Last installment of The Chase! Thank you all for reading!

EDIT: Put the story right-way 'round after Ysaye's helpful review. I thought it was confusing anyway...

When he turned sixteen, Smoker grew a ponytail.

The only other significant thing about turning sixteen was a changing of the guard in the Loguetown Marine base, and in fairness this was far more important than some vigilante kid's hairdo. But Smoker would always associate the two, and as for why that was, this is the story:

He never expected the new Marines to actually do their job. The rumors had been running for weeks, and for a savvy boy with his ear to the ground, it was easy to pick up on the news. Some Captain Benji was replacing Loguetown's would-be World Government caretaker. Perhaps the brass had finally gotten their asses in gear and decided to kick out the lazy bastard.

Either way, Smoker was pretty sure the new guy would just stay out of his way, just as Captain Haddocker had learned to; he didn't need any Marine interference in his business. And even if they'd actually been sincere, he hated the lot of them. Protectors of the people, right. He was more than enough for the job.

But they didn't stay out of his way.

A week after the reception for the new Marine captain, Smoker was on the tail of some rookie pirate in the back-alleys of his hometown. The idiot had no idea where he was going, and Smoker's mental map easily provided him with an idea of where he would emerge onto the main street. Dead end, blocked off, that road's full of dead fish and guts, so if he turns right…

He sat down at the intersection of Tipsy and Trafalgar, and waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Had there been a miscalculation? He went over the map again, checking each turning point and detour. Still, all signs pointed to these streets. Perhaps, Smoker thought angrily, the filthy pirate had decided to go through the putrid fish guts. In retrospect, he shouldn't have assumed pirates had a problem with that kind of thing.

Time to go looking for the—

-no, there was movement in the sideroad he'd been watching. Smoker half-stood, eyes narrowing as not one but three shapes emerged from the shadows. His first instinct was to attack, but something held him in check. Those weren't more pirates. In fact…

Smoker had bought steel-toed boots a year ago, and they made his footsteps satisfying loud as he strode furiously towards the two marines and their bloody prisoner. When he wanted stealth, he could always just fly as a cloud of smoke, but some occasions called for intimidation, and gods knew he wanted to intimidate these uppity Marines.

He didn't know their faces. That was unusual, because for the most part Smoker had been dealing with the same local marines for sixteen years. Something in their faces told him they weren't quite the same as the old guard, but at the moment he was too angry to care.

"That," he said, jerking his head in the pirate's direction, "was mine."

The Marines gave each other a significant look, which only served to fire up Smoker's temper further. He inhaled deeply and then expelled all the smoke in his lungs forcefully in their faces. Both men coughed and tried to wave the cloud into dissipation, but Smoker exerted one last pulse of control over it and let their eyes water for another five seconds.

Bastards.

"If you've got something to say," he ground out past his cigarette, "you better say it now."

One of them glared at him with narrow purple eyes and growled, "The Devil Fruit kid Haddocker told us about, huh? Understand this right now, boy: we're the law enforcement. This is our job."

Smoker could feel smoke wisping off of him in his anger, and he did nothing to contain it. So much the better if they got a little preview of what he could do. This was East Blue, so they'd probably never even seen a Devil Fruit user before.

They didn't look intimidated. One of them even sighed, and they hoisted the handcuffed pirate a bit higher on his feet. He groaned, and stumbled with them straight past Smoker. Smoker did nothing, as much as it would have pleased him to deck the guys then and there. This was their first and only chance, purely because he hadn't gotten a good idea of the new Marines yet. But that wouldn't be the case for much longer, and he sure as hell wasn't letting them get away with something like that again.

It was on.

It was almost like the Marines were trying to get in his way, pick off his prey. It would almost have been funny if it wasn't so damn annoying. Sure, there were a couple of criminal over the next week or so that Smoker got to before them, but more often than not the Marines were there first—new ones, all with that impassive arrogance.

The first time he tried to start a fight with them, they didn't respond at all like Captain Haddocker's men would have. They weren't as easily riled, and in fact it seemed like Smoker was the only one getting angry. He was on the verge of throwing the first punch when one of the Marines, a blonde woman with a square face and iron-gray eyes, spoke for the first time.

"Alright, Smoke-boy, peace. We'll take you to see the captain and you can argue it out with him. We don't have time for this, do we, Private?"

"No, Lieutenant Arshid, Ma'am!" barked the private.

"Good. Follow us, Smoke-boy."

Take it to the boss?

Not a bad idea.

"Don't bother," said Smoker shortly. "I know my way to the base better'n you do." And he could get there faster, too—a few springing steps launched him into the air as a stream of white smoke. Five minutes later, as the crow flies, he dropped into a three-point landing in the middle of the base yard. The first thing he registered was the distinctive sound of rifles being cocked.

…Well, they were on the ball. Too bad vigilance couldn't do anything for you if the guy you were aiming your gun at could turn into smoke at will.

"I'm here to talk to your boss," Smoker said loudly, glaring around at all of them. "I've got a bone to pick with you bastards."

"Aha!"

Behind? Smoker turned as slowly as possible, just to let to Marine captain know he wasn't intimidated. He wasn't entirely surprised to see that Benji didn't look very intimidated by him either—the man had to be close to seven feet tall, with a well-trimmed brown beard. There was gray hair at his temples, but Smoker was instantly wary of anyone with eyes that sharp.

"How many men cocked their guns when you turned up?"

"Thirty-two," said Smoker automatically, and then blinked, confused. Around him, a rustle of whispering passed through the watching Marines.

"Thirty-one," said Captain Benji, grinning with annoying approval. "But that's just because Ensign Locke carries two rifles at all times. We're still not sure how he manages, right, boys?"

Murmured assent. Smoker shot a glare at the nearest Marines, hoping they'd quiet down, but for the most part they just grinned back at him. The fire in his stomach flared with violent indignation.

"You know, Smoker, you're not bad." Smoker balked at being addressed so familiarly, but the man kept talking without letting him object. "For a kid, you've done a damn fine job of taking care of this rathole. But now it's ours to take care of. Take a break, find a girl—"

"I take care of Loguetown," Smoker ground out, eyes narrowed to furious gray slits. "The damn Marines never did anything for us, not since Roger died. This is my place. Leave it to me."

"No."

"Stay off my streets."

"No. Kid, you've got talent. But you could have so much more if you joined the forces...you'd have to cut off the ponytail, of course. But imagine the information network you could have with the Marines. Subordinates to take care of your petty business and keep an eye on local criminals, tell you where they're going."

"Don't need it," said Smoker bluntly. He could feel his cigarette burning down at an unusual rate, and tried to calm his breath.

It didn't work.

"Sure you don't." Damn, he was condescending. Smoker wanted to break the guy's nose and have done with.

"You look like you'd like to smash my face in right now," said Benji, and started loosening his sleeves. "Alright, I'll humor you."

"The hell?" said Smoker with feeling.

"No Devil Fruit powers," said the old Marine, and let his embroidered white coat slide off his shoulders. It crumpled on the stone tiles, and all around Smoker and the captain, nervous subordinates shifted back to give them space. Smoker was outraged at first—after all, if this captain had been a criminal on the streets, the Plume-Plume Fruit would have been one of his resources.

But saying so would make it seem as though Smoker needed his Devil Fruit to beat this damn fool, so he nodded once—curtly—and settled into a solid stance. He was annoyed to discover how difficult it was to repress the instinct to turn into smoke; had he really been relying on the Fruit that much recently? Damn it…

"You box, kid?"

Smoker said nothing. He wasn't obligated to give answers and anyway, no street kid would ever tell an enemy anything about his fighting style. The answer was no, of course.

"Boxing" implied rules, some kind of organization, some technique learned for a sport. It certainly didn't include biting, kicking, clawing, scratching, elbowing, or dealing blows below the belt. All of which Smoker fully intended to use if necessary, because no one had named any specific constraints for the fight and therefore no one had any right to complain if he wasn't up to their standards.

Still, something told him to wait a bit longer before charging in. He didn't know anything about this new Marine yet, and who knew? Maybe the old man was a bit more competent than the old captain. He was certainly big, and those scars probably weren't for show. So he'd been in combat, but most likely he wasn't expecting much from a gray-haired punk from Loguetown.

Smoker liked it when people underestimated him. Not only was it a tactical advantage, but the looks on their faces after he'd kicked their asses was priceless.

…But he wasn't just standing there—he had his fists up, which meant he was at least expecting a fight. He didn't seem like the type to take the first offensive, though.

He's waiting for me. He wants to size me up, thought Smoker suddenly, and was instantly furious. He didn't want to play into the bastard's hands, but if he could finish up this stupid game and keep the Marines off his turf, then he wanted this over sooner rather than later.

He dodged forward, looking for an opening—easy, the guy wasn't even bothering to cover his stomach—and sank one fist into the Marine's stomach.

Then everything went white. Smoker could hear Captain Benji coughing, probably winded, but whatever the old man was feeling, it couldn't be worse than the agony searing Smoker's chest. He didn't remember falling to his knees, but when he opened his eyes again, he was looking up through involuntary tears at a smiling, weathered face and a fist that… Kind of…

…gleamed… Brass knuckles. Damn it. Were Marines allowed to use those? His ribs hurt like hell—there had to be a crack in at least one of 'em. The captain was fast, and not afraid to take a hit either, with a fist like a hammer.

Smoker quickly wiped his watering eyes, ground his teeth so hard that he bit straight through his cigarette, and stood up. Another punch like that would probably leave him with a punctured lung, but he wasn't used to backing down from fights and he'd carried on with worse than this. The old bastard wouldn't get a second opportunity.

"Tell you what," said Benji suddenly. "You visited to tell us to stay off the streets? Perfect timing. Tomorrow there's a whole fleet of rabble due to arrive here. We Marines'll take a little…day off. We'll see how you handle 'em on your own. Alright?"

"What?" Smoker rasped, and felt his face harden into a pained grimace as his ribs twinged at the exhaled word.

"Yeah, I think that sounds good," said Benji conversationally. "Get out of my base, boy. You'll want to be healthy tomorrow if you're gonna stand a chance… Of course, that's assuming you can still run with that cracked rib."

The next day, Smoker was on the streets as usual.

(Never mind that he couldn't manage more than a trot at best without the pain in his chest intensifying to the point where his head rang and his knees went weak… If he wanted speed, he could stream along as a cloud of smoke. Never mind.)

Damn that old bastard…

A day off… We'll take a day off.

The sheer arrogance…

Smoker had been running these streets for years now, years on end, and just because Marine Headquarters had finally noticed that all their people in Loguetown were totally incompetent had nothing to do with him!

A street away, someone screamed.

Ah, now this he could handle. Smoker took a run-up and a jump before letting his body disintegrate into a stream of white smoke. Time to deal out some real justice.

When he resolidified thirty seconds later in the chaos of Mono Street, his fists were twitching with the reckless desire to send a criminal into next week and damn the consequences. But there was no criminal so far he could see, and in the tumult of frightened voices his keen ears caught words no law enforcer ever wants to hear—

Is she dead? Is she—Did he—All that blood—What's—Did you see—

-All overlapping, and they needed to get out of his way! One stamp of his foot and a shockwave of rushing, acrid clouds swept outwards from him in ripples, blowing everyone in his general vicinity back by about twenty feet. Ignoring the pileup and the continued panic, Smoker strode forward with his eyes fixed on the crimson splattered across the white stone cobbles.

His streets.

He'd seen worse before.

(That's what he told himself.)

This was nothing.

(But it was a lie.)

"Who did this?" He tried to sound authoritative and powerful, but no one was listening and all the while the culprit was getting farther and farther away. Hell, he could have set sail by now—they were near the docks. Or there could be another bright red stain waiting for Smoker a street away—my streets, MINE!

"WHO DID THIS?" he roared, but even as people turned to answer him, he knew that no definitive answer would be forthcoming. Already fingers were pointing in opposite directions and the answers were spilling over each other like waves on the shore and half of the people weren't even trying to answer his question, just pouring out their trauma on him. Smoker prided himself on being able to listen to multiple conversations at once, but this was just…

He just—Devil Fruit, I'd swear—North—West—Said Step-Step Fruit but I thought he was just joking—too fast!—That way, that way! Smoker—

He ran. He ran in the direction most of the people were pointing, and somewhere in the back of his head a voice kept repeating, Imagine the information network you could have with the Marines.

Damn it. Just—

His lungs burned, but he wasn't tired and smoke hadn't affected him since he'd eaten the Plume-Plume Fruit, so what…

Oh, the broken ribs. Damn. He lifted off, justifying it with a need for speed while his torso throbbed and every breath was hell. There was no way he could let this one get away, not after yesterday and not after eight years of vigilante activity, successfully keeping the streets clean while the Marines did nothing. It would be unacceptable.

Everything Smoker knew about pirates said that the man was heading for the docks to board a ship and leave, and he didn't know how much of a lead the murderer had.

(Devil Fruit powers—Step-Step Fruit. Too fast.)

Smoker accelerated, and almost immediately a fresh surge of pain in his chest made him light-headed; the careful breathing and the discipline he needed to make his smoke-body move forward faltered. Why did all this have to happen now? Just when he needed to prove himself, just when someone had been murdered on his turf for the first time in eight years…

Broken ribs, a Devil Fruit user, and a smarmy old bastard who thought—

Fury made him pick up speed again, rushing through the streets at a dangerously swift pace, dodging through crowds and occasionally knocking a Loguetown citizen off-balance. Ordinarily, he would have flown well above the crowds, but on this occasion he didn't want to fall any further than necessary if he lost all control.

He barely saw the flicker of movement through the haze of agony distorting his vision, and he barely got his hands up in time to block the blow aimed straight for the side of his head.

-everything blurred—

-No, he shouldn't have had to block at all…he had good reflexes to thank for the fact that he wasn't out cold right now, but usually punches and kicks just went through him. So why…?

The murderer's hands were still covered in blood. Or, more accurately, his gloves were. Smoker gave himself a full second to take in the man's appearance (long, blond hair, horse-like face, oversized boots and gloves studded with some kind of stone) before charging.

His fist connected with the criminal's face, sending a few teeth flying (good!) and then the other man's knuckles smashed into Smoker's cheekbone (bad).

"Like that? Like that, Smokey?" The blonde man danced like a boxer, jabbing and grinning like a maniac. "Never seen seastone before?"

A perfectly preserved memory: the Devil Fruit Encyclopedia and a footnote somewhere near the beginning on the effects of—

Oh.

"Step-Step…"

Oh, damn it.

"—Flicker!"

And ten punches his him at once, which Smoker would have been fine with (he'd seen worse, and it was the truth this time), except blondie landed a lucky punch to his broken rib.

Smoker saw white, and then nothing.

When he woke up, no one had moved him. It was twilight, edging towards real darkness, and the street was empty. No sounds in the night air, nothing to concern him…apparently, the residents of Loguetown were feeling more subdued than usual tonight.

Smoker stood up and he couldn't tell whether his pride or his bruised ribs were in more pain at that moment. He pulled the stub of a cigar from his pocket—good for one more smoke—and clenched it between his teeth, willing it into ignition with brief assistance from his Plume-Plume powers.

The smoke tasted bitter. Smoker let his jaw hang loose and the stub fell to the street, where it lay for a moment before he smashed his heel into it, turning his foot over and over again with slow, furious deliberation.

He didn't know how long he stood like that before someone started talking behind him.

"Do you get it now?"

It was the old bastard. Smoker didn't look at him, didn't say anything, didn't even breathe. Only his right foot moved, the heel grinding back and forth on the cobblestones, a smear of tobacco slowly staining the stone beneath his boot.

"You're just one kid. Sometimes you'll get unlucky and life'll bust your head. Sometimes they'll get away," said Captain Benji conversationally, lighting a cigarette of his own. "It's all about resources and how you use them. That's what I told you, and that's what I'll keep telling you until you either get it through your thick skull or I kick your ass. Because someone died today, and you know what? It was my fault for leaving it to you."

Smoker still didn't look at him. Twilight deepened around them, the sky overhead losing its evening glow in favor of a cold Loguetown night.

There was nothing to say.

No, there were too many things to say, but Smoker knew how each and every accusation would be answered, how every argument would be deflected like so much ocean spray against the prow of a ship. So he said nothing, just let the thoughts whirl inside his head, shred his skull, burn in his throat. He lit up again, hoping (somewhere deep inside himself) to soften the pain. His ribs throbbed with every breath.

"If you make it through the Academy, you'll rise fast, boy. You're tough. They'll give you your own men, let you dominate this little corner of the world if you answer their questions right. Thing is, you'll be serving in the name of Justice; that's what we stand for, get it?"

And Smoker remembered the Marines who did nothing, nothing, before he took the streets for himself and made them safe again. He wouldn't call that—no one in their right mind would call that justice.

"It's just a word," he said, deadpan, exhaling a cloud of silver smoke along with his steaming breath in the chill air.

"Depends on what you make of it," said the bastard, and there was a faint whistle as he puckered his lips for a few smoke rings. They washed over Smoker's sullen, unchanging face, and he'd tell you later (if he ever mentioned this at all) that it was the damn smoke from that bastard's cheap, bad cigarette that made his eyes water.

"They'll work you hard, but you've worked harder. Just learn to take orders when you have to and you might make it out alive," said Benji, and clapped Smoker on the back like an annoying uncle who had no concept of personal space. "It's like some moron said once-they can take you off the streets, but they can't take the streets out of you."

And with that, he left.

The next day, Smoker cut off the ponytail and went to sign up.

Recently I've been having a lot of trouble keeping commitments-e.g. updating stories on a regular basis. Subtlety has suffered a lot, and so, of course, has this series of oneshots. Come to it, I haven't posted anything at all in quite a while. So I have to apologize to the people who enjoy my stories (odd as the idea still is to me). Still, there are plenty of characters apart from Smoker who deserve some platonic love, cliches that need to be re-written, and plot bunnies infesting my head! I'm not dead yet!

But this is the last oneshot for The Chase, as I say.

And with that in mind, let's move on to review replies!

SniperKingSogeking0341: It's been so long since I posted a chapter here that we actually know what Smoker's doing now-who knew it would take me so long? XD Thanks!

penniless1: Thanks again! I love thoughtful reviews like this so much... 3

Phalanx: Whoa, I wrote something profound? D8 Unexpected. But I'm glad you think so. XD

J-Kid: I love Pratchett's books! My Smoker is actually kind of semi a little bit based on Vimes, so I guess the influence shows...? Ah, well. Spread the love, man/lady! The world could use more Discworld fans! (And thank you-I too tired long ago of Ace always jumping into the Smoker fanfiction I read... THEY WERE IN THE SAME PLACE FOR FIVE MINUTES, PEOPLE.)

lilyoftheval5: It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside when people cite specific quotes! Your review is much appreciated. :D

...You guys will probably have to go back and check to remember what you said. I'm sorry.