Unexpected Windfall

Jack did not move.

"Don't call it a day just yet, Helena said."

He stood in front of the soup kitchen with his back to the people in line, facing the old wooden table and the steaming iron pot in the open space. Helena stood two paces to his side, her gaze sweeping over the elderly people and children crouched near the mouth of the alley.

Jack took two steps forward to the old wooden table. The porridge was still bubbling in the pot, sending white steam into the afternoon sunlight along with the faint, sweet smell of rice. His height made the table look tiny. The rim of the pot barely reached his waist.

The woman serving porridge still held her wooden ladle aloft. She had not lowered her hand. Her eyes stayed fixed on Jack, their pupils reflecting his two-and-a-half-meter-tall figure in white. Wrinkles covered the back of her hand, and grime she could not wash out was lodged beneath her nails. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows, exposing thin, withered forearms. Age spots stood out clearly on her skin in the afternoon light.

Jack picked up a coarse porcelain bowl from the edge of the table. Its rim was chipped, and a long, fine crack ran across its base, but it did not leak. He held it out beside the pot and looked at the woman.

"A bowl of porridge."

He did not speak loudly, but the alley was so quiet that even the bubbling rice could be heard clearly. No one in line behind him spoke or moved. Every eye was fixed on the tall white figure and the elderly woman holding the ladle.

At last, the elderly woman's hand moved. She dipped the ladle back into the pot, stirred twice, then scooped up a generous helping of thick porridge and poured it into the bowl Jack held out.

Jack nodded and stirred the porridge with a spoon. A few red beans and pieces of chopped sweet potato floated on its surface, bright with color.

Jack lowered his head and took a sip. The porridge was hot, and the rice had been cooked so soft he could swallow it almost without chewing. It had the faint sweetness of rice. He took another sip, then sat down beside the table with the bowl in his hand. There was a low, three-legged stool there, its seat worn smooth and shiny. It gave a creaking groan under his weight but held together.

Jack drank another mouthful, rested the bowl on his knee, and looked up at her.

"How long did you cook this porridge?"

His tone was mild, as though he were asking something inconsequential. The elderly woman's fingers twitched faintly beneath her sleeve, but her expression did not change. She still wore the slow, placid look of an old woman.

"I started before dawn." Her voice was raspy and aged, with a wet rattle to it. "It's been cooking nearly four hours."

Jack nodded and took another sip. His hand was so large that the bowl looked tiny in his palm, like an adult using a child's dishes. His gaze never left the woman. It traveled from her forehead to the corners of her eyes, then to her mouth, and finally to the hand holding the ladle.

"How long have you been giving out porridge here?"

"Nearly two months."

"Every day?"

"Every day."

Jack finished the porridge, tipping the bowl up until the last grain of rice slid into his mouth. He chewed twice and swallowed. He set the bowl on the table with a soft tap against the wood, then raised his head and looked at the elderly woman. His gaze had grown heavier, as if he were confirming a conclusion he had already reached.

"Two months," he said. "Giving out porridge at this intersection every day. I never expected anyone in this world to do that."

Jack spoke directly to her.

"You say you've been giving out porridge here for two months. Two months at this intersection, cooking for four hours every day and feeding these elderly people and children. Yet no one's given you trouble. No one's demanded protection money. No thugs have stolen your pot, and the Mafia hasn't come asking for money. Don't tell me they're all good people. Does that sound reasonable to you?"

The elderly woman's hand went still beneath her sleeve. Her eyelashes flickered, barely perceptibly, but Jack saw it. She did not answer.

"During that time, the Marines received reports of missing people. Did you know about that?"

"I don't know anything about it. They should report it to the king."

"You're the one who did it, aren't you?"

Jack went on in the same quiet, even tone, as if he were talking about the weather. "You give out porridge so you can watch the people who come for it. You remember their faces, their clothes, whether they have family with them. You're picking out merchandise."

The elderly woman drew her hand out of her sleeve. In the afternoon light, the age spots on its back looked faintly dark, their edges blurred, as though they had been painted on. Her breathing changed from slow and steady to quick and shallow. Her chest rose and fell more than twice as much as before.

"What are you talking about?" Her voice was no longer raspy. The wet rattle had vanished, replaced by a taut sound stretched to its limit. "I don't understand."

Jack did not answer. He stood. The low stool tipped behind him but did not fall all the way over. Its three legs skewed against the ground, and it came to rest against a table leg. His height made the table and iron pot seem small. His shadow covered the elderly woman from head to toe.

"I knew you'd argue. I'm a Marine, not a detective. I don't need evidence. Now you want to talk, but I don't want to listen. I suspect you're involved in the disappearances. Are you coming with us, or do I have to beat you first and then take you?"

She opened her mouth.

"Help! A Marine is attacking me!"

Her cry tore through the quiet alley, hoarse and shrill, like a rusty nail scraping glass. She stumbled back two steps and struck the old wooden table. It rocked, sloshing a few drops of porridge from the pot onto the tabletop, where they spread into little white spots.

"Help! He hit me! He's forcing me to confess to something I didn't do!"

The people in line stirred. Half the porridge spilled from the bowl held by a child. He stepped back, planted his shoe in the spill, and slipped, nearly falling. An old man farther back rose from the ground, dropping his cigarette butt. He looked at Jack, then at the old woman, his blank expression turning confused and uneasy.

"How can you do this?" the old man asked, his voice trembling. "She gives us porridge every day. What right do you have to arrest her?"

"That's right! What right?" A young man crouched by the wall stood up, clutching a stone. He did not throw it, but his grip was tight. "You think being a Marine makes you special? You think you can arrest anyone you want?"

Voices spread through the crowd like fire through dry grass. Some people pushed forward; others smashed their bowls on the ground, sending porcelain shards skittering across the flagstones with sharp clinks. The young man raised his stone to shoulder height and aimed it at Jack's chest. Someone shouted, "Let the granny go!" Another yelled, "Marines, get out!" Their voices collided in the narrow alley, blending into a buzzing din.

"You might have given someone else a hard time. But sorry for you, I'm the one you have to deal with."

Jack raised his voice.

"Anyone who obstructs an officer in the line of duty can be killed without mercy."

Jack reached out, fingers spread and palm down, straight for the old woman's collar.

When his fingers were less than ten centimeters from it, a flash of steel slashed in from the right.

The wind from the blade arrived first, its chill brushing the hairs on the outside of Jack's wrist. He turned his hand an inch in midair, closed his fingers, and caught the blade between two of them.

The sword tip stopped two centimeters from his fingertips. Where the edge met his Hardened Skin, it made the faintest metallic scrape, like sandpaper dragged across iron. The blade shuddered between his fingers, then went still.

Jack followed the blade with his eyes to the person holding it.

A young man with green hair stood there, his short, spiky locks sticking up like a hedgehog's quills. He wore a white short-sleeved T-shirt and black trousers. Two more swords hung at his waist, one long and one short. The one in his hand was long, with a narrow, straight blade whose edge held a faint, cold gleam in the light. He looked about twenty, with an angular face and prominent brow. His expression was taut, his mouth pulled down and his brows knotted like twisted rope.

"I won't let you arrest Granny. You're the bad guys."

He did not speak loudly, but every word sounded forced through clenched teeth. He tightened his right hand around the hilt and tried to pull the sword from Jack's fingers. The blade did not budge.

Jack's thumb and forefinger gripped the blade like iron pincers. Its edge had not cut his skin. He looked at the young man, his gaze moving from the green hair to the other two swords at his waist, then back to his face.

Moss Head. Three swords. Isn't that Zoro? Right, he'd have just left Shimotsuki Village around now.

"You Marines think you can bully an old lady?" The green-haired young man pulled again. The blade gave a faint hum but still did not move.

Jack glanced down at him, then looked up at the old woman behind the table. Tears still streaked her face, but her sobbing had lost all rhythm. Her gaze darted between Jack and the green-haired young man. Her lips parted as if she wanted to speak, but no words came.

"Ask her," Jack said. "She's been giving out porridge for two months, and eleven people have gone missing in the Goa Kingdom. Does she know them?"

The green-haired young man's frown deepened. He turned his head from Jack to the old woman. His gaze passed over her face and hands, then settled on the hand gripping the ladle. It had been trembling moments ago. Now it was still.

"Granny," the green-haired young man said, "is what he said true?"

The old woman's lips moved, and she let out a muffled sob. "I don't know. I'm just an old woman."

The green-haired young man did not turn back to look at her, but his sword tip dipped half an inch. His fingers loosened on the hilt, then tightened again, his knuckles cracking.

"What's your name?" Jack asked.

"Roronoa Zoro."

"You're going to help her?"

"I believe Granny." Zoro's voice was deeper than before. "I saw her giving out porridge here, and then you came to arrest her. If you want me to believe you, show me some evidence."

Jack released the blade. It sprang in Zoro's hand, its tip tracing a half-arc through the air. Zoro drew back half a step to steady himself but did not sheathe it. He held it across his body with the tip slightly lowered, ready to attack or retreat.

"Evidence? That's funny. You think I have any of that?"

Jack's voice was quiet but firm, as though he were stating the obvious. His expression did not change as he spoke, and his eyes stayed on the elderly woman's face.

Zoro held his blade across his body, its tip slightly lowered, his jaw set. His gaze shifted between Jack and the elderly woman. His frown grew deeper, the vertical crease between his brows nearly tight enough to hold a coin.

"You're arresting someone without evidence?" Zoro's voice grew deeper still, edged with indignation. "When did the Marines become like this?"

"The Marines have always been like this," Jack said.

He moved. Soru.

Zoro's eyes caught Jack's fading afterimage, but his body could not keep up. His gaze lingered on the spot where Jack had stood for a fraction of a second. By the time he realized Jack was no longer there, Jack's voice came from behind the elderly woman.

"Cuffed."

A pair of gray-green handcuffs had appeared around the elderly woman's wrists. The Seastone Handcuffs were rough, their surface threaded with pale green mineral veins that looked matte in the afternoon light. As they snapped shut, metal and stone met with a crisp click that echoed once through the alley before the wind carried it away.

The elderly woman went rigid.

The age spots on her face faded, and her wrinkles vanished. Her skin changed from dry and loose to smooth. Her frame contracted, her shoulders narrowed, and she lost a full ten centimeters in height. Her hunched back straightened, then bent again into a different posture. The age spots on her hands disappeared entirely, replaced by gray-brown skin.

Her hair changed from gray to gray-black, from long to short, and from thin to thick, though it lay messy and flat against her scalp. Her wrinkled old woman's face became the gaunt face of a middle-aged man with tiny, ratlike eyes. Deep lines ran from his nose to the corners of his pale lips, and blue-gray stubble covered his chin.

A sleazy middle-aged man.

He still wore the old jacket, its collar fastened and its sleeves rolled to the elbows. But his build had changed completely. The jacket hung loose on him like a garment stretched out and left to dry, its fabric bunching in folds around his shoulders. His cloth shoes were two sizes too big. His feet slipped around inside them like fish wriggling in empty shells.

"Granny" had become "him."