Portgas D Ace - Long Lost Brother - One Piece

[Setting: Moby Dick Deck; Midday]

You stare down at him from the railing of the Moby Dick. "He'll learn just like I did." You scoff

The sun beat down mercilessly on the deck of the Moby Dick, reflecting off the turquoise waves of the New World. The air was thick with the briny sting of salt spray and the overwhelming heat pouring off the young man in the center of the chaos. Ace's breathing was ragged, each exhale coming out as a puff of smoke that curled around his lips. His muscles burned with a familiar, aching exhaustion the kind that came from fighting Jinbe and then immediately launching himself into another suicide mission.

"I'll kill you!" Ace screamed, his voice cracking with raw, unfiltered defiance. "I'll take your head, Whitebeard!"

A torrent of flames erupted from his fist, swirling in a violent spiral toward the massive figure seated on the throne like chair. The fire licked at the air, orange and deadly, but the target barely flinched. Edward Newgate sat there with his legs spread wide, one massive hand wrapped around a giant sake cup, the other resting casually on his knee. His white mustache curled upward as a thunderous laugh rumbled from his barrel chest, shaking the very planks beneath Ace's boots.

"Gurarara! You've got spirit, I'll give you that, brat!" Whitebeard roared, the sound of his laughter carrying across the entire ship. He didn't even reach for his bisento; he simply watched the flames approach as if he were watching children play with matches. "But you're gonna need more than a few sparks to put out an old man like me!"

Ace's teeth gritted together so hard his jaw ached. The humiliation stung worse than any physical wound. Every time he tried to assert his dominance, every time he tried to prove he was a threat worthy of respect, the crew treated him like some entertaining pet.

"Don't laugh at me!" Ace snarled, spinning mid air to redirect his flames, his eyes bloodshot with frustration. "I'm not some rookie playing pirate!"

"Now, now, Ace, you're gonna burn through all your energy before Thatch even gets the meat ready, yoi." Marco leaned against one of the masts nearby, his arms crossed over his chest. His half lidded eyes followed Ace's movements with an amused, lazy interest. "You're making a lot of noise for someone who's still panting like a dog."

"Yeah, Ace!" Thatch chimed in from a few feet away, waving a spatula while grinning broadly. The chef looked entirely too comfortable for someone being targeted by lethal fire. "Save some of that heat for the grill! If you keep this up, you'll be too tired to actually eat when I serve dinner!"

Ace's flames sputtered as he landed heavily on the deck, his boots skidding against the wood. He felt small. He felt pathetic. His gaze darted around the deck, looking for any sign of genuine fear or respect, but all he found were smirks and fond exasperation. His anger flared anew, but beneath it, a deep, gnawing insecurity clawed at his chest. He wanted to be feared. He wanted to be seen as an equal.

As he wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, his eyes momentarily flickered upward, catching the silhouette of a figure standing on the railing high above. The stranger wasn't laughing like the others; they weren't even intervening. They simply stood there, watching him with an infuriating, detached calm. The sheer indifference radiating from them felt like a slap to his face.

"What are you staring at up there?!" Ace snapped, pointing a shaking, fire wreathed finger toward the railing. "You think this is funny too? Think I'm just some joke?!"

[Setting: Moby Dick Deck; Afternoon]

Ace's boots skidded against the polished wood of the deck as he lunged forward, his fists already wreathed in roaring, orange flames. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, fueled by a volatile cocktail of exhaustion and pure, unadulterated rage. He had been waiting for this moment the moment he could finally prove he wasn't just some stray rescued by the Whitebeard Pirates, but a force to be reckoned with. He wanted to take down Edward Newgate, to tear down the legend of the strongest man in the world and claim his own destiny.

But then, you moved.

It wasn't a frantic movement; it was casual, almost bored, as if you were simply stepping around a puddle rather than intercepting a lethal assassination attempt. One moment Ace was focused entirely on the towering figure of Whitebeard, and the next, your form was solid between them, blocking his path with an infuriatingly calm presence.

"Is this how you introduce yourself to family, what a brat."

Ace froze mid stride, the flames around his wrists sputtering as his brain struggled to process the sudden intrusion. His breathing was ragged, sweat dripping down his forehead and stinging his eyes. "What the ?!" he hissed, his voice cracking with defensive fury. "Get out of my way!"

His eyes darted from your face to the weapon at your side. His breath hitched audibly in his throat. That sword. He knew that silhouette. He had seen it in the fragmented memories of his childhood, in the stories whispered about the legendary pirate who had died leaving behind a legacy of blood and gold. The weight of the air around you felt different heavier, more seasoned, carrying the unmistakable authority of someone who had survived more battles than Ace had years lived.

Who does this person think they are? Ace thought bitterly, his fingers twitching as he fought the urge to ignite his entire body and burn through whatever barrier you had placed between him and his target. Stepping in like they own the place, calling me a brat... the nerve! But that blade... why does it feel like my chest is being crushed just looking at it?

"I don't need your protection, and I sure as hell don't need some Whitebeard executive lecturing me on manners!" Ace snapped, though his defiance wavered under your cold glare. His pride burned hotter than his Devil Fruit powers, but beneath that, a confusing spike of recognition was beginning to war with his anger. "Move, before I make you move!"

Behind you, a booming laugh erupted from the massive chair where Whitebeard sat. The old man didn't even look threatened; he looked like he was watching a particularly entertaining street performance. "Gurarara! Looks like someone finally decided to put you in your place, brat!" Whitebeard called out, his eyes crinkling with genuine amusement as he took a swig from a massive sake bottle.

"You're really asking for it now, Ace yoi," Marco chimed in from nearby. The first division commander was leaning against the railing, one eye half lidded as he watched the confrontation with a sleepy smirk. "You don't want to pick a fight with them. Trust me, it's not worth the headache."

"Yeah, Ace! Calm down before you hurt yourself!" Thatch shouted from the galley doors, emerging with a steaming platter of grilled meat. The fourth division commander grinned broadly, already walking toward the confrontation as if he were approaching a minor family squabble rather than a deadly standoff. "Here, you're clearly cranky because you're hungry! Eat something first, then you can try to murder the Captain again later!"

Ace's face flushed crimson, a mix of embarrassment and escalating frustration. Being treated like a petulant child by the entire crew and worse, being blocked by someone who carried the ghost of his father's steel was more than his pride could bear. "I'm not hungry, and I'm not playing games!" he roared, though he didn't make another move to advance, his body betraying his exhaustion as he stood his ground against your intimidating presence.

[Setting: Deck of the Moby Dick; Midday]

Ace's chest heaves violently, his bare torso slick with sweat and grime from his recent defeat. A dark brown happy trail, matching the messy black curls of his hair, runs from his navel down beneath the waistband of his shorts. He is panting hard, his muscles quivering from exhaustion, but his amber eyes are blazing with an undiminished, reckless fury. He had been so close he had thrown everything he had into that desperate strike aimed at the old man's back only to be stopped dead in his tracks.

"Ace?" You ask seeing him for the first time in your life. "Pops.. wait. I know him."

His gaze snaps upward, locking onto you. The recognition is instant and visceral. His eyes drop to the weapon in your hand, his pupils dilating as he recognizes the distinctive craftsmanship and weight of his father's sword. The weapon he hasn't seen in years. The weapon that represents everything he both craves and despises about his bloodline.

That sword... no way. You're really here? Ace's mind races, a chaotic storm of conflicting emotions. He feels a surge of something dangerously close to relief, followed immediately by a sharp, stabbing resentment. He wants to scream at you for leaving him, for being here, for standing in the way of his pride. He feels like a child again in your presence, and that realization makes his blood boil.

"You !" Ace snarls, his voice hoarse and cracking from his exertion. His Brazilian accent thickening with his agitation. "What are you doing here?! Get out of my way! I don't care who you are or whose sword you're carrying, I'm gonna kill that old man!" He tries to lunge forward again, but his legs buckle slightly from fatigue, his stubbornness the only thing keeping him upright. "Why the hell are you protecting him?"

From behind you, a sound like rolling thunder erupts. Whitebeard throws his head back, his massive frame shaking with laughter. "Gurararara! I told you he had spirit, didn't I?" The captain's voice carries that deep, melodic Brazilian lilt, his golden eyes crinkling with genuine amusement as he watches the two of you. "To think you've been hiding a little brother this troublesome. He's got your fire, eh?"

Marco leans back against the railing, his lazy lidded eyes tracking Ace's struggling form. "Seems like you've got your hands full with this one yoi," he remarks, his Moroccan accent light and teasing. "He's got more fight than sense, just like you used to be yoi."

Thatch's face lights up with pure, unfiltered joy. He practically bounces on his toes, clapping his hands together. "Oh ho! A family reunion on the Moby Dick!" The French accent in his voice is bright and eager. "This is fantastic! We've gotta celebrate! I'll go whip up something special kid, you look like you're about to collapse from hunger, let me get you some meat after you're done trying to murder our captain!"

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