New York was a funny city.
Some would call it a shithole, others would call it one of the best cities in the entirety of America.
For some, it was a rat-infested cesspit, but for others, it was home...
Well, it was home for very few, considering the prices for apartments in that city.
But thankfully for Jack, his dying parents at least saw it fit to leave him with a three-bedroom apartment and a penthouse before croaking.
Well, they also left him with a fuck-ton of money, but it was better not to think about where that went...
He had been blessed to be born in a somewhat wealthy family. At least it allowed him the opportunity to eventually go to a good school, get a decent job, the works.
While office politics were boring, at least he had a Gym equipped within the Office, and he made sure to use it every day during his breaks.
While others smoked, he pulled on ropes, did squats, worked out his arms, biceps, triceps, every single muscle that he saw useful.
He had learned the importance of being strong. But why exactly? Why was he putting in that much effort?
'I need to at least look more buff than Zoro does... I need to be able to wield a sword held within my buttocks...'
He was, by far, one of the biggest One Piece fans out there... Well, at least he thought so. He was just a regular man. But he had used some of the characters as motivation in his journey.
He was also a big fan of freedom and the core themes of the show, which made it all the more appealing to him.
His goal was to outdo Roronoa Zoro and wield 4 blades instead of one, but in real life, which was why he worked his glutes out more than some of the women at the gym.
As funny as the idea was, it was only that. An idea.
He wouldn't ever get to have a sword fight in real life. Things were far too calm for that to happen now.
Even now, as always, he stayed at home in the evening and craned his neck while looking at his monitors, reading the latest chapter of One Piece and lamenting about having to wait for the next.
Jack sighed as he looked over his protein drawer.
He had been running low on juice for quite some time now, but his procrastinatory ways had prevented him from going out and getting more.
Jack stared into the barren depths of his protein drawer as if it had just betrayed him on a fundamental, spiritual level.
He rattled it once, hoping that maybe, just maybe, there would be enough for half a scoop.
No luck. Only disappointment, which, he figured, was the true flavor of life.
"Great. No protein. No gains. No way to follow my dreams..." Jack muttered to himself, dramatically throwing the tub back into the drawer with the solemnity of a man burying his best friend.
Jack wasn't really a guy who took life all too seriously. He'd decided long ago that it was better to laugh at the absurdity of it all than to actually try and make sense of it.
And in his personal gospel, the worst thing that could happen wasn't heartbreak or losing his job. No, it was skipping leg day.
Protein was his religion, the gym his cathedral, and One Piece his scripture.
His court-mandated psychiatrist called it 'high-functioning schizophrenia,' but Jack knew better. Those colorful pills were just meant to stifle his worldview.
"Guess I gotta go out," Jack sighed. He spoke to himself a lot. Some people might call it loneliness, but he called it 'main character energy.'
Besides, who didn't want to live their life like it was an isekai setup waiting to happen?
He grabbed his hoodie, threw on some joggers, and looked at himself in the mirror.
A tall guy, decent build, but nothing crazy. His reflection looked back at him like it wanted to say, 'Bro, we're doing this? At 9:30 PM?'
"Yes, mirror-bro. For the gains, we do anything."
Jack didn't think about it twice. He rarely thought twice about anything, really. Life was a joke, and he was committed to being its punchline.
The way he saw it, if you walked around expecting meaning in every little thing, you were bound to get disappointed.
But if you treated everything like a dumb gag in a sitcom written by a sleep-deprived college student, then suddenly? Everything was hilarious. Traffic jams, job interviews, funerals, you name it.
He lived by one mantra: Nothing is that deep.
The city was its usual mess. Streetlights buzzed, cars honked, and some guy on the corner was trying to convince strangers that aluminum foil hats were the only way to block 'the brain beams.' Jack respected the hustle.
As he walked, he scrolled through his phone. One Piece memes flooded his timeline. Someone had made a tier list ranking all Devil Fruits based on how memeable they were. He snorted when he saw Chop-Chop near the top.
"Yeah, Buggy supremacy. Man really turned 'I can't get cut' into a criminal empire," Jack chuckled. Then he shook his head, remembering how he had ended up 'becoming' an emperor. "Imagine actually being Buggy, though. Poor bastard."
He stuffed his phone into his pocket and kept walking, humming off-key without caring.
When he finally reached the store, Jack made a beeline for the supplement aisle. He grabbed his favorite protein powder like it was Excalibur in the stone, hoisted it up, and whispered, "Time to save my glutes."
A woman nearby gave him a strange look, but Jack wasn't embarrassed. He never was. Embarrassment was just another side quest he refused to play.
After checkout, with his prize tucked securely under one arm, he began his trek back home, humming again. That was when it happened.
"Oi, mate!"
Jack turned. A scruffy man with messy hair and a jacket two sizes too big was standing under a flickering streetlamp. His accent was so thick Jack thought he had stumbled into a Guy Ritchie film.
"You got any shillings, bruv?" the man asked, holding out his hand. His other hand was in his jacket, holding something that was undoubtedly sharp.
Still, Jack blinked. Shillings? Was this man LARPing as a Victorian orphan? Or had Jack walked into a skit being filmed?
"Shillings?" Jack repeated, grinning. "Bro, you're in New York. The only shillings we got here are in pirate fanfics."
The man frowned. "Nah, serious, bruv. Just a bit o' change, innit? A quid, a nickel, whatever you Yanks call it... Ya better hand it over, while I'm asking nicely..."
Jack chuckled. He couldn't resist. His brain was already moving at great speeds. "Tell ya what. I'll give you all my shillings… if you can best me in a duel!"
Before the man could respond, Jack whipped out his belt, snapping it once and turning it into a plastic stick, using it to strike a pose.
Feet wide, hand raised, protein tub tucked under his arm like it was precious loot. His eyes gleamed with the spirit of a man who had waited his whole life for this moment.
"Draw your blade, peasant!" Jack bellowed, attracting the confused stares of two passersby.
The British man blinked twice, then said, "Wot?"
Jack stomped one foot forward, pointing at him dramatically. "Don't 'wot' me, matey! You have asked for my shillings, and now you must fight me for them! Only through the sacred rite of sword combat shall you prove worthy!"
The man looked like he wanted to laugh, but also like he was considering whether or not Jack was dangerous. Or insane. Or both. "Bruv, I just asked fer money, innit…"
"En garde!" Jack shouted, lunging forward with his belt. He snapped it at the air, his face full of exaggerated intensity. In his head, he could almost hear the 'To Be Continued' music playing.
The British man took a step back, spooked slightly by the snap of that belt and the force behind it. He then opened his mouth to say something, probably a string of very confused swear words, but he never got the chance.
Because that was the exact moment Truck-kun entered stage left.
Jack never even saw it coming. One second, he was the protagonist of his own dumb skit, challenging a British mugger to a duel on the rat-infested streets of New York, of all places.
The next, blinding headlights filled his vision. The screech of tires drowned out every sound around him. He had just enough time for one thought:
'Are you fucking kidding me… Truck-kun? For real?'
WHAM.
The impact was instant, brutal, and final.
Jack's body was tossed like a ragdoll, the protein tub soaring from his arms in glorious slow motion, spinning through the air like a tragic symbol of unfulfilled gains... And an unfulfilled life.
There was so much he had left of life. So much to enjoy... Alas, it seemed he was just not fated for that world.
The last thing Jack saw before everything went black was the confused British guy staring at the airborne tub of protein, muttering, "Bloody hell…"
And then, silence.
-
-
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But Jack wasn't gone. No, this wasn't the end. It was only the beginning.
Because when Jack next opened his eyes, he was not on the streets of New York.
He was aboard a ship. A ship with red sails.