Kismet (One Piece)

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Quick note: I know I've been using 'berries' instead of 'beli' for the One Piece monetary unit, but I'm going to experiment using the latter for this story and see if I can get myself used to it. :) Enjoy!

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PAST

Location: Shelquiere Island {South Blue}

It is raining outside.

The man deposited in a ratty booth at an equally ratty ice-cream parlor hates rain nearly as much as he treasures beli; yet he is smiling as he turns a crinkled page of his ancient novella. Any avid bibliomaniac can easily identify said book as an early oeuvre of a renowned biographer (now employed by the Marines - no doubt to document the doings of some idolized Navy Admiral or of the like) and steadfastly asseverate to the unfortunate appraisal of its bland, tepid content. Apparently such derisory reports do not seem to agree with this particular reader, for his pleased smile wanes into a sincere sobriety as he peruses the minuscule text with the air of one thoroughly engrossed.

He seems commonplace enough - curious queries will inform one of his name, hometown and occupation (Karl Hale, head librarian and part-time tutor from the neighboring island Narcistera). A visit to the census office in a nearby Marine base will confirm the existence of a wife and a young daughter, the former of whom is reported to embarking on a career as a village seamstress. He is of about thirty years and dressed civilly, with kindly grey eyes, aquiline features, and a plain bowler hat thrusted neatly over his pate of obedient hazel locks. As Karl Hale, he is the epitome of meek benevolence.

In reality this man is anything but that.

He discarded his given identity years syne and now solely prefers his Marine-issued moniker - the Falconer. He is a contract killer - a rare one, to be sure; a self-professed connoisseur in the art of formal execution. In his earlier years, the Marines regarded him as one of a common ilk - a madman, at most, with the luck of the devil, having evaded arrest for so long.
The Falconer detests this. He is anything but common (although he pointedly disregards the 'madman' bit), and he took special care to inform his pursuers of such.

Now, he is branded as one of the most elusive and effective assassins to roam the high seas.

The Falconer turns another page, methodically removing his hat and setting the thing down on the plush seating at his side. The waiter drifts by, bearing a tray laden with a small snow-frosted glass dish of today's special - strawberry sherbet. Most likely bound for the customers jabbering in the table behind. He wanders away soon after delivering his consignments, retreating back into the ambiguous, monochrome dimensions beyond the swinging metallic doors marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.

The complacent intellectual finds his book atrociously insipid. It may even be possible he grudges the author as much as he zealously detests the humdrum precipitation pounding away at the drab, muddied sidewalks and overfilling the ample apertures between the affixed cobblestones situated at the other side of his tear-trailed window. Even so, he forges on with the enthusiasm of a loyal scholar; even the keenest of bystanders would dub him a sure fanatic in response to his assumed ardor.

In reality, the Falconer has cast on but a flawless facade; and to him, such feat is nothing short of a masterpiece.

There is a shuffle from the aisle, and a supposed stranger presently seats himself in the vacated chair across the table.

Of course, this is expected. It is rare when circumstances elicit an outcome deemed unexpected by the Falconer. He is a very circumspectful man.