I swear to you now, this is not going to be Subtlety all over again. It is going to be a short collection of Stuff About Smoker, musings on the man and how generally badawesome he is, without any pairings or even hints of them. Because he deserves it.

In Loguetown, the air always smelled of salt. It was a seaport town, shoving up next to the ocean, so the tangy scent washed off the waves had soaked into brick and wood and pavement. But Smoker remembered the smell of salt because of the dried pork sold to mariners on the street where he lived. The place could have been worse; they were nowhere near the high-rise areas, but neither was the house on the outskirts of the city. Even so, crime was bad. Bad bad.

He was not a marine from birth by any means, and for years they entered his life only as the enemy. The laws of Loguetown's streets had nothing to do with those instated by the town's caretakers, most of whom stayed out of crime's way more and more after the pirate king's execution. Maybe their precious government masters had intended it to be the other way around, but the sudden influx of pirates and any other sailors on their way to the Grand Line was both frightening and infuriating.

The main streets were nice enough, paved with pale stone, with respectable store-fronts and bars lining them. The further away one walked, however, the less pleasant your quarters-and the people living nearby-became.

Here, it was the streets and you. Mother was tough, but her crippled leg kept her out of most respectable jobs. So Smoker didn't go to school—at least, no one taught him how to read, write, or do math. He learned how to steal, and he knew how to pick his fights wisely, though he rarely did. The only arithmetic that was helpful in Loguetown was how one wrong word could multiply your bruises.

Yeah, those were the important lessons. Fighting other kids, sometimes teenagers several feet taller than he was, and snatching a meal or two when cash was tight.

Things changed a bit when he turned twelve. Sure, there was the execution of the Pirate King—broad white smile, shadows of stubble, gaudy scarlet coat (ragged with years of wearing)—but it was that speech that did it. The cheer that went up after he finished slammed into Smoker like a wall, and suddenly it was all confusion and screaming. Milling people trampled his feet, and an elbow left him with an impressive shiner the next day. But it wasn't the pain or the bruising or even the wild, fierce, involuntary awe that Gold Roger's words invoked. It was the Great Age that followed. And there was nothing he could do to stop it as it swallowed his life whole.

Pirates streamed into Loguetown, frenzied for a chance at the Grand Line, brutally inconsiderate of the citizens. The local force of marines began to dwindle rapidly as older, more experienced officers caught onto the trend and requested transfers. They were replaced by raw idiots with no skills to speak of.

The issue only came home to Smoker one muggy night in the summer of his thirteenth year, as he wandered home after an especially tough confrontation with Pickpocket Timothy. One ankle was badly twisted, dragging over the cobbles with every step. The moon was yellow that night, the sooty streetlamps flickering erratic and orange.

The first broken door he saw was Mister Shiina's—the dried pork salesman. Then Knots, the ropemaker's place, and Mrs. Birdy's house, where some kids learned spelling for five beri a week, and he was running now, teeth bared to the gums with pain. And he saw the empty black rectangle where his house's door had once been, and the splintered wood.

It was the work of a moment to make sure Mother was fine, hiding in a closet upstairs with a hefty wooden axe handle. But everything else…food, trinkets, the little money they had…all gone.

It's not for a thirteen-year-old to handle the responsibility and the fury of a man whose family has been wronged, but there was no one else to do so, and so it fell on Smoker to take care of his home. He ran as far as he could towards the marine base, his ankle crackling and throbbing as his heels pounded the street. When the joint finally gave up and collapsed in excruciating pain, he hauled himself into a standing position once more with scuffed hands. On one foot, hands shifting over the walls of passing buildings, he hop-skipped doggedly to his only chance of revenge.

Pirates.

That was when he truly began to hate them.

In his pain, he almost passed by the four marines lounging around a bar's outdoor tables, tossing a purple ball back and forth. As Smoker drew closer, the ball began to look more like some odd fruit, curlicues spiraling over its surface.

"Hey!"

His voice hadn't broken yet, and was shaky from the agony of his injured ankle, but there must have been some authority in it that told the marines he was talking to them.

"What, kid?"

Bridling at the man's condescending voice, Smoker glared fiercely at all four of them as he spoke. "Pirates…there're pirates runnin' loose here, you know that? You know they took all we got? Get up'n help, bastards!"

He could have been more polite. But there was something about their laughing faces and the way they acted like there was nothing wrong…

"Run off and don't bother us, brat," said one of them, sneering as he tossed the weird fruit from hand to hand. "We've got more important things to do, okay? Whatever's happened, it can't be that horrible. I mean, we're pretty good about keeping pirates out."
He would have attacked them right then, shown them a little bit of Loguetown's special brand of down-and-dirty fighting, but his ankle screamed for a rest, and the fragility of even standing told him he couldn't win.

"So," said one of them, turning back to the rest as though nothing had happened, "how much d'you think Captain February'll pay for this thing?"

The rest of them guffawed. Smoker, who had been about to storm away in disgust, paused now in curiosity. He had no money. He needed money. They were paid men; they didn't need any extra. He waited for the estimate.

"Five, ten thousand beri," said one, confident in his appraisal of the fruit. "Tops."

"For a Devil Fruit? More! Way more!"

Only four words of this exchange registered in Smoker's ears: ten thousand and Devil Fruit. He spun on one foot, managing to get momentum behind the movement, and launched himself at the marine holding the fruit. He'd never seen one before, but this looked about outlandish enough to give someone special powers. As soon as he'd freed it from the startled man's grip, he was off again. They followed, of course, once they'd lost the initial shock, but this was his home turf. They stood no chance, even with Smoker's hurt foot in their favor.

As he began to limp home, the plan in the boy's head was clear—sell the fruit, make money, make sure there's food for another half a year. By the time he reached his house, however, the idea had changed drastically. There was an opportunity here, and not taking it was inexcusable.

He didn't stop to consider it; hesitation was useless here. One large bite was enough, as the thing tasted absolutely horrible. Smoker gagged, grimaced, and swallowed. The ruined Devil Fruit went into the trash.

The plan had changed: Take the powers of the devil. Rule the streets. Show the marines what justice is.

The rules had changed.

1. I have the power now.

2. No mercy for pirates.