tag, “… Coby?”
“Ah, um…” Coby splayed his hands, “We can’t give out personal contact information for our officers. I’m sorry, Marco the Phoenix-san.” His eyes held something hesitantly defiant, “Would you like to leave a message for him?”
Marco held his amusement in check as he waved his hand and stood, “No, that’s alright. Thank you.” He strode out of the building, officers sniggering at the limping and grimacing Thatch, hand still rubbing at his probably-bruised thigh.
Saturday, May 11, 7:55 AM
“He… he what?”
Thatch scowled and flung his arms wide, the wide-open east-facing warehouse doors behind him letting in enough light to cast a shadow of his body over his sibling, “Right?! In the middle of Kaidou’s territory, no less!”
Vista stroked his mustache with a frown, attention split between the offloading he was supposed to be supervising and Thatch’s very-deserved gesticulating, “Goodness, who managed to arrest him?” His eyes flicked over at the sound of a door and Izou wandered over from the side door they’d used to start this whole fiasco. Vista asked as the man glided between them, “Was one of the Admirals on duty last night?”
Izou let loose a small sigh, snapping his fan shut now that he was out of the sun, “No Admirals were on duty last night.” He nodded once to Thatch with a murmur, “Marco sent me.” He turned his attention back to Vista, one hand feathering expertly over his hair to ensure nothing had come loose, “I double-checked after I heard Ace got arrested. None of the Admirals were on beats at the time.” He laid a hand over Thatch’s arm, delicate fingers giving a deceptively strong squeeze though his eyes remained on Vista, “Admiral Kuzan was at the station, but he was just manning the desk as far as I can tell.”
Vista scratched beneath his top hat before returning to stroking his glorious mustache, “In Kaidou’s territory, though? Did they beat him and then turn him in?”
Thatch snorted, “Them? No way. I didn’t see any of his top guys there. But”—he held up a Very Important Finger—“there were plenty of witnesses! They said the cop was unnecessarily rough with Ace and that the guy chased him for twelve blocks! In the middle of the night, in the territory of a rival gang, alone!” He glanced up at the echo trapped in the bared wooden rafters and lowered his voice marginally, “He didn’t even have a partner!”
Izou crossed light blue sleeves over his orange kimono—which was just totally unfair, because if Thatch tried to pull that color scheme off he’d look like a dork—and tapped his fan against his collarbone, “That sounds like a grudge if I’ve ever heard one. What in the world did Ace do?”
Thatch threw his arms out wide again, “We don’t even know! Kaidou’s people didn’t get any info from the cop.” He pinched the bridge of his nose with a heavy sigh, “But that’s not even the worst part…” Here it came! He peeked an eye open, “Wanna take a guess at who arrested him?”
Izou raised a manicured eyebrow and struck a pose that looked like a staged painting of Skepticism, “Captain Smoker?”
Vista scratched his hairy chest between the deep vee of his dark shirt before gesturing vaguely with a white-gloved hand, “Vice Admiral Tsuru?”
There was a fantastic crash and the gorgeously unmistakable tinkling of gold coins behind Thatch. They all glanced over to watch one of the new recruits hastily shoving coins and gems back into a chest. His buddies took their time laughing before helping him and Thatch found himself grinning. The warehouse might look completely different from last night, the crates moved out and treasure chests moved in, but the stomach-growling scent of barbecue still tickled his senses. So he totally won.
What he won, he wasn’t sure, but he won.
“What are we guessing at?”
And here was Haruta, sidling between them like he’d been here the whole time and Thatch wondered if he’d been waiting for a distraction before springing himself on them because how else did someone who dressed like a 16th-century merchant manage to get around with so little notice? But Thatch stepped aside to give the shorter man room, using his fingers to illustrate, “Who arrested Ace last night. They’re oh-for-two so far.”
Haruta rubbed at his chin and frowned at the floor, his other hand resting easily atop the hilt of his saber. Thatch felt the absence of his own blades keenly, but the moment passed swiftly as Haruta snapped his fingers and lifted his gaze, “Oooh, was it Vice Admiral Garp? It wouldn’t be the first time he’s tried. He’s got some kind of weird vendetta against Ace, keeps calling him ‘brat’.”
And hadn’t they all tried to figure out why. For all Ace was a bumbling idiot sometimes, the man could keep a mean secret if even Haruta hadn’t gotten to the bottom of it. Thatch pointed at them each in turn, “Nope, nope, and nope.” He eyed the three commanders, grin growing. Was he going to get to do it? “Any more guesses?”
Izou shrugged, glancing up at the towering Vista. The Fifth Division Commander shook his head and looked at Haruta. The Twelfth Division Commander just glanced up at Thatch, “So then who was it?”
He was going to get to do it! He leaned in closer, the other three mirroring him, and then he whispered his piece-de-resistance, “Donquixote.”
There was a beat of confused silence, and then Izou and Vista were both rolling their eyes.
Izou tapped him smartly on the shoulder with his shut fan, “He’s not even a cop, Thatch.”
Vista nodded in agreement, giant hands gesturing dismissively, “Criminals can’t arrest criminals, Thatch, it’s not how that works.”
“He’s not talking about Doflamingo.”
The two shot Haruta startled looks and he hooked a thumb at Thatch, “He said Donquixote, not Doflamingo. That’s Doflamingo’s last name, sure, but he shares it with three other people.” He looked up at Thatch triumphantly, “One of which includes his cop brother, Rosinante. Am I right?”
Thatch grabbed his wide green sleeve and lifted it, “Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner!” But his grin slowly slipped and then he sighed, “Officer Donquixote is the one who arrested Ace.” He nodded his head sagely and wagged his finger, “But we’re almost certain the man was working for his brother and dragged Ace off to see Doflamingo!”
Izou grimaced, “Thatch, if that’s true…” Vista nodded his agreement fervently.
Haruta, however, poked Thatch in the stomach and said over the cook’s yelp and the laughter it generated from those offloading the ships into the warehouse behind him, “Rosinante isn’t a dirty cop, Thatch. There’s no way he was taking Ace to Doflamingo.” He poked the cook again for good measure and muttered, “The man has arrested his brother, for goodness’ sake! He’d never work for him!”
Thatch slapped his hand away and turned to hide his stomach from convenient access, then pouted over his shoulder at Haruta, “Well then how do you explain Ace going missing after getting arrested, huh?”
Haruta rolled his eyes, brushing his reddish brown bangs aside before gesturing, “Well I can’t, obviously. We don’t have enough information yet. But what I can tell you is that Commander Donquixote Rosinante is definitely not dirty.” He squinted at Thatch, one finger pointing menacingly, “Do you know how many people have tried to flip him? He’s on the straight and narrow. I should know, I’ve tried to get him to work for us.”
Thatch’s lips quirked, “But… Couldn’t that be a cover? What makes you think Doflamingo isn’t smart enough to get his brother to play squeaky clean”—he rubbed his hands together for effect—“while using him as a mole anyway?”
Haruta’s eyes narrowed and he hummed to himself, finger drifting to tap on his chin. Thatch traded a knowing glance with Izou and Vista, but after a moment his growing bubble of triumph burst as Haruta shook his head, “No. Doflamingo is smart, but I know how to sniff out a dirty cop and I’m certain Rosinante isn’t one.”
Thatch frowned, eyes rolling to contemplate the ceiling as he tapped his own chin, “But…” He let his gaze drop to Haruta’s suspicious scowl, “Rosinante was being rough with Ace. Does he seem like the kind of cop to do that?”
Haruta shifted, gaze narrowing further, “Rough? No, I… I wouldn’t say that’s normal, based on his record…” His eyes drifted to the floor, mouth pinching.
Thatch turned back around, crossing his arms over his chest, and offered up his creme de la creme, “He even took Luffy!”
But Haruta abruptly snapped his fingers and pointed at Thatch, “Aha! That cinches it. There’s no way he was taking them on Doflamingo’s orders. Doflamingo never touches family!”
Izou hummed, kimono swaying as he shifted his feet, “Hmm, that’s certainly true.”
Vista frowned, “Yeah, but… We’re assuming those rules apply even though he was using family to do his work. Aren’t we?” The other three turned questioningly to him and he raised his hands in a shrug, “I’m just saying, what if his brother really is working for him?” Haruta opened his mouth—to argue his superior knowledge, no doubt—but he paused and pursed his lips when Vista said, “Just hear me out. If Rosinante has flown under the radar this long then maybe Doflamingo was saving him for something.” His eyes flicked to Izou, “Something important.” They flicked to Thatch, “Something only a cop could do.” Back to Haruta, “Yeah?”
Izou mumbled, “He makes a good point.” Another picture-perfect moment—did he practice in the mirror?—soft sunlight highlighting his impeccable face paint as he looked at them from beneath puckered brows, “What if this time was different?”
Haruta frowned and rubbed at his forehead with an exasperated sigh, “I can see what you’re getting at, but I’m certain; Rosinante isn’t dirty. There’s just no way.”
Well, fine. Time for a change in tactics. Thatch rocked back on his heels, “Are you sure?”
Haruta rolled his eyes, “Yes, Thatch. I’m sure.”
“But are you sure-sure?” He shifted his feet back just a little, boots sliding in beautiful silence across the concrete.
That one received a glare, “Thatch…”
Thatch uncrossed one arm to splay his hand, “I’m just saying, Haruta. You’ve got an awful lot on your plate these days.” He unobtrusively shifted his weight, using the opportunity to move back a little further, using the sounds of on- and off-loading to sketch out a potential escape plan from the warehouse, “We don’t expect you to know every cop in the city. It would be entirely understandable for you to admit he might be a dirty cop.”
Haruta closed his eyes and That Smile started pulling across his face as he singsonged, “Thaaatch…”
Thatch was just taking another step back when he ran into something and it startled him so badly he yelped and spun. He gasped in mock offense at the laughter coming from the peanut gallery at work in the rest of the warehouse but it only earned him more of it.
Haruta glanced behind Thatch and grinned, “Marco!” He smacked the back of one hand against Thatch’s bicep, “Please tell this moron that Officer Donquixote isn’t dirty.” And then he jabbed a finger into Thatch’s unprotected side, grin widening as he yelped a second time.
“Hey!” Thatch pouted at Haruta, “No fair! Marco!” He turned to look at their First Division Commander, “Tell him about what we heard from Kaidou’s people!” His gaze cut back to Haruta, “He’s definitely dirty!”
They glared at each other and then both turned to Marco and asked in unison, “Well?”
Marco stared at them for a moment before he shrugged, “It doesn’t matter if he’s dirty, yoi. Doflamingo wouldn’t be stupid enough to start a war with us.”
“Ha!” Izou tapped his fan on the back of Thatch’s pompadour, ignoring Thatch’s Look as he continued, “Always the voice of reason! He’s right, you know. Whether this Rosinante is dirty or not, Doflamingo wouldn’t send someone after one of ours.”
Thatch gasped and flung a finger out, “Betrayed!” How could he?!
Vista hummed, stroking his mustache again as he thought out loud, “That’s usually true, but you know… Ace was in someone else’s territory. Maybe Doflamingo thought he was fair game outside of our protection?”
Thatch bobbed his head and looped an arm around Vista’s shoulders. Or rather, he tried to loop an arm around Vista’s shoulders, but he could barely reach around to the man’s back so he settled for patting his shoulder appreciatively instead, “Thank you!” He shot a glare at Izou and Marco, “At least somebody supports me.” He boosted onto his tiptoes, Vista obligingly leaning closer as he muttered into the man’s ear in a conspiratorial stage whisper, “Kaidou’s people were adamant that Ace must have really pissed Doflamingo off. Rosinante was pulling out all the stops!”
Haruta massaged his forehead, “This is ridiculous.”
Izou planted a fist on his hip, magnificent teal folds draping like they were a stream over white-flowered orange cloth. Totally not fair in any way. “I’m with Haruta on this one. Doflamingo’s just not that stupid.”
Marco glanced at the clock, then turned and started walking away, “We need to get going if we’re going to catch Sengoku, yoi.”
“Ah! Wait!” Thatch leapt after him, sticking his tongue out at Izou and Haruta as they started discussing the latest theories about the dumb new drug dealer going by the moniker Blackbeard. What a rip-off. There would only ever be one ‘beard and that was Pops. Haruta casually flipped him the bird without looking and Thatch laughed before bouncing to Marco’s side, “So did you get to talk to Pops? What did he say?”
Marco strolled out from the shadows of the warehouse, blinking the brilliance of the sunlight out of his eyes as he replied, “I’ve got some parameters for our talks with Sengoku, depending on how it goes. He told me to give him a call if we run into any more problems and he’d see what he could do to help, yoi.”
Thatch rubbed his hands together, “Ooooh, maybe we should start a bet! ‘What could Ace have done to piss off Doflamingo?’” He snickered, “He’ll be so mortified when he finds out!”
Saturday, May 11, 9:09 AM
Sengoku was all frowns and glares and tap-tap-tapping fingers on his desk.
Excellent. Thatch grinned as the door shut behind him. It would be much more fun to yell at him this way.
The Fleet Admiral’s voice was gruff, “Coby said you wanted to lodge a complaint?”
Marco settled into the worn squishy chair in front of the desk, an ankle propped on the opposite knee, and steepled his fingers over his stomach. Thatch didn’t think he could sit, so he stood behind the newer squishy seat, gripped the back of the brown leather chair, and said without preamble, “Where’d your dirty cop take Ace?”
Sengoku’s eyes narrowed, “Dirty cop?” His eyes traveled up and down Thatch. “That’s quite the accusation coming from you.”
Thatch scoffed and started pacing behind the chairs, boots squeeing softly on the grimy laminate flooring, and clasped his hands behind his back, “Officer Donquixote arrested Ace—a Whitebeard—in the middle of Kaidou’s territory and now Ace is missing.” He flailed one arm in the air, “He was never processed here, so he had to have been taken somewhere else.” He halted behind Marco and spun, pointing at Sengoku over the pineapple-head, “So where would your dirty cop take him?”
“Officer Donquixote?” Sengoku snorted and started shuffling papers on his desk, though what good it did Thatch didn’t know because there was just another layer under those, “Rosinante isn’t dirty.”
Thatch snorted back, “Oh, really? Well that’s a relief, I’ll just go tell Ace he’s not missing.” He leaned over Marco and waved a hand at Sengoku, “Can you believe this?”
Marco just kept staring at Sengoku in that weird perfectly-undivided-attention way that reminded Thatch of a bird, expression thoughtful. It was a rhetorical question anyway, so Thatch leaned back and hooked a thumb through the sweatshirt tied at his waist, “Come on, Sengoku. We all know dirty cops are an inevitability.”
Sengoku straightened a stack of papers and placed it in one of the four baskets sitting on the windowsill behind him, then he turned back around, linked his fingers over the next layer of papers, and leveled a hard-eyed stare at the Whitebeard, “He’s not dirty, Thatch.”
Oh, yeah. Chasing a Whitebeard down alone in enemy territory. Not dirty. Sure. He rolled his eyes and stepped around his chair before flopping down in it with an explosive sigh and the squeak of new leather. He flapped his hands at the ends of the armrests, “Then where is Ace?”
The Fleet Admiral shrugged, “I don’t know.”
“Then where’s Rosinante?”
The cop relaxed back into his high-backed Fleet Admiral Chair of Power and shrugged again, “I don’t know.”
Thatch crossed his arms and simmered, slouching until his butt was nearly off the chair. Even with the blinds closed, the glare of sunlight behind Sengoku was making it hard to see his face, but if he slid down far enough…
Hah. Shade by Massive Marine Ego achieved.
Marco finally chimed in, “You seem rather unconcerned about this. Is it normal to lose detainees before they’ve been processed?”
Sengoku barely lifted his hand in a wave, “You say Rosinante arrested him. If that’s truly the case then I’m not worried about it.”
Thatch hung his head over the back of the chair and sighed again, knee bouncing. He hated being inside. He missed his swords. He missed his kitchen. Weren’t those dumb foam ceiling tiles supposed to be white? Not the same dingy gray as their walls? Did they ever even clean the things?
He grinned. Probably not. Who would have time to clean with so many Whitebeards raising havoc? That dust-whorl looked kind of like Pops’ beard, though. Marco played the silent game so much better than he did, with his ‘I’m-just-sitting-here-why-are-you-so-uncomfortable’ stare. What should he make for Ace when they got him back? He’d missed the ribs last night and Thatch didn’t like making the same feast twice but he could probably make a slightly different rub. Ace liked it spicier anyway. As in, leaves literal burns on normal people levels of spicy. Him and Marco… He held back his sigh, letting his body sink into the too-stiff armchair.
Thank goodness Marco decided that was enough time for his Non-Threatening Silent Threatening to work. The older man finally asked in those bored tones of his, “When is Rosinante’s next shift, yoi?”
There was no answer for a moment, then they got a grunt, some shuffling papers and a brusque reply, “Sunday evening.”
Thatch let out a sigh and hung his head further over the back of the seat, legs stretching out until he could press his toes against the front of the desk. He threw an upside-down wolfish grin at the officers peeking at them through the windows, pleased with the scowls he received. He could see hints of Coby’s pink hair at the front desk through the half-shuttered blinds, a little beacon of color in an otherwise boring sea of Marines. Some blondie with a strange pair of… Sunglasses? A visor? Dark Band Around His Head And Eyes was sitting in the chair next to Coby, feet kicked up on the desk behind the chest-high counter. Coby absentmindedly pushed the boots off the desk and the guy started tipping over, but Thatch found himself grinning in earnest when he realized Coby had already fished out a hand and grabbed the arm of the chair. It reminded him of someone.
Speaking of someone. It sounded like Marco had levered himself to his feet as he asked, “Would you mind giving me his cell number?”
Thatch lifted his head in time to see Sengoku flick his gaze to the fourth division commander before returning it to Marco, “And then what?”
Marco shrugged, “And then we call him, yoi.”
The Fleet Admiral narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips, but then he snatched a pen up and ripped a blank corner off one of his reports. He scribbled swiftly, then held the slip out to Marco, “You only.” His eyes flicked to Thatch again, “If I find out that number has circulated then there will be problems.”
Saturday, May 11, 10:00 AM
“You only.” Thatch snorted, “What am I, chopped liver? No, don’t answer that, it was rhetorical.” He ignored Marco’s shutting mouth and plucked the slip of paper the blond was offering him. Huh. That area code wasn’t from here, was it? Thatch smelled secrets. He jabbed the number in, still staring at the scrap as they walked, “Let’s give this bad boy a try…”
Hopefully it wouldn’t take lon—
“We are sorry. You have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel—”
He ripped the phone from his ear and hit the ‘end call’ button before he quite realized what he was doing.
“Thatch?”
He looked up, “Marco—” He grabbed his arm, “Marco, it’s the disconnected message. The same one from Ace’s phone!” He smacked his forehead and gasped, “Do you think he took Ace out to the middle of nowhere to interrogate him?! Or—Or to shoot him?!”
Marco scratched absently at his cheek, patently ignoring what Thatch had thought was an excellent performance, then pulled his phone from his pocket and speed-dialed.
“Hey, it’s me… No, I didn’t bother, he didn’t know anything… Yeah… Yeah, I think we should leave someone here…”
Thatch scowled and tapped his foot, arms crossed, fingers drumming against his bicep as they stood in the parking lot. It had been funny! Sort of. He had to admit it would have been funnier if he wasn’t just slightly worried it might be true.
“… I was thinking the same thing… Sure, I can do that. I’ll call you again soon, yoi.”
Thatch gave Marco maybe two seconds before he blurted, “So? What’d Pops say?”
Lanky Legs started strolling off again and Thatch hurried after him, catching his quiet reply, “He’s sending someone to watch the station for Rosinante, yoi.”
“And?” Thatch spun to trot backward, facing Marco and waving his arms, “What about us? You can’t really tell me he’s taking us off the case.”
Marco pulled the keys from his pocket as they approached Baby Blue and he unlocked the truck’s doors and Thatch tried not to read anything into the sudden and ominous cloud cover as the blond replied, “We’re going to the man himself.”