James was confused. Disoriented.
He couldn't see. Darkness wrapped everything—deep and absolute—but around him, something moved. A soft, rhythmic thump pulsed through the space. Not sharp, not loud, but steady. A presence more than a sound. He could feel it in his skin, faint and echoing.
What was that?
Warmth surrounded him—dense, soft, and even. Not the warmth of sun or fabric, but full-body warmth that cradled him. It hugged his chest, pressed lightly on his limbs, filled the space between his fingers and toes.
He tried to move. The intent sparked in his mind, but the response was sluggish. Distant. Like giving an order to a body still halfway built. He thought he nudged something—maybe his arm shifted slightly. It brushed a surface that gave under the pressure, like a soft wall made of memory foam. It pulsed back, slow and steady, then stilled.
Everything felt suspended. Floaty. His thoughts came slowly—uncoordinated, like trying to grab bubbles through thick water. He wasn't cold. He wasn't hurting. But he couldn't act. Couldn't speak. He was here, wherever here was, and his body didn't quite belong to him yet.
That sound again. The pulse. It was still there. Always there. Close. Like it belonged to him… or maybe came from someone else. It washed through him in waves.
He felt the urge to stay awake. To figure this out. But it slipped from him. There was nothing to hold on to—no shape, no ground. Just drifting thoughts in a warm, padded silence.
His mind dulled. The rhythm continued. And sleep returned like a tide.
It had been weeks.
At least, James hoped it had been weeks. It felt like weeks. Floating in warmth with nothing but his thoughts and the slow, steady rhythm thudding around him—it was hard to tell. Time had turned to soup. But somewhere along the way, the pieces had clicked into place.
He was in the womb.
The thought had crept up slowly at first. The sluggish motion. The weightless pressure. The way sound arrived—muffled, warped, like it had to swim to reach him. And then there was the warmth—not the kind from blankets or the sun, but something deeper. Surrounding. Constant. Like being cradled by life itself.
And, of course, the singing.
James remembered that smug bastard—the one with the grin and the robes, who talked in riddles and tossed around system upgrades like party favors. That guy had done this. Thrown him into his own prenatal rerun like it was some kind of cosmic joke.
When they met again—and James knew they would—there'd be a reckoning. A quiet, polite, and extremely pointed reckoning.
But for now, he floated. And listened.
There were voices. One was soft, patient. His mother, probably. He didn't understand the words, but he didn't have to. That voice made the space feel gentler. Fuller. Like something was keeping watch.
The other voice was… harder to appreciate.
Low. Enthusiastic. Determined. And completely tone-deaf.
It started the same way every time—an eager hum, then a slow, dragging verse that clawed its way through the fluid. Notes collided. Rhythms wandered off cliffs. It was like a foghorn had fallen in love with a broken record player.
And it happened daily. Or what James thought was daily. The worst part? The guy meant well. You could feel the effort. The sincerity.
It made it worse.
He didn't need to understand the lyrics. The emotion came through loud and clear: some poor man out there was singing to his unborn child, with the confidence of a drunk karaoke star and the skill of a broken kazoo. James was almost certain that was his dad.
God help him.
Still… it wasn't all bad. Terrible, yes. But also kind of sweet in the way only something awful and genuine can be. It was, in a word, unforgettable.
So, he waited. Listened. Floated. Wrapped in warmth and sound, in a place where time didn't move right and lullabies were weapons.
And somewhere, deep in the back of his mind, James made a note:
Find that smug bastard. Make him pay.
James was sooooo bored.
Like, watching paint dry on a foggy day bored. The kind of bored that made him wonder if his brain cells were liquefying. At least he could sleep. And thank God for that—because sleep was the only thing breaking up the monotony.
Well… sleep and kicking.
He could kind of move now. Not gracefully. Not even consistently. But he had enough control to flail a little, flex a limb, and most importantly—kick. And so, like any mildly unhinged adult trapped in a developing baby body, he started kicking his mom's stomach every time that god-awful singing started again.
That voice. That tone. That cursed melody. It wasn't just bad—it was heroic in its awfulness. Loud, proud, off-key, and always just sincere enough to make it harder to hate completely. But James didn't let that stop him.
You think I'm enjoying this? he thought darkly. Just wait till I'm out and I can cry on command. Then we'll see who's laughing.
When he wasn't kicking or sleeping—or grimacing at the sound of his dad's vocal disaster—James had time to reflect.
Way too much time.
He thought about his parents. These people—whoever they were—seemed… alright. They were trying, at least. And James hadn't come from the best family the first time around. Things had been broken. So if the man—the one from before—had actually kept his word, maybe this round would be different. Maybe it wouldn't be shit.
He thought about Ann. Her smile. The way she anchored him when the world got too heavy. He'd find her again. Somehow. And if strength was the price to do it, then he'd pay in blood and sweat without complaint.
The man had made it pretty clear: stronger meant closer. The vivre card's ability to track her depended on James growing stronger—climbing higher.
At first, that had felt poetic. Now? With time to stew, James wasn't so sure. Maybe it wasn't just about helping him find Ann. Maybe it was a leash. A way to make sure he didn't jump the rails too early.
Insidious? Maybe.
Effective? Definitely.
Or… maybe the guy really was just a massive dick.
Also still very possible.
But James couldn't wait to be a Marine.
Not just any Marine—one that mattered. He was going to fly the flag of justice with real strength behind it. Not just the word on a coat, but something lived and fought for. He'd always been a by-the-book cop, the kind who'd let an honest man off with a warning when it made sense, who tried to make things better without tossing people through windshields or turning a blind eye.
He still believed in that. In routine. In justice. In doing right, not just looking right.
And now, in this world—he was going to take it even further. Make a real impact. Change things.
He grinned inwardly at the thought of wearing that long white coat with the word Justice scrawled across the back. He'd look good in it too—he just knew it. Maybe, if he got strong enough, if he climbed high enough, he could even convince the Navy to not execute Ace.
That thought had lingered with him longer than he expected.
Watching Ace die—seeing Luffy break—it didn't sit right. Those boys had been good at heart. Wild, but kind. Loyal. They deserved better. Maybe that was wishful thinking… maybe it was naïve.
But a man could dream of trying.
And James? He couldn't wait to try. Couldn't wait to rise through the ranks. To earn respect. To push back against the rot in the system from the inside out.
One thing was for sure—he was going to give this world everything he had.
And he was going to change it.
James floated, arms crossed, knees up, rotating slowly in the familiar quiet. He had just mentally crossed off "Three-thousand-and-thirty bottles of beer on the wall", his voice echoing in his head like a half-remembered chant. He didn't even know how long he'd been at it. Time wasn't real in here. Not really.
He didn't love the song. But it gave him something to measure.
Boredom had reached a level beyond words. Complaining? That lost its charm weeks ago. Kicking? Fun, for a while. Especially when paired with the terrible lullabies from that voice—probably his father, and almost definitely tone-deaf. Eventually, though, even vengeance by foot grew dull.
So he floated. Warm. Suspended. Thoughtful. Biding time.
Until something changed.
The fluid around him—ever-still, ever-quiet—shifted. Not in temperature, but in pressure. Subtle at first. Like the atmosphere was holding its breath.
Then it came again—stronger. A push. A squeeze. His entire space seemed to narrow, and James felt it like a glove closing around his body. His legs kicked on instinct. His arms curled inward. His spine twisted slightly, drawn by something deeper than reason.
The rhythm, the one he'd come to associate with comfort, beat faster. The muffled voices outside sharpened, rising in pitch and pace. Someone shouted. Someone else replied. Urgency cut through the fluid like a ripple in a still lake.
Then everything tightened.
There was no space anymore. His body compressed, shoulders tucked in, head pressing downward. It wasn't pain—he wasn't developed enough for that yet—but it was pressure. Massive. Relentless. The weight of life bearing down.
He didn't remember choosing to move, but his body pushed. The world that had held him with warmth and silence began to force him out of it.
The muffled sounds turned to chaos. Grunts. Encouragements. His mother's voice, strained but still calm. And then—after one last full-body shove—he broke through.
Cold.
Light.
Noise.
It all hit at once.
The air scraped his lungs, and for the first time in this life, he breathed. The sound that followed was instinctual. Raw. A long, confused, furious cry. Not from pain—but from sheer overwhelm.
The brightness was blinding. He blinked, or tried to. His vision blurred, useless, but there were shadows, shapes, motion. Arms lifted him. Cloth wiped his skin. The air was strange—clean, yet sharp. His tiny fingers clenched. His feet kicked.
And in the middle of all that, James thought—So this is life, huh?
Somewhere in the blur, he heard the terrible singer again. His father. A voice cracking with laughter and nerves. And his mother, breathless, whispering something soft and warm.
Despite the noise, despite the cold, despite everything—James felt something anchor inside him.
He was finally here.
"It's a boy!" a woman's voice announced—unfamiliar but clear, bright with relief and excitement.
James caught it. English. Thank God. He hadn't been completely sure in the womb, everything was too muffled, but now he heard it—real words, real language. English.
"A boy, Mary—we have a baby boy!" a man's voice followed, rougher, deeper. A little shaky with joy.
A tired sigh answered him. "Yes, Tomas. We have a boy…"
James blinked against the light, feeling himself shift in someone's hands. Something was happening—something big—but the meaning came in pieces. The sounds weren't just noise anymore. They were people. His people.
There was a pause.
"Why isn't he crying?" That one—he knew. That voice carried a different weight. Closer. Warmer. His mother? It sounded right. Her voice had been the one humming through the amniotic world for weeks. The one that calmed him.
Now it was anxious.
He felt himself being passed, lifted. Arms that weren't hers. The touch was fine, but… off. Not wrong, just not right. He wanted the first voice back. That warmth. That closeness.
Wait, was that biology? Instinct?
Probably. Still weird to think it as a newborn, but he had been soaking in her presence—quite literally. Her scent, voice, rhythm. He felt the absence like someone had flipped a switch.
Then it clicked.
He was being quiet. Too quiet. Not normal. He needed to react. Be a baby. That's what they expected, wasn't it?
So he cried.
Not because he was scared. Not because he hurt. Just because—deep down—he understood it would help. That it would reassure her. That it was time to let the world know:
He was here.
And he wanted his mom back.