#harbordoc

(She wears pistols belted at her hips.) Tap tap tap! go her boots, smart as you please. The heat of the oven leaves the little side kitchen warm, unlike the frigid air of the North Blue. The air smells of apples and cinnamon, and a big, metal cooling rack is on the counter. Little twists of dough are lined up in neat rows on the mesh, dusted with cinnamon sugar and baked to a crisp.

"Are you coming inside?"

The baker turns to face him, revealing a ragged, nasty scar running from the corner of her lopsided mouth to just beneath her eyelid. It leaves her smile crooked, and from here, Drake can make out a chipped canine tooth. Her eyes are red and swollen, but her voice is light and welcoming. The apron she's wearing has a Marine logo embroidered on the front, which makes her firearms... a little less out of place. Sort of.

"You're the boy from North Blue." Ouch. "How are you feeling?"

unprompted asks | @harbordoc ( always accepting! )

Wrinkling his nose would be impolite. Wrinkling his nose when she was obviously doing a really good job would be rude. She didn't deserve that.

It smelled like pie--he'd never liked pie, honestly. Too sticky. Too mushy. It might've been warm and comforting, but pies were sweet as far as the teenager was concerned, sweet could jump off a cliff.

However, there was no pie to be seen at the moment, and when she turned towards him, Drake froze for a second.

She had a scar.

She had a scar that looked way more painful than his had ever been, and for a moment, he wondered if she was the same... But... asking that would be rude--it would be more than rude. It wasn't his place to ask that.

When she asked her question, warm and welcoming, Drake couldn't help when his cheeks colored hotly, shame stabbing into his heart as he tried to shrink a little into himself.

That word--boy...

--'You're pathetic, Boy. Get out of my sight.'

How long had it been since the smiling, bright blue of his father's eyes had turned frigid and cutting ... ?

"Changed my mind, " Drake muttered, turning to leave without another word. There were lots of Them here, weren't there... Young, upstanding, potentially great marines that were little devils in disguise. No. They weren't the same. She wasn't like him.

This was nothing like the stories his father had told him about of his youth.

A finger of steam slaps him across the face, then pulls back, beckoning the (hopefully cloaked) fishman closer.

That's a real nice looking pie.

YES, Kisame very much hunted by scent. A lot of the times, his excellent sense of smell was a distraction. Just a few drops of blood and his head would turn in a different direction. Instinct. Right now, he was not on a hunt though. He was simply stopping by this island, or - this archipelago, before he was going to head down to Fishman Island, a place he went surprisingly rarely, considering it was his homeland. Kisame knew that Sabaody was not at all friendly to fishmen, so he was wearing his kasa hat, which cast a shadow over his face, hiding his striking shark appearance. As much as Kisame disliked having to disguise himself, he knew it would be more of a pain not doing it.

He stayed out of the most crowded part of the Achipelago. He'd wait until just before closing time before visiting the souvenir shops ( he would bring down some trinkets for the fishmen kids down on Fishman Island ) - He had promised to do that the last time he was there. If it hadn't been for that promise, he would've skipped this island altogether, since it was such a pain to stay here.

He was hungry.

There was a scent in the air, bringing him back to his earlier musings. It was a scent that humans would certainly associate with a meal. He could smell something freshly baked, but through the scent of the baked crust, there was a scent of seafood. A fish pie then? Yes.

He spotted it sitting in a window sill in a run-down house just over there. Like a lure. Kisame approached, his stomach rumbling. He was obviously not going to steal the pie, but if someone had made fish pie, there was a good chance they had leftovers from filleting the fish. Perfect for him.

He knocked on the side of the window, peaking into the house to see if anyone was home.

THERE'S AN UNDENIABLE EUPHORIA associated with rainfall. He's never minded rain much, but the idea of any potential exposed circuitry getting wet does hijack his ability to enjoy it. His confidence wanes as the downpour drills against his skin. The fidgeting stops at her command, but it leaves him frozen in an unnatural position. Arms are unfurled to the maximum width of his wingspan. His legs are split slightly wider than his hips. His head is tipped back, stiffly canted toward the sky

Then, there's the matter of Marina. Her behavior is both bewitching and bewildering. Sure, he's had many encounters with folks who love the rain, but none of them loved being drenched by it. Something about this seems . . . different. That begs the question: what's the reason for her sudden exuberance?

Marina's reward for a job well done is access to the galley. That causes problems of its own. Mess hall food is flavorless at best, gross at worst. Anything that smells relatively appetizing is like a pirate flag flapping in the wind. Everyone notices.

And Marina bakes.

There's at least five Marines gathered around the galley door, one of them pounding on the door. "CHORE GIRL LAROCHE! I'm your superior officer!" A burly fist connects with the metal door again, sending up a clang. Is that drool at one corner of his mouth? Yes. Because that pie smells amazing. Is that... apple? With something else, warm and spicy. It all but beckons Smoker to the galley, a finger of scent that promises a grandma's kitchen experience. Behind the door comes the muffled voice of Laroche Marina, flustered and slightly defiant, "There's only one!" "LAROCHE! I AM ORDERING YOU TO OPEN THE DOOR!" "NO!" The hard note in her voice causes the officer to go still, briefly taken aback by the brief ring of authority. (It's as if one's mom were warning you to behave, if said mom had received and excelled at firearms training.) Then, a hastily added, "Sir! I, uhm--I have to make more!"

Growing up on the streets, good food had been a luxury he had only come by by the grace of others. Meals had been few and far between. The food in the mess hall after he had enlisted had already been an improvement from his previous situation. No matter how disgusting other people told him it was, it was still three meals a day. To him it was a better situation than he could have even dreamed of as a child. To him, complaining about food on his plate was out of the question.

It had been unlikely thing, to have tasted something so sweet and delicious for the first time in the marines. but it had been because of the quiet fish-woman with a secret fire burning in her heart, that it had happened. The first time he had tried one of her pies, he had wanted to wither under the table like limp sack of potatoes to weep in peace and was only kept from that by the knowledge that doing so would be incredibly impolite. So instead he had ended up looking like he had swallowed a lemon whole, that's how hard he had fought the tears welling in his eyes.

Now there was the unmistakable scent of baking in the air again, and he happily trudged along following it in hopes of getting a slice. But as he approached, the expression on his face soured as he saw and heard the commotion at the galley door. A vein at his temple started pulsing, and he stomped over next to the group of marines, his arms decisively crossed over his chest.

As the group finally registered the murderous aura next to them, they turned towards him, the officers hand dropping from where it had been banging on the door. "Get lost, Kubo! We got here first, she only has one pie!" the officer exclaims.

He doesn't budge from his spot, arms firmly crossed and eyes steely. As the marines don't seem to be getting the hint, he loosens his stance, shifting to be ready to fight.

That gets the marines to pale, the officer protests, "Hey, if you start shit here, you are gonna get thrown into the brig again!"

"I don't care, get lost."

Something in his voice gets the marines to decide that getting beaten up by him today wasn't worth it. They turn and they leave, the officer shouting over his shoulder, "There will be consequences for this, Kubo!"

He huffed, bring it on.