Kismet (One Piece)

- 2 -

PRESENT

Location: Grand Line

The dead Navy man scowls blankly up at me, greying face drawn and creased.   His lips are etched into a permanent frown, half-lidded eyes illuminating an eerie glaze against the harsh fluorescent lighting.

I take a step back as the Commodore sternly nudges (jabs) my shoulder, allowing leeway for the regiment captain to drift in and eye the remains, golden tassels and illuminating medallions wavering from where they hang off of his uniform mantle.

If there is a single quality about my profession that I absolutely detest, it's these frequent visitations to such formalities. I don't know if it's just me, but the idea of scrutinizing the corpses of soldiers - soldiers whose deaths you might as well have inadvertently catalyzed - is not exactly what I'd call nourishing to a body's mental disposition.

Great jiminy, I don't want to feel sympathy for this man. I didn't want to feel sympathy for the ones following up to this one - even the ones I had to identify before I settled myself into my current profession. But I do. I do because I'm a human with hopelessly human faculties and a properly functioning conscience to go along with it as well.

I shift nervously, dragging my eyes away from the cold, unmoving hunk of dead flesh and bone situated within the flower-decked casket and meeting the supervising officer's knowing gaze. He elicits the faintest of nods, bless his soul, and I feel an instantaneous torrent of relief.

It's time for me to go.

I execute something of a clumsy farewell, jerkily dipping my head in a courteous bow before hastily sidling backwards out of the cramped quarters, steering clear of the lingering mourners in their respective black-crepe shrouds and the graven-faced relict of the deceased.

This is probably the fifth time around I was dragged kicking and screaming to one of these viewings and subsequently granted permission to leave early (probably because I spent most of my time moping or just plain going around acting madder than a wet hen), but I'm just glad they don't make me do this for every single fallen serviceman; it's only on rare occasion the higher-ups consecrate a death by sending celebrated envoys to supervise the burial, memorial service, viewing, burial, whatever. And even then, I get the feeling it's more for publicity than anything else.

Lisle, my trusted crony, confident, and fellow ensign, is waiting for me outside. Having nothing to to do with the deceased Marine or the skirmish with the band of pirate rogues which ultimately killed him, she wasn't authorized to attend the viewing. But she's there, probably with premonitions that I'd be kicked out anyways, so I don't have to walk back to the base alone.

Lisle is undeniably the belle of our entire company. Her sleek jet locks, viridescent eyes, and slender, dainty build are something of a talk amongst male recruits. As for me, I can be summed up (appearance-wise) rather nicely with the nickname "Colt." Tall, gangly, awkward - and undeniably ungainly. Sometimes I find myself thinking it's a mercy I'm not entirely constructed of long limbs and knobby, protruding joints as rumors may report.

But again, it's as close as it can get.

Now, hierarchy-wise, I'm technically filtered in an identical gradation as Lisle, but our lines of profession couldn't deviate more. The latter, being the cunning thespian of an operative she's proved to be, is a favorite amongst the higher-ups as a candidate for undercover work. Judging from her recent feats in snuffing out a couple venerable loners, she's bound to win a promotion one of these days. In contrary, I'm just the snoop - the stereotypical fulfillment of a sleuth who pores incessantly over constantly-updated maps of unpronounceable islands and ruminates on precarious schemes of snaring whatever poor devil whose demise is in the Commodore's demands.