Twenty five thousand berries just to dock. Eliot had been robbed. As if the daily fee wasn't already a blatant scam, he was hit with additional charges: a "convenience" fee and a 10% surcharge for not paying in advance, how Kaidou was he supposed to have paid before he’d even arrived? It was at this moment, as the young bounty hunter begrudgingly handed over his hard-earned savings, built up through years of odd jobs, frugality, and general suffering, that Eliot came the closest he ever would to turning pirate.
With his ship securely moored and his wallet significantly lighter, Eliot and made his way down the gangplank. He didn’t quite stumble but it was a near thing as he stepped awkwardly down the weathered dock. The rough planks creaked and groaned under his weight as the young man adjusted back walking on dry land after just getting his sealegs. He tried not to pay attention to the too wide gaps between the planks and the waves of the sea seen between them. Some traitor part of his mind pictured him falling in and sinking to his death, helpless as the anchor he was.
It wasn’t rational how terror near gripped Eliot now, but he felt perfectly comfortable on his boat at sea, miles from even seeing any land. Maybe fears weren’t meant to be rational, he mused.
The second thing that hit the young man after finally and thankfully stepped onto the island proper, was the smell. Where Salty sea air met and mingled with the acrid stench of smoke and gunpowder. A promising start as he embarked on his journey as a bounty hunter. It didn’t look like much though.
A town sprawled before Eliot, an absolute mess of civil engineering; buildings at all angles except straight up and down, narrow winding streets, wooden shacks leaned up against stone buildings decorated with ornate yet crumbling facades. The architecture was a hodgepodge of styles, as if cobbled together from the remnants of a dozen different cultures, each one unwilling to play nice with any of the others. Laundry hung from lines strung between windows, a pair of pink boxer briefs with white hearts on them catching Eliot’s eye.
Eliot couldn't help but marvel at the absurdity and undeniable charm of the place. The buildings were just fun to look at. Then the young man got closer and what he saw was less fun. Scorch marks marred walls, and bullet holes pockmarked shutters. Shattered glass mingled with the debris of splintered wood and broken masonry in small piles. He wadded deeper into the town.
It was obvious thing had been worse before they’d gotten better. Evidence of the destruction had been cleared away, but in a manner that spoke more of cold efficiency than any genuine concern for the town's well-being. Rubble had been pushed to the sides of streets, clearing paths and forming makeshift barricades at the same time. The Marines' presence was evident in the sterile practicality of it all. They had clearly prioritized keeping the main thoroughfares open, allowing for quick troop movements and easy access to strategic points. Side streets and alleys remained choked with debris, the needs of the civilians who called this place home apparently a secondary concern, if not seen as outright hostile by the marines.
As he walked, Eliot couldn't help but notice the eerie silence that hung over the streets. Windows were boarded up, doors reinforced with scavenged wood and sometimes metal sheets. The few locals he encountered scurried about their business, eyes downcast and shoulders hunched, as if trying to make themselves harder to notice. Their faces were etched with a weariness that spoke of long nights spent huddled in fear, waiting for the next eruption of violence.
Occasionally, Eliot would spot a group of Marines patrolling the streets, their crisp uniforms a stark contrast to the battered surroundings. They moved with a purposeful stride, weapons at the ready. He flashed the paper the dockworker had given him after he’d handed over and absurd amount of berry. Any marine that saw the papers lost interest in him pretty quickly. Maybe he hadn’t overpaid as much as he’d thought.
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Eventually he reached the town square that very obviously now served as a staging area for the Marines. There were hastily erected tents and supply crates stacked in jagged rows. For a moment, Eliot felt a tug of obligation, a sense that he should approach the marines and introduce himself. After all, he was here on official business, pursuing a bounty set by the World Government. It would be the proper thing to do, to make his presence known and perhaps even offer his assistance in the war effort. Then he noticed the man in charge.
At the center of it all stood the single most terrifying man Eliot had ever seen. The man, and Eliot was only vaguely sure he was one based on how the marines had about the same shape and same body parts as a normal person, only bigger than reasonable, stood nearly ten feet tall. For most people, that would have been their most defining feature. It wasn’t even the second most notable aspect of Morgan. The man’s jaw was very clearly made out of steel.
How did he talk? Could he chew through stone? Did his jaw rust on the inside? How. Did. He. Talk.
As impressive as it was, the marine captain wasn’t named ‘Iron Jaw’ Morgan, this was Axe Hand Morgan. Even then Eliot thought they were selling the man short.
Eliot couldn't tear his gaze away from the fearsome weapon fused to Morgan's left arm. The axe head alone looked to be as long as Eliot's forearm and twice as wide. Where the weapon fused with Morgan's arm at the elbow, something protruded, skin stretched taut over the irregular shape, straining against whatever lay beneath. Was it bone, jutting out at a sickening angle from some grievous injury? Maybe wood, a crude prosthetic to help bear the immense weight of the axe? Eliot studied it more, a horrifying realization dawning. The protrusion had to be steel, an integral part of the axe itself, embedded directly into the giant of a man’s body.
The sheer weight of Morgan’s axe must have been immense, yet the captain flung the thing around in the faces of his marines it as if it were his very hand.
Eliot watched as Axe Hand Morgan barked orders at his subordinates, his voice carrying across the square. Marines scurried to obey, their movements panicked. Eliot wasn’t sure if they were more terrified of whatever rebels were probably not far away, or the axe being waved around in their face, but he had a pretty good guess.
"You there!" Morgan pointed his axe at a young marine who had the misfortune of catching his eye.
"Do you think this is a game, boy? Every mistake, every delay, gives those rebel scum more time to regroup and strike at the heart of our operation. Is that what you want?"
The young marine, barely more than a boy, trembled under Morgan's withering glare. His face drained of color as the massive axe blade hovered mere inches from his throat. Sweat beaded on his brow and his eyes were wide with terror, the whites visible all around.
"N-no sir! I would never--" the marine stammered, his voice cracking. "I'm loyal to the Marines, I swear it!"
"Silence!" Morgan roared, his voice echoing off the surrounding buildings, his eyes alight with a manic fervor. "Your actions speak louder than your words, worm," he snarled, spittle flying from his steel jaw. "I've seen your type before. Always making excuses, always a few too many steps behind.”
All ten feet of Axe Hand Morgan loomed over the trembling marine. He leaned in close, the steel of his jaw glinting ominously in the harsh sunlight. "I can smell the stench of treachery on you," Morgan growled, his hot breath washing over the marine's face, “slowing us down, trying to break the marines from the inside.” The young man flinched, his knees threatening to buckle under the weight of the captain's accusation.
Morgan's flesh hand shot out, faster than a man his size should be able to move, and grabbed the marine by the front of his uniform. With a brutal yank, he hoisted the terrified soldier off his feet until they were nose to nose. The marine's hands scrabbled uselessly at Morgan's iron grip, his legs kicking feebly. “Even now you prove your treachery, trying to fight against me! Your part in the rebellion ends today!”
With a roar, Morgan swung his axe arm in a vicious arc, blood spraying across the cobblestones, painting them a vivid crimson. The victim barely had time to scream. The other marines had plenty of time, but wisely chose not to.
Two separate halves of the marine crumpled to the ground, the top half still, bottom half twitching as life ebbed away. Morgan stood over the slain marine, his face a mask of cold fury. "Let this be a lesson to the rest of you."
Eliot promptly decided that introducing himself wasn’t really necessary. He about-faced his way back where he came from and started to pick his way through one of the winding side streets.