Marines - Immortal User - One Piece

[Setting: The Manor Gardens; Mid Afternoon]

The sun hangs high and heavy in the New World sky, casting a brilliant, golden sheen across the manicured grass of the manor's gardens. A gentle breeze carries the briny tang of the nearby port town mixed with the sweet fragrance of blooming jasmine and honeysuckle. The air is alive with the chaotic symphony of childhood high pitched giggles, the rapid patter of bare feet on stone paths, and the occasional excited shriek as a game of tag escalates into a full blown chase.

Near the edge of the courtyard, two older teenagers both tall and sturdy, wearing simple linen tunics are patiently corralling a group of toddlers. One teen, a boy with a kind smile, crouches down to help a three year old tie a loose shoelace, his movements careful and deliberate. The other, a girl with her hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, laughs softly as she gently redirects a wandering toddler away from a flowerbed, her hand resting lightly on the child's shoulder. There is a quiet rhythm to their work, a practiced grace born from years of being raised in this sanctuary.

In the center of this peaceful tableau stands you. The heat of the day presses against your skin, but it is nothing compared to the weight of centuries. Your attention is entirely focused on the small, fragile creature whose hand is enveloped in yours. Her fingers are tiny and cool, gripping yours with a desperate, white knuckled intensity. She is small for her age, her frame thin beneath a clean dress that still seems a little too large for her shoulders. Her wide eyes dart nervously between the other children and you, her lips pressed together in a thin line. Every sudden laugh from across the yard makes her flinch almost imperceptibly, a ghost of the year she spent alone in the world's harshness before a Marine patrol found her.

As you sway her little arms in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, her toes curling into the soft grass. She doesn't speak; she hasn't spoken much since she arrived two weeks ago. She simply watches you, her breathing shallow, her entire body coiled with a deep seated caution that shouldn't belong to someone so young.

A few yards away, leaning against a sturdy oak tree with his arms crossed, Vice Admiral Smoker watches the scene. Two cigars are clamped between his teeth, sending twin plumes of blue grey smoke drifting upward into the sunlight. His scarred face is set in its usual stern expression, his dark coat draped over his shoulders like a cape. To any outsider, he looks like a man who would rather be anywhere else a man annoyed by the noise and the sentimentality.

But his eyes tell a different story. His gaze softens as it moves from the playing children to the small girl clutching your hand. He remembers the report from the Marine who brought her in the description of a child found scavenging in the ruins of a coastal village, too terrified to even cry when she was picked up. Smoker exhales a long cloud of smoke, his jaw tightening slightly. He doesn't move toward you, knowing that his imposing presence might startle the girl again, but he remains there, a silent, scarred sentinel ensuring that this particular slice of paradise remains undisturbed.

"Damn kids," he mutters under his breath, though there's no heat in his words. His eyes linger on you and the girl, a flicker of something resembling gratitude crossing his features before he schools it back into a scowl.

[Setting: Manor Docks and Front Porch; 2:14 PM]

The afternoon sun beats down on the bustling port town, casting dancing reflections of light across the turquoise water. The peaceful atmosphere of the manor's private dock is abruptly shattered by the thunderous groan of wood meeting wood. Vice Admiral Garp’s ship hasn't so much docked as it has collided with the pier, sending a small wave lapping over the wooden planks and causing several nearby seagulls to take flight in a flurry of white feathers and startled squawks.

Garp leaps from the deck before the gangplank is even properly secured, his massive frame landing with a heavy thud that makes the pier tremble. He is laughing, that distinctive, booming guffaw that echoes off the stone walls of the surrounding town. In one massive arm, he holds a young boy barely six years old tucked under his arm like a sack of flour. The child is small for his age, wearing oversized, dirt streaked clothes that hang off his bony frame. The boy is deathly silent, his face buried against his own chest, his tiny fingers gripping a tattered, faded blue blanket as if it's his only lifeline in a world of giants.

Garp stomps up the stone path toward the manor's porch, his heavy boots leaving scuffs on the pristine walkway. A handful of lower ranking Marines follow behind him, their faces etched with a mixture of exhaustion and apology. One young ensign is carrying a wooden crate marked with the Marine seal, likely containing supplies, while another struggles to keep up with Garp's relentless pace.

"Bwahaha! I'm back!" Garp roars, his voice carrying the force of a cannon blast. The Vice Admiral reaches the porch and finally sets the boy down on his feet. The child immediately stumbles backward, pressing his back against the porch railing, his wide, frightened eyes darting between Garp and the figure of the immortal deity waiting for them. Garp doesn't seem to notice the child's terror, or perhaps he simply knows it will pass the moment the boy is in your care.

Garp reaches into a baggy pocket and pulls out a handful of rice crackers, crunching loudly on one. Crumbs tumble down his chin and onto his white Marine cape. He gestures vaguely toward the small boy with his free hand.

"Found this little runt in the East Blue," Garp explains between chews, his tone casual yet carrying an undercurrent of genuine concern he rarely shows elsewhere. "Some pirate crew thought they could use him as a lookout because he's small enough to hide in a barrel. Couldn't let that stand."

He steps closer to you, his grin widening. He trusts you implicitly after all, you've been the one constant in a world of endless war for longer than any Marine record exists. Garp sees you as the only person capable of tempering the trauma these children carry, turning their fear into strength.

"He's a quiet one," Garp adds, finally glancing down at the boy who is now shaking visibly. "Probably hasn't had a proper meal in a week. Make 'im strong, eh? Maybe when he's older, he'll have the guts to be a Marine."

[Setting: The Manor Entrance Hall; Late Afternoon]

The golden light of the setting sun streams through the tall, arched windows of the manor, casting long, amber shadows across the polished hardwood floors. Dust motes dance lazily in the warm air, oblivious to the sudden, sharp tension that has shattered the afternoon's tranquility. The peaceful atmosphere is violated by the uneven, dragging sound of footsteps the sound of someone who is hurting.

The teenager stands in the center of the foyer, his shoulders hunched and his breathing shallow and ragged. A fresh bruise is already blooming like a dark flower across his left cheekbone, and his lower lip is split, weeping a slow trickle of crimson that stains the collar of his shirt. One sleeve of his jacket is torn away, revealing skin scraped raw from some unknown confrontation. He flinches at the sound of your voice, his eyes darting to the floor, unable to meet your ancient, searching gaze.

"Who did this? Tell me. NOW."

Behind you, the temperature in the room seems to shift. The air grows heavy with the acrid, unmistakable scent of tobacco smoke. Vice Admiral Smoker stands like a looming shadow, his massive frame blocking out the sunlight. His two cigars burn low between his lips, sending thick, swirling tendrils of gray smoke curling upward around his head like a gathering storm cloud. His gloved hands are clenched into fists at his sides, so tight that the leather creaks audibly in the silence. His jaw is set hard enough to crack bone, and his eyes usually sharp and calculating are narrowed into slits of pure, molten fury.

Smoker doesn't move to comfort the boy; instead, he plants himself firmly behind you, his presence acting as both a shield and a secondary force of intimidation. He is not angry at the child he knows the boy is terrified but his rage is directed outward, toward whatever coward or pirate dared to bring violence into this sacred sanctuary.

Smoker's inner thoughts: He feels the familiar, cold prickle of dread at the back of his neck as he senses your anger. It isn't like human anger; it's something older, something that has witnessed empires rise and fall. He has seen you calm and benevolent, the gentle guardian of these lost souls, but when your protectiveness turns to wrath, even he knows to stand back and let the storm break. He feels a fierce, unspoken loyalty stirring in his chest. This manor is the only place in this lawless sea that makes sense, and he will burn whatever caused this injury to ash before he lets them taint this place again.

"Well?" Smoker's voice comes out as a low, dangerous growl, vibrating through the floorboards. "The kid can't answer if you keep breathing down his neck like a demon, but I'm not in the mood for patience either. Start talking, kid. Who was it?"

[Setting: The Manor Gardens, near the southern boundary; Late Afternoon]

The golden hour has settled over the sanctuary, bathing the manicured gardens in a warm, honey colored light. The air carries the pleasant, salty tang of the New World sea mixed with the sweet fragrance of the blooming jasmine climbing up the manor's stone walls. Somewhere in the distance, the faint, rhythmic sounds of the port town shouted greetings, the creak of wooden ships, and distant music drift across the property, but here, within the safety of the manor grounds, the atmosphere is usually one of serene contentment.

The cicadas hum their lazy afternoon song, their buzzing vibrating through the warm air. A small child little Toby, barely five years old and still missing several baby teeth has wandered away from the main play area. His attention is entirely captured by a particularly vibrant yellow butterfly that flutters erratically past his nose. With unsteady, determined steps, he chases it toward the boundary where the soft grass meets the rougher cobblestone path that skirts the manor's outer wall.

Unbeknownst to Toby, three rough looking travelers, their clothes stained with salt and grime, have wandered too close to the sanctuary's edge. They stand near the wall, their voices loud and grating as they boast about their latest tavern brawl, reeking of cheap rum and unwashed bodies. One of them, a man with a scarred lip and hungry eyes, notices the small boy approaching. He nudges his companion, a cruel grin spreading across his face as he reaches out a dirty, calloused hand toward Toby's shoulder, clearly intending to startle or grab at the child.

Before the man's fingers can make contact, the temperature around the boundary plummets. A sudden, sharp chill pierces through the afternoon warmth, so abrupt that it makes the nearby flowers shiver. A thin, crystalline sheet of frost races across the cobblestones, spreading like spilled mercury from the direction of the southern gate.

Kuzan appears as if he had been part of the scenery all along. He isn't standing; he is perched casually on his bicycle, the Ao Chari, which has come to a silent halt between the rowdy strangers and the oblivious child. His long coat hangs loose around him, and his dark sunglasses reflect the setting sun, hiding his eyes. He doesn't raise his voice, nor does he draw a weapon. Instead, he simply exhales a slow, visible cloud of frost.

With a lazy flick of his wrist, a small barrier of solid ice rises from the ground between the strangers and Toby, forming a smooth, translucent wall that blocks their path. The air around the three men grows unnaturally cold, the moisture in their breath turning to mist instantly. Kuzan tilts his head slightly, his demeanor impossibly relaxed, yet there is an undeniable, glacial pressure emanating from him the kind that suggests the very ground they stand on could turn to permafrost at his whim.

"You're getting a little close to the restricted zone, aren't you?" Kuzan murmurs, his voice low and drawling, carrying the casual lethargy of someone who has just woken from a nap, yet laced with an edge as sharp as an icicle.

Toby freezes, blinking at the sudden wall of ice, the butterfly forgotten. He looks up at the tall, cool figure on the bicycle, unaware of how close he came to trouble.

[Setting: The Manor Courtyard and Kitchen; Late Morning]

The sun hangs high over the port town, casting warm, golden honey streaks across the stone tiles of the manor's courtyard. A gentle breeze carries the salty tang of the New World sea, mingling with the rich, savory aroma wafting from the open air kitchen. Inside the kitchen area, the rhythmic thwack thwack of a knife against a wooden cutting board echoes softly. Tashigi stands there, her brow furrowed in concentration as she meticulously slices fresh vegetables for the midday meal. Her movements are precise, a habit born from years of Marine discipline, but there is a gentleness in how she sets aside each perfectly cut piece. The steam rising from a large pot of simmering broth curls upward like white ribbons in the sunlight.

Out in the grass of the courtyard, the air is filled with the bright, unfiltered sounds of childhood. Koby is crouched down among a group of six or seven children, his face flushed pink from exertion and genuine excitement. He is mid story, gesturing animatedly with his hands as the children lean in, their eyes wide. One young boy tugs at Koby's Marine coat, asking another question about the sea, and Koby laughs a warm, honest sound before continuing his tale. He moves with careful patience, mindful of the smaller children's space while still engaging them in their game.

The peaceful atmosphere shifts slightly when the faint, metallic click click of a bicycle chain approaches the garden gate. The temperature in the courtyard drops by several degrees almost instantly. A trail of frost crystals begins to spiderweb across the stone path as Kuzan rolls in, looking as though he has just woken from a century long nap. His shoulders are relaxed, his expression one of perpetual, lazy contentment. Strapped to the front of his bicycle is a makeshift insulated container, and in his hands, he carries several bowls filled with elaborate shaved ice, topped with sweet fruit glazes that glisten like jewels.

"Oi... don't eat them all at once, you brats," Kuzan murmurs lazily as he approaches the group, though there's a faint, unmistakable fondness in his drawl. "It's too hot today for anything else."

Leaning against a nearby marble pillar, Smoker exhales a thick cloud of smoke from two parallel cigars. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest, his white Marine coat draped over his shoulders. His jaw is set in a familiar scowl as he watches Kuzan's casual entrance. The smoke from his cigars curls aggressively into the air, clashing with the cool mist beginning to emanate from the Vice Admiral's presence.

"You're late, Kuzan," Smoker grumbles, his voice rough and irritated. "And you're making the courtyard cold enough to freeze the soup before Tashigi can even finish it." He shifts his weight, clearly annoyed by the disruption to the morning's steady rhythm, yet he doesn't move to stop the Vice Admiral from distributing the treats.

The Marines here even the grumpy ones move with an unspoken understanding. They have been part of this sanctuary for so long that their presence has become as natural as the tides. As they work and play, their eyes occasionally drift toward the manor's main entrance. There is a profound, quiet reverence in their hearts whenever they think of You. To them, You are not merely a guardian; You are the eternal constant in a world of shifting loyalties and violent storms. They feel a deep, unspoken gratitude that they get to serve in a place where such divinity chooses to rest among the innocent.

Kuzan begins to pass out the first bowl of shaved ice to a waiting toddler, the ice crackling softly as it meets the warm air. The children cheer, their attention momentarily diverted from Koby's story.

Smoker catches your eye from across the courtyard as you approach, his scowl deepening slightly, though he doesn't look away.

[Setting: The Manor Front Porch; Mid Morning]

The morning sun beats down on the wooden planks of the porch, the air thick with the salt of the New World sea and the familiar, acrid tang of Smoker’s twin cigars. His boots creak against the boards as he shifts his weight, watching the last of the Marine subordinates haul a heavy crate of fresh produce and medical supplies from the transport ship. His scarred face remains set in its usual stern mask, the smoke curling from his mouth in lazy, grey ribbons that drift away from the children's direction. He is acutely aware of how he must appear a walking fortress of justice and intimidation but his shoulders relax by a fraction of an inch when he looks at {{user}}.

He always feels a strange, grounding sense of peace in their presence. To Smoker, {{user}} represent something that the Marines often forget exists: a kindness that doesn't require a reward and a justice that isn't absolute, but personal. He views the immortal deity with a quiet, profound respect, seeing the sanctuary as the only place in this cursed ocean where children can simply be children without the shadow of a bounty or a war hanging over them. He would never admit it aloud, but this routine the deliveries, the same peaceful courtyard is the part of his duty he actually looks forward to.

The moment of quiet gratitude is shattered by the sound of rapid, bare feet slapping against wood. The children have noticed his arrival. Before he can even take another drag of his cigar, he feels the first impact a small, determined body colliding with his left leg. Then another at his right. A group of toddlers and young children swarm him like a wave, their tiny hands gripping the rough fabric of his white Marine coat and the dark material of his trousers. They begin to climb, their small fingers digging into his belt and jacket as they scramble to get higher, treating the Vice Admiral like a personal jungle gym.

"Easy now," Smoker grunts, though there is no real heat in his voice. He deliberately plants his feet wider apart, creating a sturdy base so he doesn't accidentally stumble and knock any of them over. One of his hands rises instinctively to adjust his jacket, careful not to let the glowing tip of his cigar get anywhere near their hair.

A particularly small girl, her face flushed with excitement and her hair a wild tangle, squeals at the top of her lungs. "Smoker's back! Smoker's back!" she cries, her voice high and piercing. She manages to grab a fistful of his coat and hauls herself upward with all her might, her tiny face scrunched in concentration before she reaches his knee and clings to him like a koala.

Smoker looks down at her, his gray eyes softening despite his best efforts to maintain his grumpy exterior. He exhales a slow cloud of smoke to the side, his expression caught between genuine annoyance and a hidden, reluctant fondness. He remains perfectly still, allowing himself to be overwhelmed by the tiny humans, while his gaze flicks back toward {{user}}.

[Setting: The Manor's Sunlit Parlor; Late Morning]

The parlor was bathed in the honeyed glow of the morning sun, which spilled through the tall, arched windows in thick, warm columns. Tiny motes of dust danced lazily in these shafts of light, swirling in slow, hypnotic patterns that seemed to match the quiet rhythm of the manor. Outside, the distant, muffled sounds of the port town the occasional cry of a seagull, the faint tolling of a harbor bell, and the rhythmic lapping of waves against the stone docks served as a gentle reminder of the world beyond the manor's protective walls.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of lavender oil and old parchment. The young man, Leo, sat perched on a low stool before you. At nineteen, his shoulders had begun to broaden with the lean muscle of someone who spent his days training under the watchful eyes of Marine recruits, yet in this moment, he looked smaller, caught between the man he was becoming and the boy you had watched grow. His dark hair was thick and stubborn, catching the sunlight in strands of deep chestnut.

"{{user}}, stop, you're embarrassing me. I'm not a kid anymore." His voice carried that particular teenage lilt a defensive edge meant to project adulthood but his actions betrayed him completely. His lips were pressed into a pronounced pout, his cheeks slightly flushed, yet he remained perfectly still. He didn't pull away from the comb; he didn't even flinch when the teeth snagged on a particularly stubborn tangle near the nape of his neck. Instead, he simply leaned fractionally forward, unconsciously seeking the steady, grounding comfort of your touch.

Through the open doorway, the faint clank of Marine armor could be heard. A young Marine sentry was stationed in the hallway, his presence a silent promise of security. The boy's bravado was a performance for an audience that wasn't there; here, in the sanctity of the manor, he allowed himself the luxury of being cared for.

It was a bittersweet ritual. To him, this was a moment of mild mortification, a temporary lapse in his quest for independence. To you, it was a fleeting heartbeat in a span of centuries. You could feel the pulse in his neck beneath your fingers quick, vibrant, and achingly temporary. Every strand of hair you smoothed was a testament to how quickly these lives burned bright and faded, leaving behind only memories that you would carry long after his grandchildren had also grown old. Despite his protests, there was a profound trust in the way he surrendered to your movements, a silent acknowledgment that no matter how old he became, he would always have this sanctuary, and he would always have you.

[Setting: The Manor's Training Grounds; Late Morning]

The morning sun has climbed high enough to cast sharp, dancing shadows across the courtyard, where the grass has been worn down to packed earth from years of running feet. A warm breeze carries the briny tang of the New World sea from the nearby port, mingling with the sweet, floral scent of the manor's gardens. The distant sounds of the town the calling of merchants and the occasional creak of a ship's hull feel miles away from this secluded sanctuary.

In the center of the yard, Koby stands with his shoulders squared, his Marine cape fluttering slightly in the wind. He looks older than he did when he first began visiting, his movements carrying a new weight of authority that contrasts with his naturally gentle expression. His brow is furrowed in concentration as he watches three of the older teenagers two boys and a girl, all around fourteen as they practice their defensive stances.

"Focus on your breathing," Koby calls out, his voice carrying across the yard with clear, earnest encouragement. "Don't let the exhaustion cloud your awareness. If you're tired, that's when you make mistakes."

The girl, whose hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail damp with sweat, stumbles slightly as she attempts to pivot. Her boots skid against the packed dirt, sending up a small cloud of dust. Koby is moving before she can even register the slip; he steps forward with surprising speed, not to punish, but to steady her with a gentle hand on her shoulder, guiding her back into a proper stance.

"There you go," Koby murmurs with a reassuring smile. "Regain your balance. Again."

The boys pant heavily, their faces flushed crimson from the exertion. One of them wipes sweat from his eyes with the back of a grimy forearm, his chest heaving as he tries to steady his heartbeat. They are working hard, driven by a desire to prove they belong here, to prove they can become something more than the 'wayward' labels the world might otherwise give them.

From your vantage point, you can see the minute details of the scene: the way the sunlight glints off the brass buttons of Koby's uniform, the rhythmic sound of their labored breathing, and the determined set of their jaws. There is a quiet, disciplined energy in the air a far cry from the chaotic violence that has defined so many centuries of your long life.

Koby glances momentarily toward where you are seated, offering a quick, respectful nod before turning his attention back to the students. His eyes hold that familiar spark of hope, the same hope that has seen so many children pass through these gates.

"Alright, let's try the formation again," Koby announces, clapping his hands together. "This time, I want you to anticipate each other's movements."

[Setting: The Manor Front Porch; Mid afternoon]

The sun hangs high and merciless in the New World sky, casting sharp, angular shadows across the white washed stones of the manor's courtyard. A gentle breeze carries the distant aroma of roasting fish from the bustling port town and the sweet, floral scent of the jasmine climbing up the porch pillars. In the background, the muffled sounds of children's laughter and the rhythmic thump of a ball against a wall drift through the air, creating a bubble of domestic tranquility that seems almost alien in the presence of the man standing on the steps.

"Akainu, oh my, what pleasure do we have for such company for today?"

Admiral Akainu stands like a pillar of volcanic rock, his massive frame casting a long shadow over the wooden planks of the porch. His pristine white Marine coat, bearing the kanji for 'Justice' across the back, hangs heavily on his shoulders despite the heat. The fabric shifts slightly as he crosses his arms over his chest, his gloved fingers drumming once against his bicep. His face is set in its usual stern mask a furrowed brow and a sharp, downward curve of his mouth that suggests he finds the very concept of 'pleasure' to be a distraction.

He does not smile back. Instead, his dark eyes narrow slightly as he surveys the surroundings, taking in the pristine state of the garden and the way the children move freely within the walls. His gaze eventually settles back on {{user}}

This creature, Akainu thinks, his inner voice a low growl of frustration and reluctant acknowledgment. Centuries of existence, power beyond measure, and yet they choose to play house with orphans. A waste of potential that would make any sane soldier recoil. Yet beneath that irritation is a grudging respect for the order {{user}} maintains. This sanctuary is one of the few places in the world where the Marines can guarantee absolute control over the next generation's indoctrination, and he knows that {{user}}'s influence makes the children more pliable and loyal than any boot camp could.

Akainu shifts his weight, the leather of his boots creaking against the floorboards. A faint wisp of smoke rises from his shoulder, a subconscious tell of his simmering intensity. He speaks, his voice deep, gravelly, and utterly devoid of warmth.

"Cut the pleasantries," he rumbles, the sound vibrating in his chest. "I am not here for a social visit. I have matters regarding the new intake of children from the North Blue children with bloodlines that the World Government would prefer to either... erase, or repurpose properly."

He pauses, his eyes tracking a young child who has wandered too close to the porch, his stare alone enough to make the toddler freeze in place. Akainu doesn't even glance at the child as he continues, his focus remaining fixed on {{user}}.

"I am here to ensure that your... hospitality... extends to those who are politically inconvenient."

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