The news paper crinkled under Eliot’s fingers as he unfolded it. After spending 95% of his day anxiously waiting for something terrible to happen while sailing and the remaining 5% panicking as something terrible did indeed happen, he needed a distraction. And that was without even considering the amount of time he spent fretting over sounds that weren’t there. Eliot stopped the thought cold, a bead of sweat on his brow, fearful that even thinking about the fluttering sound might bring it back into existence. Also, he wasn’t crazy. Crazy people didn’t know they were being crazy, and he knew full well he was being crazy, so he couldn’t be crazy.
Yes, he desperately needed a distraction.
The front page was splattered with garish, bolded letters boasting of the downfall of a dastardly pirate at the hands of brave naval forces. The article prattled on about the marines bravery and spirt, how they had never been stronger before than they were in this current moment. Skimming to the end of the article, it was actually bounty hunters had killed some pirate named Yellow Beard. Who in the fruitless devil was Yellow Beard? Eliot had no idea. News of his downfall took up the entire front page though, probably the only news coverage the pirate ever got.
The young man flipped through the pages, his gaze skimming over articles about the latest fashions in Sabaody Archipelago, the grand opening of a new casino in Alabasta and other pointless drivel. If this was someone’s only source of information they’d have no idea of the countless revolutions popping up throughout the world. Eliot thought on it for a moment, and figured maybe that was the point. Then again maybe not he thought, as he read a articles deeper into the newspaper.
There was a small blurb about a sudden shortage of construction materials in Water 7 due to "unforeseen circumstances." Eliot thought that was a funny way of spelling out “the navy and revolutionary army are getting their hands on every plank of wood they can and making boats to wage war with.” Not for the first time the young man wondered how many of these lies would he not be able to see through, if not outright believe, if he didn’t have his devilfruit powers.
He scanned further. An "accidental" fire at a marine base in the North Blue, a "mysterious" disappearance of a high-ranking government official in the Grand Line - the subtle machinations of a growing insurgency or the navy cleaning house? If he weren’t so vulnerable alone in the middle of the sea, Eliot might see what his devilfruit had to say. Probably one of both if he had to guess.
Eventually the aspiring bounty hunter made it to the only part of the newspaper that really mattered, the bounties. The pages were filled with a rogue's gallery of colorful characters, their faces etched in stark black and white, deeds laid bare in terse, unforgiving print. The words Wanted Dead at the bottom of the page. That was one of the biggest changes Monkey D. Garp made when he took over as fleet admiral. “Bounty hunters could still bring pirates in alive,” he had joke once in an interview. “they just wont get paid for it.”
The first new bounty - "Mad Dog" Maddox, wanted for a string of raids on merchant vessels. The pirate's face leered up at Eliot from the page, a twisted snarl revealing a mouthful of sharpened teeth. Maddox's eyes were wild and feral, with a dog collar around his neck. Probably where he’d gotten the moniker. The bounty was a modest 7,000,000 berries - enough to for Eliot to feel it was worth the risk, but not so high as to attract the heavy hitters who might steal the bounty from under him.
There were a few others that just didn’t fit the bill. Buggy the Clown’s 27,000,000 berries meant he was probably too dangerous, and he was a devil fruit user. Eliot wasn’t sure bringing in the head of that bounty would count if the thing decided to keep talking.
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If half the stories about “Dead Eyes” the Dread Pirate Lord were true, well Elliot didn’t want to go anywhere near that man.
His choice pretty much made for him, Eliot pulled out his trusty compass and unfolded his map. He found Schimotaski Village, spelled just close enough to what the newspaper said for him to be reasonably sure he was heading towards the right place.
***
As he arrived at Schimotasuki Village, Eliot could see the bustling port filled with ships of all sizes. The village itself was small but lively, with people going about their daily business without paying much attention to the newcomer.
Eliot guided his sloop towards an empty spot along the busy docks. Seagulls wheeled overhead, their piercing calls mingling with the shouts of dockworkers and the creaking of ships. The air was thick with the scent of brine, fish, and the sharp tang of pitch used to waterproof hulls and ropes.
The young sailor felt like he had two left feet as he tried to match the intricate dance of vessels maneuvering in and out of their berths. He’d near scraped a sleek schooner, its captain billowing nearly as much as his ships sails. A few men on a squat fishing boats either hadn’t the time or the patience, and cut in front of Eliot.
As he drew closer to the docks, Eliot could make out the faces of the dockworkers - sun-bronzed, grizzled men with hands as rough as the ropes they hauled. They moved with a purposeful efficiency, their movements synchronized. They must have spotted Eliot from a mile away, the way some shook their heads and others laughed. One of the older workers took pity, and waved the young man down to a berth.
Eliot waved back at the older dock worker, relief washing over him as he guided his sloop towards the indicated berth. The young man scrambled to adjust the sails, canvas flapping wildly in the breeze, sweat beading on his brow as he wrestled with the rigging. The older man’s sharp eyes assessed Eliot's every move, a mixture of amusement and exasperation playing across his craggy features.
"Oi, lad! Ye planning on docking sometime this century?" the dockworker called out, his voice rough as the salt-encrusted ropes coiled at his feet. "I've seen drunken seagulls navigate better than ye!"
Eliot rushed and made simple mistakes he hadn’t since he’d first started sailing his ship, rope slipping through his fingers as he tried to remember proper technique. The sloop listed awkwardly, bumping against the dock with a dull thud that sent vibrations up through the soles of his boots. He could feel the judging stares of the other dockworkers boring into his back, their muffled snickers carried on the briny breeze.
"Sorry, I-” Eliot started.
"Oi! Watch where yer goin'!" the man’s gruff voice bellowed as Eliot's boat bumped again against the dock with a dull thud only this time it was followed by a long sharp scrape that had Eliot covering his ears. When it finally ended he gave his boat a wince and the worker a sheepish smile.
"Sorry about that!" Eliot called back, scrambling to secure the mooring lines. The dockworker taking the rope out of his hands, had the knot set a few deft movements.
"Ye tryin' to tear up me dock, boy?" he growled, bushy eyebrows knitted together in a scowl. “Where’s er Captain at? Man needs a stern talking ta just is much as ya do.”
Eliot had already been near exploding with embarrassment, so at the comment his cheeks flushed to yet unknown shades of red. He mustered up what air of authority he could. "I am the captain," the young man said, hitting a note of childish indignity that he was very much trying not to.
The dockworker's eyebrows shot up, disappearing beneath the brim of his weathered cap. He looked Eliot up and down, taking in the young man's disheveled appearance - the disheveled clothes, salt-crusted hair, the dark circles under his eyes. A slow grin spread across the worker's face, revealing a mouthful of tobacco-stained teeth.
"Right ya are, sorry for the disrespect captain." he said, dripping friendliness. "Well now that we got ya all settled, there’s the matter of payment.
“All is well.” Elliot had no idea why he responded like some noble, he just wanted to get his ship tied up and the hell away from the docks.
The dockworker scratched his chin, the stubble rasping beneath his calloused fingers, “Ten thousand Berries." Eliot had to hold himself back from gasping. “Per day.”
Eliot did gasp that time.