Marineford, Sengoku's Office.
If hell had a waiting room, Gale figured it would look a lot like this: an endless sea of paperwork stacked high enough to block sunlight, a massive golden Buddha glaring down at you like it's disappointed in your life choices, and Sengoku talking for fifty straight minutes about supply chains and ship maintenance schedules.
Half an hour in, Kizaru had yawned, stretched, muttered something about "so many words, so little light speed," and walked out without resistance. No one even stopped him.
Sengoku barely blinked.
That left Gale. Alone.
Pinned like a bug on a corkboard.
"…and so, after reviewing the reports, deliberating with the council, and cross-examining the requisitions from G-5—" Sengoku was still droning, voice steady, steady, steady. His hands moved across the desk as though he were still talking to a full room.
Finally, mercifully, the speech came to an end.
"…I've decided you'll serve in the G-5 Marine Branch."
Silence.
Gale blinked once. He stared at Sengoku with the kind of blank expression a man reserves for dentists or tax collectors.
'You could've just said that thirty minutes ago,' he mused.
But his mouth only said, flatly:
"Sir, yes sir."
Sengoku's brows furrowed at Gale's calmness, misreading it instantly. To him, calm wasn't discipline—it was dissatisfaction.
"The G-5 branch may seem like… a pack of misfits," Sengoku began again, voice lowering like he was giving a sermon. "And as such, I can understand why you might be hesitant…"
'Hesitant?' Gale mused, already half-asleep inside his own head. 'Not really. Misfits I can handle. At least misfits don't make me listen to a forty-minute lecture on ship fuel allocation.'
Still, he kept his face neutral. "I don't mind, sir."
Sengoku mistook his silence for more resistance and pressed on.
"I won't say the G-5 reputation is unwarranted," Sengoku admitted, adjusting his glasses. "But it's a matter of perspective. You could see it as punishment, or…" He paused dramatically, "…you could see it as a challenge."
'Challenge accepted,' Gale thought, already halfway out the door in his imagination. C'hallenge: survive one more speech without eating my own boots.'
But aloud, he only said:
"Yes. I understand."
The Fleet Admiral gave a sage nod. Clearly, he thought this young officer had just been inspired by his words.
Then came the part Gale truly dreaded: the "inspirational closer."
"Besides," Sengoku said, leaning forward, voice firm with conviction, "Vice Admiral Vergo is stationed there. A fine example of leadership. You have much to learn from him."
Gale instantly froze.
Right. G-5. Vergo.
Sengoku had said something earlier—something about requisitions from G-5, tucked neatly between all the logistics and budget numbers Gale had stopped listening to ten minutes in.
Now it came back to him like a punch in the gut.
His lips suddenly felt dry. He licked them before speaking, slow and careful:
"Based on what you said, sir… am I right to assume the people at G-5 asked for me personally?"
Sengoku's mustache twitched as he smiled. "So you were paying attention after all?"
He gave a sage nod, like a teacher proud of his most boring student.
"Vice Admiral Demon Bamboo Vergo asked for you personally. You should feel flattered."
Gale's eye twitched.
'Flattered?'
Inside his head, the words lined up in a row like drunken soldiers: 'I'm feeling a lot of things, old man. Flattered isn't one of them. Afraid for my life, more like.'
Vergo.
Even with Gale's memory of the anime rusting at the edges, that name stuck. He hadn't thought of him once since coming to this world. He didn't have to—but hearing Sengoku say it now was like a cold hand sliding down his back.
He had kind of forgotten about Vergo, honestly. Just filed him away in the "scary guys with sunglasses" drawer of his brain. But the second Sengoku dropped the name, the whole drawer popped open and smacked him in the face.
And now here he was, "personally requested."
By a guy who happened to be Doflamingo's top infiltrator.
By a guy who, if Gale remembered correctly, had a habit of breaking bones like breadsticks.
By a guy who, coincidentally, wanted him transferred right after Gale had publicly humiliated Doflamingo in front of every active Warlord of the Sea.
Yeah. Sure. Total coincidence.
'This couldn't be a coincidence,' Gale thought grimly.
Then, just as quickly, he tried to dismiss the idea.
'No… no, come on. Having Vergo as a mole inside the Marines is too valuable for Doflamingo to risk just because I bruised his ego. Petty? Vindictive? Absolutely. But stupid? Not his style.'
Still…
The thought clung to him like a bad smell.
Gale forced a sheepish smile onto his face, the kind you use when trying to explain to your landlord why there's suddenly a goat in your apartment.
"You know, sir… after careful consideration and, uh… due counsel…" He cleared his throat like a man about to deliver the most sensible argument of his life.
"…a transfer to G-5 might not be the best thing for my career right now."
Sengoku's brows dipped, his mustache bristling like it had a temper of its own. "And where, exactly, do you think you'd be better transferred, Captain Gale?"
Gale shrugged, trying to look casual and not like a man desperately searching for an escape hatch.
"I don't know… maybe anywhere else? I hear West Blue's pretty nice this time of year. Peaceful. Scenic...."
'Very low on bamboo-wielding psychopaths.'
The Fleet Admiral's disapproving stare could've flattened a mountain. "Unfortunately, Captain, your assignment this time isn't optional. You simply must do as you're told."
Gale barely kept himself from rolling his eyes hard enough to sprain something. Instead, he deadpanned:
"With all due respect, sir… when exactly have I ever had the option to refuse deployment?"
Sengoku folded his arms, his coat shifting as though even the fabric was offended. "Always. You were deployed to Vashiri and Sabaody. You had the choice to say no both times."
There was a long pause. Gale slowly raised a hand to his temple, rubbing it like he was trying to erase the last thirty seconds from existence.
"…Please do me a favor, sir. The next time I receive a deployment I can refuse, make it clear that I can, in fact, refuse it."
One bushy eyebrow climbed Sengoku's forehead. "Noted. Anything else? Or would you like me to explain in great detail why you need to be in G-5?"
Gale's soul very nearly left his body. He'd used that exact tactic himself—rambling someone into submission, talking until their sanity tapped out. He used to think of it as "creative persuasion."
But to experience it from Sengoku…
He finally understood what his victims had gone through. And honestly? He kind of owed them an apology.
"Nope. Nothing else," Gale said quickly, standing as if the chair had suddenly caught fire. "I'll be ready to leave tomorrow."
Sengoku gave a short, approving nod. "Good. You're dismissed, Captain."
Gale saluted crisply, then turned for the door. His steps were brisk, but his thoughts were a slow crawl of dread.
...
The next morning, Marine HQ's docks were alive with noise and chaos. Sailors shouted orders, crates slammed onto planks, cannons were rolled into position with squeals of metal on wood.
Seagulls cackled overhead, swooping down every so often to try and steal a bite of bread or fish.
And at the very tip of the battleship's bow, farthest away from all of it, stood Captain Harlow Gale.
Arms folded, coat drifting in the sea breeze, eyes fixed on the horizon but mind nowhere near it. His thoughts were tangled in a storm he couldn't outrun.
'So this is it. G-5. Vergo. A man who, by all accounts, could snap me like a breadstick if he so much as sneezed in my direction.'
Diamante had been dangerous, sure—but Diamante had been a showman first, a fighter second. His tricks and Devil Fruit powers had been flashy, unpredictable, and—if Gale was being brutally honest—exactly the kind of nonsense Gale was good at countering.
But Vergo?
No illusions there. No strings, no fancy parlor tricks. Just a wall of muscle wrapped in bamboo and hockey sticks worth of Armament Haki.
Gale exhaled slowly through his nose.
'Looking back at it, I think Oda only put Vergo in Punk Hazard to flex on the audience about how terrifying Armament Haki really is. Like, "Hey kids, here's what happens when you don't grind your stats properly."'
He shook his head, lips pressed thin.
'Diamante was a win I could spin. Vergo? Vergo would crush me, feed the pieces back to me, and then tell me to thank him for the meal. And now I've been hand-delivered right under him. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.'
Before Gale could spiral further into his doomsday pep talk, golden light flickered beside him. It stretched, twisted, and resolved itself into the long, lanky shape of Admiral Kizaru, his hands tucked lazily into his pockets.
The Admiral tilted his head, shades glinting in the morning sun, and drawled:
"Hmm… pleasant morning today, don't you think so, youngster?"
Gale blinked, then nodded politely, forcing his tone into something neutral.
"I've seen worse, sir."
'Like the time I almost got stabbed by my teacher's daughter. Or when I thought stealing booze in Marine HQ was a good idea. Yeah, this morning is fine. Perfectly fine.'
He glanced at the Admiral, then at the ship under his feet. "So… is this battleship under your command, per chance?"
Kizaru gave a slow nod, humming like he was acknowledging a good weather forecast. "Mmhmm… that's right."
He tilted his head again, peering lazily over his glasses, and asked with mock curiosity:
"Tell me… did you board without knowing who's in charge?"
Gale shrugged at the Admiral's lazy question, keeping his voice polite but laced with that thin thread of sarcasm only he seemed to hear.
"I barely had time to do anything but pack, sir. As soon as I was done, some private bangs on my door and tells me I need to be here in five."
He scratched the back of his head, muttering, "Didn't even get to finish my breakfast. Still don't know if that's a crime against humanity or not…" His hand dropped as his eyes flicked toward Kizaru. "Err… where is this ship headed, by the way?"
Kizaru tilted his head lazily, like he was debating whether the question was even worth answering. Then, in that slow, syrupy drawl:
"Hmm… Egghead Island."
"…Eggwhat, sir?" Gale's face scrunched up like a man who'd just bitten into a lemon.
Kizaru's lips quirked, faint amusement tugging at his expression. "It's the home to the world's brightest mind… and a lifetime of knowledge he's accumulated."
For a beat, Gale just stood there blank. Then the penny dropped, and his stomach dropped right along with it.
'Oh. Vegapunk. That guy.'
The genius who basically had a cheat sheet for the laws of the universe while the rest of humanity was still struggling with how to not set themselves on fire.
Gale sighed through his nose, shaking his head. "Must be nice… too bad I won't get to see it anytime soon."
Kizaru's hand patted down on his shoulder with the weight of a guillotine. "Hmm… I just might take you along next time… so be sure to behave in G-5 until then."
With that, the Admiral strolled away, probably to give the illusion of supervising marines when really he'd just stand around humming like a man on vacation.
Gale watched him go, expression sinking darker with each lazy step Kizaru took.
Around him, marines shouted, ropes creaked, crates thudded against the deck. The ship was coming alive—an iron beast preparing to carry him straight into the jaws of Demon Bamboo Vergo.
He swallowed hard. 'Fantastic. All I have to do is survive G-5, work under a Donquixote mole, and keep my head low while pretending I'm not terrified of the guy who could turn my spine into modern art.'
Another crate slammed onto the deck. Gale flinched like it was his coffin being delivered early.
'No… gotta think ahead. There's only two options here. Fight… or flight.'
He stared at the horizon, jaw tightening.
"Fight," he muttered, "sounds a lot like getting pulverized into jelly."
His eyes dropped to the rolling sea beneath the bow. "Flight… sounds a lot like swimming back to South Blue..."
The wind caught his coat as he exhaled, shoulders slumping in defeat.
"…Yeah. This is gonna be fun."
...
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