I know what you're thinking! This chapter doesn't look very different... But wait, there young gentlemen - or gentlewoman! Take another, closer, look and you'll see the differences :P Haha, please remember to read this chapter as well before you start reading chapter nr 2, this has changed, too. So please give it a try. Thank you.

Disclaimer_ I didn't own it before and I still don't...

This wasn't really how he had thought that death would be. He had expected it to be dark, cold or maybe a land engulfed in flames. He had expected complete pain and there to be some kind of punishment. Some kind of penalty for his sins, for all wrong he had done in his life. But this…, this couldn't be right.

It was neither warm nor cold. It was dark but that was because his eyes seemed to be glued together leaving him unable to open them. What was most interesting and suspicious was the pain or that there was no pain? Which was rather strange in his point of view since his body had been engulfed in both flames, fried flesh and the metallic smell and feeling of blood dripping down his wound before he'd lost consciousness; he had solemnly been prepared for the pain. It never came, though; it never engulfed him or swallowed him. There was just a simple peace and quiet surrounding him. Was this really death, hell, the world of the sinners? Impel down had been worse than this.

When he first regained the feeling in his finger-tips, it stung, itching almost. It moved at a slow phase upwards, working at a teasingly fast slow-motion speed up his fingers towards his hand and wrist. His hand started to hurt, tickle and sting lightly – almost suppressed, as if scared that he wouldn't be able to take all the pain – as he slowly regained his mobility. The searing pain, however, came when his realized that he could move his fingers if just slightly to the left; it hurt, like hell(!) to do just that. But he didn't give up; he needed to know for himself what was going on and to do that he would need to be able to move freely. His fingers brushed against his pants, some kind of loose jeans material, much like his old shorts, before moving upwards his own chest. He could feel the loose fabric that covered his upper body – which spiked his curiosity because he'd learnt (the hard way) that he couldn't wear tight t-shirts or shirt's in general, they'd just burst into flames whenever he did. The taste of wild-life and vegetation was thick in the air as he took a deep breath, moving his finger-tips slowly over his own chest. He would, even to a stranger, confess that he was afraid at the moment and even if he wouldn't have they would have seen it clearly in his facial expression. As his fingers wandered over his chest he prepared himself for the pain that would come when his hand would reach the large circular wound in the center of his chest; it would be impossible to miss. However, his throat seemed to reach his fingers before his wound could.

His fingers gripped tightly around his own neck, almost chocking himself in the process. He wouldn't believe it, that wasn't right! His hand traveled down and up his chest searching for the wound, the sticky sensation of blood on his finger-tips, anything that would indicate that he was absolutely not fine. The wish was not granted, though, because the wound seemed to have just disappeared just as if it had never really been there, present on his chest for the last ten minutes – give or take a few minutes and seconds – prior his death.

Taking a deep breath, he moved his other hand to the same spot over where his other hand was still traveling in search for the wounds and bandages, but it was a failed search attempt. He found nothing but the same fabric covering his chest. If he only could open his eyes, he wouldn't have seen any sight of blood, not even a scar as proof that he'd been wounded in battle. There was nothing to indicate that he had been injured and nothing to indicate that he had done everything in his power to protect his younger, stupid little brother.

Forcing his eyes open was an even greater challenge than moving his fingers and hands. If he would describe the feeling that seared through him that moment it would have been told as if he'd been attempting to open stonewalls with just raw strength. But it wasn't the burden to open his eyes that surprised him, but the roof over his head. He had stared at that roof for so many hours before and it had suffered a lot of his pillow-throws – and a lot of other stuff he'd throw around – during the many years he'd lived under it. But the question was "what was it doing here"?

The roof was made out of simple wood but if one would look closer than one would see that each plank was made from a different kind of tree species. The walls being pretty much similar to the roof he wasn't chocked when he saw the cardboard boxes stashed in piles by one of the walls. Some looked empty while others seemed to almost burst open if one would even dare brush against it. The sliding door made out of beige paper and wood was placed on the left side of the boxes, just where he remembered it to be.

He frowned and forced himself in a sitting position, feeling that could actually move his entire body again. He looked down on his small hands. Yes… small hands; hands belonging to a kid, a brat much younger than his little brother, wrapped chibi hands; both being wrapped tightly with bandages. This only caused more confusion and frustration. He knew fairly well that he had rather large hands because of all the hard work he'd had to pull in his younger days – the days when he, Luffy and the late brother, Sabo had lived in the jungle – and if he was to compare these chibi hands with the ones he had before he'd lost consciousness than the difference would be big! He could see the edges and the lines of his previous larger hands shift far outside the chibi hands and saying that the difference was great would be an understatement, these hands weren't just small but tiny just like the arms they were attached to, as if they hadn't been fed right.

Ignoring his hands he looked around again before looking down on himself. He wore a red sleeveless t-shirt where, if one looking closely, the arms had been furiously ripped off. He placed his hands on his chest and tugged at the shirt looking at it, trying to spot blood or anything else indicating that he had been bleeding and would be, if he already wasn't dead. He found nothing and when he looked inside the shirt he could only see his own childish chest, no scar, no wound, nothing that would be proof that he had been in war just around an hour ago. There were a few scraps and some fading bruises but other than that he was completely fine.

He let go of his shirt and stood up on shaky legs before he took a deep breath and looked himself over closely, he had half expected a good couple of cuts and bruises from his time in Impel down but his legs and arms were smooth and untouched; showing that he hadn't been in battle between pirates and marines. But then why could he so clearly hear them shout and cheer when he had been freed? Why could he hear his Captain, the man he saw as his own father, ask if he had been a good father? Why could he still hear his little brother cry while saying that he had promised not to die, that if he died he would be breaking a ten year long promise? This wasn't right, it wasn't this way it should be. He should be dead. None-living! Buried down under, so… why wasn't he?

Determined to find answers to what was happening he stood up on shaky legs and walked towards the paper door. Next to them was a pair of black shoes, shoes that he also remembered very clearly. He frowned again but put them on; just for the feeling of having the memories flow in front of his eyes. Taking another deep breath he opened up the paper door slowly looking outside, he saw a very familiar sight that he'd never thought that he'd see again.

The open space of the living room slash dining hall was empty and clean, the small fireplace in the middle still emitting a small puff of steam from the dinner that could still be smelled in the air. Loud snores came from a room behind a closed door, most likely belonging to the other inhabitants of the house. Walking into the room, another flash of memories ran before his eyes. Those memories belonged to a time when everything had been both simple and complicated at the same time. About how he actually felt like he belonged but at the same time knowing that he most likely couldn't trust anyone he had around himself. Simple and complicated; trying to figure out if it was a good thing he was born in the first place.

He walked through the room towards the door leading out, knowing full well where he was going. And he wasn't surprise when he opened the thin wood-door and was met with once again a familiar sight he'd thought he'd never see, ever again. The outside was chilly, cold and the smell of rain was lingering in the air, most likely speaking about rain later when the sun would rise and expose the dark clouds that covered up the night's moon. The surroundings were darkened because of the lack of moon but he could clearly see the trees and the large amount of grass while the smell of animal and vegetation was thick in the air. He was in the middle of a jungle, a very familiar jungle.

He had to find out what was going on, now(!), before he would go mad from all the damn suspense and familiarities. There was no way that this could actually be real, because if it was than he had to be… He paled at the thought and with quick steps he hurried towards the elongated small house just next to the main, yet small building.

Steam hit him smack in the face when he opened the door. The warmth emitting from the center of the room still seemed fresh even if he knew that there most likely was nothing fresh about the room at all, even if it was supposed to be a bathroom. The barrel in the far end of the room with a small light next to it and a small stool still wet from what most likely was a previous bath. Water was splashed on the floor, making the wood take on a darker color than its usual bright tone. The steam was creating a white thin fog inside the room that made it hard to see if there was anything in the room at all really. Though he knew the small bath-house far too well to not know where everything was already.

With shaky steps and time feeling like slow-motion he made his way inside the room and towards the large barrel. He just suspected that he was lucky but knew that the barrel was never really empty and if it was than it would always be filled immediately afterwards again. Swallowing he took a grip on the edge of the surprisingly cold metal, preparing himself to meet his own reflection; a reflection he now feared to see. So when he well looked into the water he wasn't struck by surprise but mostly by confusion and fear at the face that looked back at him. Fear for what he had been living up until his recent death had only been a dream and confusion to why he had then dreamt it up in the first place, if such was the case. He didn't know, but what he did know was that the childish, dark and almost evil deep chocolate brown eyes staring back at him belonged to no other except himself along with the black mop of hair that hung in his eyes, framing his head and the overly boyish and childish freckles covering his cheeks giving him a – or at least it used to – child-like yet attractive aura.

Ace was ten years old again…

Okay, so this prologue is a little longer than the last one and I did change more than quite a few things but in the end I really like the result. It's not as rushed and sloppy written like the last one was, luckily. So, I really hope that you like this first chapter because I'm very proud of it.

Wanted-NR1