This story has been written for the OPBigBang 2015, hosted by ImperialMint (who was great and let me join a while after the sign-ups for writers were closed :D Thank you so much for that ^^)

My partner for the event is Tembrook :) you can find her on tumblr here: tembrook. tumblr

And deviantart here: tembrook. deviantart

As for the art for this story, we have the cover AND another lovely piece you'll find in part three :D (for ffnet Tembrook had to adapt the cover, so here's the link to the whole image :) (just remove the spaces) 41. media. tumblr f354388aa632a498b3586dbd32c30f02/tumblr_nl4hzvwzXf1tt6ywso2_1280. png)

I'm also putting the links on my profile page.

Now, on to thanking people :D

I have to thank Tembrook, aside from the amazing art, for putting up with my incessant whining and helping me with some troublesome plot points. Same goes for Aerle, who beta read this and also had to put up with me xD And, though this was a while ago and I'm not sure you'll remember, I wanted to thank MyLadyDay too, because when I first had this idea she was the one who helped me give it shape :D

With all that said, here's the story :)

Part I

"Hey, Pops, look at this."

Edward Newgate, Whitebeard, lowered his bottle of sake to look at what Marco was offering him. It was a copy of today's newspaper, which he still hadn't read, and, if Marco thought he should read it, there must be something important in it.

It didn't take long, the article took the whole first page.

'Gold Roger's son captured!' read the headlines, and then the text began to tell a tale about the demonic boy —named Portgas D. Ace, and Whitebeard was sure he hadn't heard that name before— and heroic marines and blah blah blah.

From the photograph on the paper, he was a skinny, yet somewhat muscular boy with dark hair that did resemble Roger's somewhat, and who had freckles that had to be inherited from his mother. The boy glared at the camera, eyes hard and angry.

"Have you ever heard this name?" he asked Marco, who kept up with the news of the world far more than he did.

"Never," Marco said, shaking his head. "You think the kid was having a normal life when the marines caught him?"

Portgas D. Ace… No, he had definitely never heard or read that name before. He might have never met the kid, but there was a thing he could say for sure; anyone related to Roger, if they had become a criminal, would have been a big shot.

"Most likely."

At least this explained the reason why Roger had turned himself in, or more like why he had waited so long after dissolving his crew to do so. He probably had tried to find a way for his woman to survive —because surely any woman with a connection to him must have become a target— and the kid wouldn't have made things easier.

He noticed there was no mention of the mother in the whole article.

Ace stopped moving, lowering his stretched leg and dropping to a sitting position on the stone ground, when the loud noise of the level six doors opening filled the whole cavern-like floor, over the surprisingly mundane conversations of the prisoners being kept there.

His eyes fixated on the door, as apparently did those of all the other inmates because, once the face of the man the two monstrous guards were leading in became visible, the previously calm prisoners burst into jeering laughter and mocking comments. It was impossible to discern whole sentences from all the loud voices mingling, but several words were repeated enough times to catch his attention. Whitebeard, bastard, Phoenix…

The man walking through level six, back straight and head held high as though he couldn't hear or didn't care about all the taunts being thrown his way, had to be somewhat taller than Ace himself, had a strange tuft of blond hair at the top of his head while the rest of it was either shaved or bald, bored-looking eyes —of which Ace couldn't discern the color in the dim light— and was muscular. There was a tattoo on his chest, some sort of strange cross, but Ace didn't get a very clear view of it from here. The man wasn't dressed in prisoner clothes, which meant he must be scheduled for execution soon, but he was barefoot, his feet shackled together by thick, heavy chains the same way that his hands were behind his back.

He moved so confidently it looked as though he was the one setting the pace for the two guards instead of the other way around.

Ace had never seen a picture of the man, but could identify him easily enough. It was, after all, impossible to spend even a week in level six without hearing at least one conversation between prisoners cursing Whitebeard and his crew. Marco the Phoenix, First Division Commander and first mate of the Whitebeard Pirates. A lot of men here held a personal grudge against him, and many had been defeated by the man at some point. In some cases, they had landed in their cells as a direct consequence of those defeats. They were showing that hatred through their comments now, not that Marco seemed to care.

Ace was surprised when the guards headed for his cell. It looked like even level six was becoming overcrowded lately —he had overheard some guards complaining a while ago about the excess of prisoners in the upper levels.

He moved to the far end of the cell, the chain shackled to his right foot allowing him to walk around the whole rectangular space —not that it was too big to begin with, but it was more than most people in this level had— and he didn't say a word when the door was opened.

The guards released the thick handcuffs holding Marco's hands together, forced —though it wasn't like he resisted— him into a sitting position against the wall, raised his hands to shackle them, wide apart, to two until then unused chains hanging from further above in the stone wall and chained his feet to another two of those shackles, these on ground level. There was another thick chain wound around his waist and secured to the wall, to an opening between the ones holding his hands. That one was most definitely overkill, and Ace absentmindedly thought it must have been one of Hannyabal's ideas.

The pirate had probably more metal on him than five other prisoners in this level put together.

Ace grimaced when one of the guards gave Marco the traditional hit —to the head, no less— with the spiked iron club before leaving, but the guy just grinned. At Ace.

He hadn't paid much attention past the cursory examination before, because bloodied people were a common sight here, but that grin looked so out of place that Ace's brain finally registered how Marco, open shirt torn in numerous places and pants ripped here and there —the blue sash around his waist was the only undamaged garment, really— still had remnants of blood that had survived the sterilization bath. As well as both some open and scabbing wounds all over his body.

A long silence, only cut by the continuing jeers of the other inmates, fell over the cell after the guards had left.

"Hey."

Ace blinked. Had the man just greeted him? Yes, and that grin was still there. It wasn't wide, but it was there, friendly and directed at him. The only one who ever grinned friendly at him was Gramps.

"Hey," he returned, hesitant.

"You're Roger's kid, right?"

Ace sighed, barely refraining from groaning. Years ago, he might have growled, yelled and tried to murder whoever dared to ask that question, but by now he had gotten so used to people knowing who he was that he just didn't care enough to become angry about it anymore. That bastard Hannyabal had made sure of it, yelling for the whole sixth level to hear who his damned father was the moment Ace was put in this cell. He had been threatened, insulted and subjected to many definitely too detailed stories after his fellow prisoners had discovered it. If there was anyone as hated as Whitebeard in this place, that was Gol D. Roger.

"So the article's already been released, huh? What did it say?"

"What do you mean 'what did it say'? What should it say?" Marco actually looked slightly curious at that. Ace thought it was strange he could pull that look off with his eyes half-lidded: they made him look like he could fall asleep at any given moment, though that might be just the poor illumination here.

"Dunno, I just doubt the bastards would say I've been here since I was thirteen."

The aforementioned eyes opened like saucers. One corner of Ace's lips twitched. That expression really didn't suit him.

"Thirteen?!" Marco exclaimed. What the fuck?

"Yeah. Apparently, the image of pursuing evil and destroying it until the end of the world wouldn't go so well if that evil's a little kid, so they waited," Ace explained, shrugging. He had such an indifferent expression that he could have been talking about the weather.

"You know you're going to be executed, right?"

"Yeah." Another shrug. Did he really not care?

"Why?" That earned him a confused blink, and Marco had to elaborate. "Why are you going to be executed? What did you do?"

"I'm Roger's son. Shouldn't have been born." That third shrug was like a punch to the stomach.

They lapsed into silence after that. What did you tell someone who was fine with being killed just because they existed?

Izo sighed.

"Looks like it's a good thing we I decided to check on you, isn't it?" he said said into the den den mushi. He knew Jinbe enough to be able to predict what would follow, and cut in before he could say a word. "Don't. Just call the marines and tell them you thought better about it and agree to participate."

"I don't want to fight against you, Izo," complained Jinbe all the same, and Izo sighed again.

"Jinbe, you won't be fighting against us, so go make that call and don't throw your title away over this. "

"Why are you saying that? You are going, aren't you?"

Izo smirked, and his voice reflected it as he spoke.

"Oh, yes, but we'll just skip the theatrics."

Marco refrained from sighing. He couldn't have been in this cell for more than three hours, and yet he was already thoroughly bored. The other prisoners had tired from yelling at him what must be twenty minutes or so ago —and, seriously, couldn't they at least be original about their threats?— and Ace hadn't talked at all after that first, depressing short conversation.

Portgas D. Ace was shorter than Marco, but probably not by too much, with dirty dark hair —were there showers in Impel Down? Odds said there weren't— that fell unevenly inches above his shoulders. If Marco had to guess, he would say he cut it himself. They certainly didn't give haircuts around here. Ace was almost deathly pale, enough to make Marco wonder if he had ever been directly exposed to the sun since arriving here, had some muscles in his body and was way too thin, though admittedly not as thin as one would expect from an unwilling inhabitant of this place. The prison shirt he was wearing, dirty and ripped at a couple of places, didn't fall off him the way clothes did from sickeningly thin people, which didn't mean it fit either. It was maybe a couple of sizes too big, and reached down way past his hips —and ass, Marco had noticed when Ace had turned around. The pants he was wearing, however, were too short and reached only down to mid calf. They were also tight, and had he had any more meat on him they would probably have broken at the seams by now.

Pallor, clothes and general hygiene aside, he could almost have passed as a normal boy if it weren't for his eyes. They weren't dead, per se, there was a shine to them; a muted, shadowed shine that spoke of years of hopelessness, as if Ace had taken his soul, placed it inside a box and wrapped it in chains to keep it locked.

Ace, Marco noticed, was staring right back at him now, barely blinking and completely unashamed, his eyes roving over Marco's body. He wondered if Ace even remembered what embarrassment, propriety or subtlety meant. Probably not, if he had spent so many years with these neighbors. He was sitting, legs crossed, at the opposite side of the cell, next to where the chain around his ankle met the wall. It didn't seem to bother him, and Marco assumed he had long since learned to move as if it had always been there.

It was kind of a depressing thought.

"Oi, Ace."

"Yeah?" Ace's eyes settled on Marco's face.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty."

Marco's eyebrows went up to for what most people would have been their hairline. Twenty? Hadn't the twenty second anniversary of Roger's death been some months ago?

Around the time Thatch died.

There had been no party this year, but he had drunk with Pops to the memory of the late Pirate King.

"Twenty?"

"Yeah. I'll be... would be twenty-one in a couple of months."

What the...? That just didn't add up. Had the marines got the wrong kid?

"That doesn't make sense."

"What do you-? Oh, yeah, the dates," Ace answered himself. "There's an explanation for that." He didn't elaborate.

"You gonna tell me?" As a pirate, Marco didn't usually bother with tact, and he was really curious about this.

Ace seemed to hesitate for a fraction of a second before shrugging and shifting positions on the floor in front of Marco.

"I'm gonna die and you're gonna die, so why not?"

And so, Marco was treated to the story of how Gol D. Roger entrusted the welfare of his son to one Monkey D. Garp —Marco thought Roger could have asked Pops, too; it would have been better for Ace, seeing the current circumstances— of how Portgas D. Rouge managed to extend her pregnancy to twenty months through sheer willpower to save her baby and of how she died at childbirth, leaving Ace with Garp.

Ace had always been a very private person. He didn't trust others, and he kept his thoughts to himself. There were very few exceptions to that rule. In fact, he could count them with the fingers of one hand: there had been Sabo and, later in his life, Luffy; to some extent, he could count Gramps and even Dadan, though there had been many things he hadn't trusted either of them with. The second half of his life hadn't done anything to improve this trait, and nowadays it was a very strange occurrence that he started a conversation willingly; if he had to explain it, he would say that, as he would soon die, he saw no point in holding back his curiosity. It wasn't as if it could really make things worse.

"What's it like?" he asked, and Marco looked at him. "Being a pirate, I mean," he clarified.

"You don't know?" Marco asked, looking pointedly around. They may not be able to see any of the cells outside of their own, but Ace understood perfectly what he meant. He scoffed.

"I don't count what these assholes say. They mostly insult and threaten me or, if they're feeling generous, give me the gory details of their careers. I don't know much about being a pirate aside from gutting people and other more creative stuff."

Marco raised both eyebrows and shook his head.

"Of course. Should've expected they wouldn't like you any better than they do me."

A long time ago, in what now felt like another life, Ace would have been bothered by the roundabout reference to Roger; now he simply noted absentmindedly how Marco could dismiss so easily an entire level of prisoners inside of which were some of the most dangerous people in the world. As they said: like talking about the weather —not that anybody talked about the weather in here, but he remembered the expression. He didn't remember much about weather, though.

"It's… liberating." It took Ace a moment to realize Marco was actually answering his question. That was new. Only Gramps answered Ace's questions, and not always. He hadn't really expected an answer, but Ace wasn't the kind of person who didn't do things just because it was unlikely he would get what he wanted from them. "I don't know about other crews, I guess they're all different, but we're a family, and we like it. We do fight amongst ourselves, but it's good generally." When he said those last words, a shadow crossed Marco's eyes, and Ace had the impression he had thought of something that hadn't been good.

Ace didn't ask —he doubted he would receive an answer to a question that seemed so personal, and honestly he didn't care about it— but he did wonder if by family Marco meant anything like what he had shared with Sabo and Luffy. If it was, then that sounded like a good crew.

"I've heard a lot of comments about you guys being a family. They weren't nice." That was one of the favored ways to mock the Whitebeard Pirates around here, and it had bothered Ace at first to hear the scum down here mock what sounded to him like a family of choice. He had gotten used to it eventually, though, and now it was just one of many topics he ignored whenever the other inmates talked.

Instead of being annoyed, Marco chuckled.

"Oh, that's common. Whenever someone wants to insult us, that's one of the first things they mock. They don't seem to get it's not a good idea, no matter how many of them we beat up for it."

Ace was struck by how proud of his family Marco looked then.

"Well, I think I should be flattered," Marco commented flippantly, unable to hold back a smirk. Next to him in the cell, Ace snorted; outside of the cell, Magellan pressed his lips together, a small cloud of poison coming out of his nose, and Hannyabal was practically fuming at the blatant show of disrespect.

"You think this is a joke?!" Hannyabal yelled at him, indignation pouring out of every pore of his body as he leaned closer to the bars. Marco found the scene amusing and almost chuckled. If the guy wasn't so annoying, his attempt at superiority would be almost cute: everybody here knew that had Marco been free, Hannyabal would be cowering behind Magellan.

"Not really. I just thought you guys wouldn't want to overshadow your whole 'put-an-end-to-the-Pirate-King's-legacy' circus."

Magellan may be a feared man, especially inside the walls of Impel Down, but Marco couldn't find it in himself to feel intimidated by his glare.

"Your captain is as dangerous as Roger was, you are too much of a threat to be allowed to live for long."

"I'll take that as a compliment." Marco smiled pleasantly, just to be annoying, and decided to let the smile grow further when he noticed the gesture unnerved Hannyabal.

They had scheduled his execution for the same day as Ace's. He guessed the government didn't want to assemble the parade twice: the Shichibukai would most likely riot if they had to go to Marineford twice in a short period of time, and removing most of the strongest marines from their posts couldn't be easy either.

"Aren't you a little too calm?" Ace asked as soon as Hannyabal and Magellan had disappeared into the elevator that led out of level six.

Anyone who gave more of a fuck about what was supposed to be normal, Ace thought, would have been completely disturbed by Marco's calm demeanor. He was mostly just curious.

"You've just been told you have seven days of life left, most people would be panicking."

Marco grinned, and it was one of the most wrong expressions Ace had ever seen in this hellhole. Marco looked so carefree, maybe even happy, that it was nothing like what Ace had seen in here before. Not even Gramps, with all his laughter, grinned like that when he came to visit.

"It's not like they'll let me be executed." Ace had no problem guessing that 'they' were the Whitebeard Pirates.

Marco sounded so sure of his statement that Ace didn't argue with him, even though he thought that was unlikely to happen at best.

For all his calmness and security in the knowledge that his crew would come, Marco couldn't sleep. It didn't have anything to do with lingering doubts or nervousness, it was simply the fact that he was in enemy territory, and he couldn't force himself to lower his guard enough to fall asleep. Ace, snoring at the other side of the cell, obviously had gotten over that problem a long time ago —Marco didn't doubt he had had it, he was too tough not to, he had probably spent months staying awake until his body couldn't take it anymore. Marco guessed that, with his powers blocked by the kairoseki, the same would happen to him eventually.

He didn't care much, if he had to be honest. As soon as the chains were off, any ill effect exhaustion might have had on him would be regenerated.

Still, he tried to relax enough to be able to fall asleep: immediate recovery in the future didn't mean he wanted to experience the effects of exhaustion in the meantime. He knew, intellectually, that the guards wouldn't kill him —he was too important as a prisoner, and the government wanted to make an example out of him— and that the criminals around him —most of whom really wanted him dead— were as helpless as he was right now. That didn't prevent his haki from informing him he was surrounded by hostile presences. Many of which cursed in their sleep. Someone was even cackling madly.

His eyes went back to Ace. He was curled in on himself, and that —despite being a normal sleeping position— somehow looked wrong on him. Then again, most things about Ace looked wrong on him. He should sleep sprawled and occupying as much space as his body could manage, that was what really suited him; he was too skinny, he had the built to be muscular, and Marco had no doubt he would have been under different circumstances, but instead he had few muscles —no doubt as many as the living conditions allowed— and Marco could easily make out his ribs. With better light, he might even be able to count them. As he had noticed right away, Ace was deathly pale, and, though not short, Marco was sure that if Ace had had the chance to grow up under more favorable circumstances he would be taller than he was now.

It was frustrating, and just by looking at him Marco wanted to kill whoever had decided it was acceptable to imprison a thirteen year old who hadn't done any harm in level six of Impel Down for seven years before killing him. If Marco had anything to say about it, which he had, then Ace wasn't going to be executed in six days.

He had known him for less than a day, and yet he already liked him. Marco really wanted to see the man Ace would become outside of these walls.

Vice admiral Monkey D. Garp wasn't in a good mood. Granted, there was no way he could have been in a good mood when his oldest grandson was going to be executed for no reason in mere days, but he was in an even worse mood than he could have been had the circumstances been the slightest bit different.

And it all was because Sengoku refused to let him go to Impel Down.

Sengoku had been pissed when Garp had left three days ago without previous warning —his mood probably had something to do with the fact that when Garp came back he had discovered Marco the Phoenix had just been captured and everybody was rushing madly to fit the pirate's execution alongside Ace's— and now had ordered that freaking brat Sakazuki to ensure Garp didn't leave headquarters without permission again. Kuzan Garp would have been able to convince to let him leave for a while, even Borsalino would have been a better option, because Garp would have found a way to give him the slip at some point, but there was no way he would get away from Sakazuki without destroying half of headquarters in the process of knocking him out.

Now, Sengoku was even more stressed out than he had been the past two days, because Whitebeard had disappeared from their radar after sinking all twenty-three ships keeping tabs on him. Really, Sengoku shouldn't be surprised, as no amount of ships would be able to hold back against that crew without at the very least the three admirals on them. And even that was debatable.

As far as Garp was concerned, Sengoku deserved every single bit of stress and grief that came his way. If he and the damn Gorosei had agreed to Garp's idea of having Ace become a marine nothing of this would be happening. Sure, they would still be planning an execution, but they wouldn't be in such a hurry, Garp would actually be helping instead of making himself as much of a nuisance as possible and Sakazuki wouldn't have been relegated to watch him, and thus would have been able to help as well.

Garp looked out of the window of his office and wondered, not for the first time in the last hour, if he could sneak out when Sakazuki slept. Maybe if Sakazuki didn't have the uncanny ability to sleep at exactly the same time as Garp did.

Ace hated Impel Down. He really, really hated Impel Down. It should be obvious, of course, this place was a prison, the one holding him to boot, but he felt he couldn't stress enough just how much he despised it.

It wasn't just that it was located at the bottom of the sea and no sun came in —which was a really depressing fact if he let himself think about it, but he didn't because he couldn't even remember how it felt like to have the sun warm his skin— or that the company in general very much sucked, and the cold and humidity of the place didn't help either —it was a miracle, really, that Ace had never fallen sick since he arrived here. What Ace hated the most here was the food, the lack there of and the pathetic quality of what passed as food in the prison.

Ace did not remember anymore what real food tasted like, he had forgotten a long time ago, but he did remember the shock, disappointment and even horror he had felt when he realized how much the food in this place sucked. It was a thought he had never allowed himself to let go of, because food had always been a very important thing with his brothers and he refused to forget that it was supposed to be good. It didn't matter that he didn't know anymore what 'good taste' was supposed to be like.

He stared morosely at the cracked plate —plates were often used as weapons here, and Ace suspected the only reason the guards, who were frequently the targets of flying pieces of pottery, still brought them was in hopes that the inmates would kill one another with them— and the sad chunk of moldy bread and bowl of watery soup on it. He had been here for years and still wasn't completely used to the stuff.

His eyes traveled next to the bucket of water that had been shoved into the cell along with the food. It was the more or less weekly water of always, no bigger nor accompanied by a second one despite the fact that the cell now held two prisoners.

Annoyed as he was by the thought that they would have to ration the water, Ace still downed what was left of the previous bucket and handed it over peacefully. He had once thrown a bucket at a guard, and had been left two days without water as punishment. He wasn't eager to repeat the experience.

"You know, I bet they did this on purpose."

Ace raised his head to look at Marco. He probably shouldn't have chuckled, after all there was no doubt the guard had done it out of spite and cruelty, but when said guard had pushed the meals they usually brought every two or three days through the bars, there had been two rations, and one had slid close to Marco, who, due to the ridiculous amount of chains holding him, couldn't reach it.

It wasn't nice to laugh, but the picture was somewhat comical, even more because Marco looked just as calm as he did most of the time.

"It tastes like shit," he told him.

"I'd guessed. I don't really want it, as soon as I'm out of these chains I'll recover from anything wrong I might've had."

Ace must be feeling especially rude today, because he scoffed.

"You still going on with that?"

It was a good thing he still hadn't touched his food, because he would've dropped it right then. Marco leveled a glare at him, and it was nothing like the ones directed at him by the other prisoners he could see during the trips to the bathroom —which were roughly four or five hours after they were fed. Those were murderous and promised horrible things. This one… wasn't. And yet, where the others were only annoying, Marco's glare was scary. It was out of sheer stubbornness that Ace didn't back away.

"I am not just 'going on with it', it will happen. With you, the security is mostly for show and 'just in case', but why do you think they want to execute me at the same time?" He didn't give Ace time to answer. "Because, with me, it's not a possibility. It's a fact. The government knows the Whitebeard Pirates and all their allies will come, and it's going to be war."

The way Marco said it, a part of Ace actually believed him for the first time. He could see why Marco was a commander of the Whitebeard Pirates now: he had been so calm and laid back up until now that, though Ace knew who he was, he hadn't understood that the man sharing his cell was in truth one of the most powerful people in the New World. He was someone used to give orders and be obeyed, someone used to be listened to and taken seriously.

"But," he argued, because another part of him refused to believe him, "this is not just some marine base, it's the whole of the marines and the Shichibukai we're talking about."

Marco relaxed. He didn't smile or anything, but the dangerous look in his eyes softened.

"That would be a tough fight, I know. But it's not only my crew, it's also all our allies that will come," he repeated.

Ace fell silent, mulling over what he had been told, and Marco didn't add anything else.

It was a disconcerting concept. Even ignoring Hannyabal's frequent comments and jibes on the matter, Ace knew how strong the marines were; not only was Gramps a part of them, but he had made sure Ace knew. Ace knew a good deal about Sengoku —he had met the man once, even— and the admirals and vice admirals. Yet, wasn't Whitebeard the strongest man in the world? And Ace had heard enough about the crew in general to know the commanders and many of their allies shouldn't be taken lightly, either. If Marco was right, and Ace no longer doubted he was right that there would be a fight, he just wasn't sure about the result of said fight, then…

"Are they really going to come save you?"

"Us."

Ace's head snapped up to look at him so fast he felt dizzy for the barest of moments.

"What?"

"You don't think I'm going to just leave you there, do you, brat?"

Ace blinked, completely lost for words. He finally managed to repeat himself.

"What?"

Marco grinned, and that expression was something Ace would expect from someone with the his reputation.

"What do you say, Ace? Want to leave the marines' show and come with me?"

Again, Ace just blinked. This turn in the conversation had caught him so off guard he couldn't process properly what he was hearing.

Marco chuckled.

"You don't have to answer me now, you have six days still. Do you want that?" he asked, gesturing to the food with his head. "You'll need as much strength as you can get."

Ace nodded numbly. He still wasn't sure of what was happening, but his body got so little sustenance that he couldn't refuse a second helping of even the shit they served here.

His brain was still reeling by the time all the food was consumed.

Ace had been silent for the remainder of the day, not that Marco could blame him given what they had talked about. He had no doubt a lot to think about: he had spent the last seven years of his life thinking he would only leave this place to die, after all. That didn't mean Marco wasn't bored. He had tuned in on the conversations going around in level six, but those too were boring —seriously, not many people would believe that two mass murderers had spent an entire hour debating which island had the best hot springs and reminiscing on mostly harmless trips— and the time had dragged on.

Saying the most interesting thing that had happened since the conversation had been the bathroom trip explained it all. It was amusing to see how paranoid the guards were about him —though walking with so many chains was a little troublesome, Marco refused to show it— and the other guy that had been escorted at the same time than him had tried to threaten him. The man, whose face Marco didn't remember, had backed off as soon as Marco had directed at him one of the smirks that he usually reserved for the battlefield, and that at the same time had put the guards more on edge. Really, it wasn't as if Marco had any intentions of escaping. Yet.

Now it was probably night again, because most people were asleep. Ace wasn't, he was just lying on the floor and staring at the stone ceiling, in much the same way he had been doing for the last few hours, and Marco was making another attempt at trying to sleep. He was having more luck than yesterday at relaxing, and hoped that at this rate he could get a few hours of sleep —if not today, maybe tomorrow. He suspected it was because he was in a better mood: the conversation, despite how it had started, had cheered him up considerably. Ace hadn't lashed out, and if he was anything like his father or adoptive grandfather that meant he might agree to his offer and save them all a lot of trouble and struggling.

Ace wasn't sure if he wanted to believe Marco or not. Sure, that didn't change the fact that he did believe him, he found it increasingly difficult not to; after all, Marco was the Whitebeard Pirates' first mate, which meant that —aside from the captain himself— he was the person who knew with the most accuracy what his crew would do. But believing there would be an attack and believing it would be successful were two different things. Believing the second meant having hope, and Ace wasn't sure if he wanted to go back to that: he had abandoned it years ago, when it became clear that not even Gramps and all the weight his name carried would be able to do anything to save him.

Of course, if the hope didn't lead anywhere it wouldn't matter much because he would die, but that didn't mean it wouldn't hurt all the same to realize he had hoped in vain before said death.

And then, Ace realized that if he was weighing all the inconveniences of hoping it was because a part of him already hoped that Marco was right about everything, and the other was afraid that he wasn't.

"Fuck."

He stood up, suddenly feeling restless. He hadn't done much of anything since Gramps had told him about his upcoming execution, but now he felt the need to just move.

"Something wrong?"

Ace turned around and glared at Marco, overcome by an emotion he had thought dead years ago.

"This is your fault," he spat out, the anger he had felt for so many years as a child settling back in as if it had never been gone. "I had accepted it. I'd known for years that I would die and had come to terms with it. Roger's son shouldn't be allowed to live, I've heard that all my life. But now you appear out of nowhere and start spouting shit about rescues and getting out of here alive, and I fucking believe you!" he snarled, barely avoiding yelling at him. Years of being here had conditioned him to avoid attracting attention from the other prisoners whenever possible, and he did it unconsciously now.

Marco stared at him, and stayed silent for so long that Ace —fists clenched and still glaring at the man— started to think he wouldn't answer. Finally, he spoke.

"Well, I'm not sorry." That answer was not what Ace had expected. To be honest, he wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but a part of him had wanted Marco to get angry, argue with him. He was serious, sure, but he was most definitely not angry. "You don't deserve to die, Ace, whatever the damn World Government insists on saying about it."

And, again, Ace was taken aback. There had been so few people in his life who shared that thought that he didn't know how to react to it. And all of those people had been family in some way —Makino and the mayor had liked him to an extent, but they hadn't known who he really was. Hearing it from someone he had no relation to was too disconcerting for him to come up with a way to respond.

Instead, he changed the topic.

"I'm gonna train. I need to move."

"Want some help?"

Ace gave him an incredulous look.

"You're chained to the wall."

Marco smiled and, though it was a pleasant enough expression, there was something definitely annoying about it.

"I don't need to move to criticize you."

"Oh, thank you." Ace rolled his eyes and walked to the center of the cell.

He didn't tell Marco to shut up, and instead actually listened to his advice. He was a surprisingly good instructor.

The remaining thirteen commanders of the Whitebeard Pirates were assembled around the captain's chair, some sitting in chairs, others occupying various crates and a few —namely Jozu and Namur— sitting on the floor. Izo, however, was standing, pacing restlessly across the expanse of the deck they had taken up for their strategy meeting.

"Most of the marines are assembled already," Curiel, who was the one receiving all the reports from the allies who were monitoring the marines' movements, said. "The only ones to be moved now are the Shichibukai. They're still at Mariejois, waiting for Boa Hancock to arrive."

"She's going?" Haruta asked, whistling. "I wasn't expecting that."

"I think the marines weren't, either," commented Vista. He was been in charge of the group listening in to the marines' communications, and the fact that Hancock wasn't answering to the repeated summons had been one of the main topics in said conversations for days, according to him.

"Any idea when she will arrive?" Pops, who had remained silent thus far, asked.

"Late in the morning the day before the execution," Vista answered, pulling his moustache between thumb and index finger.

"Damn, that's close," Namur muttered, and Izo had to agree. They would have to move fast, if they wanted everything to go according to plan.

It had been a pleasant enough day, Marco reflected, even more if he compared it to what a day in Impel Down was rumored to be like. Ace was a really good fighter for someone who had been here for so long —he had told him he used to train a lot as a kid, and also that his grandfather gave him some tips whenever he came to visit— and Marco suspected that he could give a run for their money to a good number of pirates he knew, many residents of the prison included.

It hadn't been much of a surprise to discover —by accident when Ace threw a kick a little stronger than needed and caused a dent on the wall— that Ace was a haki user, and he had admitted that learning how to control it had helped him pass a good deal of time without going crazy in this place.

Things had gone a little south when some of their neighbors caught on to what they were doing and spread the word, resulting in the entire level six of Impel Down shouting taunts and slurs at them. Ace hadn't stayed silent, and proved he possessed a vocabulary as varied and colorful as any self-respecting pirate. Marco had decided to join in this time, and it turned out that reminding people of their humiliating defeats worked wonders to shut them up.

Now it was night again, and Marco was having a serious argument with his body because he was getting past the point of just being tired, something he could ignore easily enough, and moving into exhaustion.

"Marco." The moment the name was out Ace realized this was the first time he had used it out loud.

"Yes?"

"Will your crew care?"

Marco made an inquiring noise that let Ace known he hadn't understood what he meant. Ace wasn't surprised: Marco looked tired, and the bags under his eyes were getting scary. He knew Marco hadn't slept at all, something that was fairly common amongst the prisoners —though admittedly most of them lost the battle to exhaustion after the second night.

"About me. Weren't you enemies of Roger?"

"No," Marco answered immediately. "They won't care, I mean. We were sort of Roger's enemies, that's true, but probably not how you think. Rivals, more than enemies. That won't matter: we are outcasts, many people in the crew weren't wanted wherever they came from. If anybody says anything about you, they'll be asking for it whenever something happens to them."

Ace guessed Marco didn't mean anything lethal by that, he remembered hearing that the only truly ironclad rule in Whitebeard's ship was that it was forbidden to kill a crewmate.

"Will you join us?" Marco asked, startling him.

"… I don't know."

It was something he hadn't even considered, but Marco had asked it as if there would be no problem if he wanted to join. But Ace didn't want to think about it, because the dream of becoming a pirate wasn't as dead as it should have been by now, and that was a thought he wasn't sure he would be able to deal with.

"You should sleep," Ace said later that day, once it had become clear that today wasn't going to be a food day —by his estimation, up on the surface it was probably night already. He didn't care too much: he was doing better than usual, and he had Marco to thank for that. Marco, who didn't look all that well himself. Aside from the obvious lack of sleep, Ace now realized, he must be feeling the effects of hunger just like anybody else in his position would, without his devil fruit powers to block them.

"I've tried, believe me."

"You should try again, then. I'll wake you up if anybody comes into the level," he added impulsively. They both knew that wasn't necessary: Marco was a haki user, and as such he would wake up the moment a new and hostile presence approached, just like Ace did. Still, Marco smiled at him.

"Thanks."

"Just try to sleep. Think of somewhere where you like to do it." Ace had used that technique at first, remembering the little tree house he had built with his brothers and, though it had been a bittersweet memory, it had helped him fall asleep after the first few nights of stubborn wakefulness.

It had taken a while, but finally the memory of the deck chair he placed next to Pops' chair whenever he wanted to sleep without being interrupted —Pops made sure no one bothered him while he was there— had helped Marco fall asleep, and when he woke up his inner clock informed him it had been longer than he usually slept. He was getting used to be here, and if he had to hazard a guess, he would say it was morning of the next day.

His eyes found Ace, and Marco chuckled at the sight. It was obvious by his position that sleeping hadn't been a conscious decision on Ace's part, and the result was fairly amusing. He must have been originally sitting up against the wall, but now his upper body had drooped to one side, hips twisted awkwardly as his legs didn't seem to have moved much, a shoulder pressed in what looked to be a painful manner to the ground and his face, mostly covered from view by matted black hair, seemed to be pressed against the stone ground as well.

Marco felt a group of presences approaching that could only be coming down using the elevator, and Ace bolted awake. He had sat up before his eyes were completely awake, and absently rubbed the drool off his face with the heel of a hand.

There was no trace that he had been sleeping left on Ace's face, a contrast to the drowsy behavior Marco had witnessed the previous times he had seen him wake up. It was admirable that he could be on guard so fast, but at the same time it was sad because the reaction had obviously been developed out of necessity.

Ace looked at him.

"Better?" he asked in a hushed tone that probably wasn't necessary —the elevator's doors were still closed and all other prisoners who could feel the guards approaching had started yelling already, soon followed by the ones who couldn't feel them— but Marco appreciated that Ace made the effort to try to keep his previous weakness a secret.

He nodded and smiled at him.

It was again the same bleak food as the other day —just like Ace had predicted, no water this time, so it was a good thing they still had over half of it left— and once more the guard made sure Marco's ration stopped at a distance he would have been able to reach if he had had even one arm free. Marco raised an unimpressed eyebrow, letting the man know he wasn't bothered by such petty things. The guard just smirked mockingly at him and left after pushing Ace's food into the cell as well.

"Asshole," Ace muttered after the guard left. "If you were free, that guy would've pissed himself."

"I know." They heard the elevator's doors close again behind the guards and Marco smirked. "Imagine his reaction when I'm free again?"

Ace, who had just bitten into his stale bread, chocked and barely managed to swallow it between the coughing fit that followed. Marco chuckled unsympathetically and Ace glared at him.

"Thanks for that, bastard," Ace said as soon as he could speak again.

"You're welcome," Marco answered, amused still.

Ace's glare remained on him for a full minute before his gaze lowered to the pirate's food. His eyes lost a good portion of their fire then.

"I could help you with that," he offered somewhat awkwardly.

"No." Marco shook his head. "It's yours."

"Oh, come on," Ace argued." I don't care about your powers. You're a normal human for now, you've got to be hungry as hell."

That was true, this was the fifth day he had been here, and his stomach had been complaining —though luckily it wasn't very noisy about it, but it hurt, and Marco wasn't used to that— but it wasn't really important.

"That doesn't matter. I'm used to eating a lot more than you, that amount of food won't make a difference for me, and either way I'll be as good as new once these chains are gone. You, however, are used to very little food, and an extra ration will make a difference."

Ace crossed his arms and glared mutinously at him.

"You're a stubborn bastard."

"No, I'm being logical. Just hand me some water, alright? I'll be fine," he insisted, using his best reassuring voice, the one he had perfected by trying to calm or comfort distressed crewmates.