Luffy wasn't like other toddlers. He didn't cry when his toys broke—he fixed them. He didn't throw tantrums—he asked questions. And he didn't chew on furniture or crayons. No, Luffy chewed on ideas.
By the time he was three, his parents were both proud and deeply confused.
"He just rewired the baby monitor to loop white noise because the static 'helps him think,'" his dad, Mark, muttered one night, holding the altered device like it was a cursed artifact.
His mom, Celia, simply sipped her tea. "At least he's not eating glue."
It wasn't just that Luffy was smart. He was precise. Quiet. Focused. Every movement, every word, every blink seemed thought out. Even at three, his gaze carried weight—like he was watching the world and silently filing it away.
But he wasn't cold. He laughed. He played. He loved cartoons and music. He just didn't need to be entertained like other kids. The world was entertainment enough. Especially the broken parts of it.
The Obsession Begins
It started with an old toaster.
Mark, an engineer, had tossed it in the garage after it sparked one too many times. Luffy found it, stared at it, then dragged a stool over to the workbench. He disassembled the entire thing using a spoon, two Legos, and an incredible amount of patience.
When Mark came in and saw the toaster spread across the table in pieces—with Luffy calmly poking at the heating coils—he didn't know whether to panic or hug him.
Luffy simply looked up. "I think the bread compartment sensor was stuck."
"...You're three," Mark whispered.
Luffy blinked. "And the heating coil's corroded. Do we have wire?"
Trash is Treasure
From that day on, Luffy started collecting.
Not toys. Not rocks. Junk.
Old batteries. Broken remotes. Discarded earbuds. Pieces of old VCRs. Anything he could get his hands on. He had an uncanny talent for identifying what worked, what didn't, and what could be useful later.
His parents learned to stop asking questions when he came in dragging a busted vacuum cleaner taller than he was.
"Salvage run," he explained, brushing dust off the housing like a proud scavenger.
By three and a half, he had built a blinking LED light powered by a repurposed calculator battery. By four, he'd made a remote-controlled car that responded to voice commands—though it only turned left.
And still, none of this made him arrogant.
Luffy didn't brag. He didn't even show off. He shared. If something worked, he'd explain it. If something broke, he'd fix it—and tell you how.
He wasn't building to impress.
He was building because something inside him felt better when he did.
Like his mind was stretching just a little further than his body.
The Library
If the junkyard was his treasure trove, the local library was his cathedral.
It was quiet. Organized. Filled with information that didn't ask questions or underestimate him. The science section, especially, was sacred ground.
One rainy afternoon, Luffy wandered into the back corner, scanning the shelves for anything on circuitry. He passed sci-fi novels and old magazines when something caught his eye.
Not a book.
A person.
A girl sat cross-legged on the floor, a skateboard leaning against the wall beside her. Her hoodie was too big, her blonde hair frizzy from the rain, and her sneakers had flashing pink lights that blinked every few seconds like Morse code.
She was reading A Wrinkle in Time.
Luffy paused. She didn't notice him at first.
He sat down across from her and pulled out his current project: a half-built mechanical hand made from scrap metal, wire, and stubborn determination.
After a minute or two, the girl glanced up.
Her eyes narrowed. "What's that?"
"Prototype three," Luffy said without looking up. "Mechanical hand. It's supposed to bring me snacks."
"Does it work?"
"Nope."
"Cool."
She went back to her book. Luffy smiled.
Another minute passed.
"You built that?" she asked again, peeking over the pages.
"Yeah."
"How old are you?"
"Three," Luffy said, tapping a wire with his screwdriver. "And a half."
"You talk like a grandpa," she said.
"I read a lot."
The girl tilted her head. "I'm Gwen."
"Luffy."
"Is that your real name?"
He hesitated. "Yeah. Now it is."
Gwen squinted. "Huh. Cool hat."
"Thanks," he said, adjusting the tiny version of his signature straw hat—a birthday present from his mom, modified from a doll accessory.
"I don't know how to build anything," Gwen said suddenly. "My dad's a cop. He builds… tension."
Luffy looked up. "You can learn. Most people just throw away stuff they don't understand. I don't."
Gwen smiled. "I like that."
And just like that, something clicked between them.
Not loud. Not flashy.
Just… solid.
Like the first bolt in a new machine.
Blueprints of a Bond
From then on, Gwen became a regular at his side. She didn't understand circuits or soldering (yet), but she brought snacks, asked smart questions, and occasionally stopped Luffy from accidentally electrocuting himself.
In return, Luffy started teaching her everything he knew.
They scavenged together.
They designed together.
They built together.
One week it was a solar-powered flashlight. The next, a mini vacuum made from an old hairdryer motor.
Gwen was fast—maybe not in her hands yet, but in her mind.
She didn't just want to watch things work. She wanted to know why.
"You're gonna be a genius one day," she told him once.
"I'd rather be useful," he replied.
They became inseparable. Gwen was the fire to Luffy's calm. She made messes; he solved them. She asked wild questions; he answered them with grounded logic. They were, in every way, a perfect misfit match.
The Spark
Late one evening, as thunder rolled overhead, they sat in Luffy's garage with the door half-open to watch the rain.
Gwen was sketching a weird-looking contraption on a napkin.
"What is that?" Luffy asked.
"A water-powered skateboard," Gwen said proudly.
Luffy studied it. "The back wheel gear is reversed."
She squinted. "Oh."
He flipped the napkin, redrew the design with three quick lines, and handed it back.
"Better?"
"Way better."
She smiled at him, then leaned back. "Hey, Luffy?"
"Yeah?"
"You ever feel like we're meant to do something… bigger?"
Luffy looked at the rain. The hum inside him—subtle but always there—throbbed once, like it agreed.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "All the time."
They didn't say anything after that. Just watched the lightning in the distance, two kids dreaming beyond their size.
The world didn't know it yet.
But something extraordinary was beginning.