Several days later, Gale found himself staring over the railing of the battleship, arms folded, lips pressed into a thin line.
Even from here, he could hear the port groan like an old man struggling to get out of bed in the morning. Planks dangled by single nails, others had already given up on life and were half-submerged in the sea. He squinted. Was that… seaweed holding one section together?
"…Yup," he muttered under his breath. "Definitely seaweed."
It was a miracle the thing hadn't collapsed under the weight of its own shame.
His eyes traveled upward, finally taking in the infamous G-5 Marine Branch in all its… "glory."
Contrary to the standard Marine bases of the Blues, those ugly half-sphere bunkers that looked like someone had chopped a rice cooker in half and called it architecture, this one looked like an actual fortress.
Thick walls. Two tall towers flanking a central building. Cannons mounted all along the walls. By design, intimidating. By execution… depressing.
The walls were riddled with cracks, like someone had fought Kaido with a sledgehammer and then gave up halfway through renovations.
The towers leaned a little too much for comfort, and one side of the base had been patched together with what Gale was ninety percent sure was just a giant strip of duct tape. Not Marine steel. Not reinforcements. Tape.
His left eye twitched.
"…Very reassuring."
Behind him, the slow, echoing footsteps of Admiral Kizaru drew closer until the man was at his side. The admiral tilted his head, humming in that syrupy drawl.
"Oooh… it's not much to look at, is it…"
Gale let out a short chuckle, more like a cough that had given up halfway through.
"I believe that's what they call an understatement, sir."
Kizaru didn't miss a beat. He simply patted Gale's shoulder, hand heavy as a verdict. "Well, home is what you make of it… and this will be your home for a while… hmm."
He gestured lazily to the small boat dangling off the side of the ship, rocking gently on its ropes. "So take your time… but don't take too much."
Gale rolled his eyes so hard he was almost worried they'd get stuck. "Thanks for the pep talk, sir. Really motivating."
Without waiting for a reply, he slung his battered backpack over one shoulder, swung a leg over the railing, and dropped into the boat. A few marines lowered him down on the ropes until the dinghy hit the water with a splash.
Gale took the oars in his hands, gaze drifting back to the crumbling fortress on the shore.
"Here goes nothing," he muttered, pushing off toward what he was increasingly sure was the last place he'd ever see alive if he didn't do something about it.
...
As Gale finally closed in on the port, he heard the creak of ropes and the splash of the battleship's oars disengaging. Kizaru's warship was already wheeling about, gliding back out to sea with all the care of a man leaving his friend at the world's worst party and not looking back.
Gale didn't turn either.
His eyes were glued to something else.
Some poor pirate—stripped to his rags—was dangling upside down from the walls, a crude rope knotted around his ankle. A cluster of Marines below jabbed at him with their swords like they were roasting marshmallows over a campfire.
As if that wasn't enough, they were laughing and shouting about his mother. And not in a "say hi to your mom" kind of way.
Gale's eye twitched.
"…Jesus."
His gaze slid to another section of the wall, where a blackened husk of what had once been a man sagged against the stones, smoke still curling from him.
Gale winced, biting back the sigh that clawed at his throat.
"And I thought this place looked bad from a distance."
He pushed the dinghy into the beams of the dock, hopped out, and skipped across the rotting supports until his boots hit the dirt of the island.
Straight ahead loomed the fortress's main gate.
And in front of it… a welcoming party.
A small crowd of Marines lounged across the entrance, grinning at him like wolves. Some leaned on spears, others on their own bottles. Their leers followed him as he walked closer, their whispers thick with mockery.
It felt exactly like one of those movie scenes where some poor bastard gets tossed into prison, and all the inmates whistle and yell "fresh meat!" Which, of course, is exactly what happened.
A sharp whistle pierced the air.
"Fressshh meaaaat!" someone bellowed, followed by raucous laughter.
Gale pinched the bridge of his nose.
"…Charming..."
He trudged forward anyway, every step echoing his regret for not deserting when he had the chance. His eyes swept the crowd—finally locking on the man standing at the front of them.
If the goons were wolves, this one was… a flamingo in armor.
The man's outfit was a war crime on its own. A short-trimmed officer's cap—the kind that might've once looked respectable, before modern times had turned it into… a sex thing.
A leotard. Blue and white on the top with a pink bottom. Gleaming in the sunlight like it wanted to be seen from orbit.
And to top it off? Golden greaves strapped to his legs, polished so bright they were practically blinding.
Gale stared at him. Blinked once. Then twice.
"…What in the name of Oda's draft sketches am I looking at?" he muttered under his breath.
The weird man in the blue-and-white leotard grinned wide when he spotted Gale, his teeth flashing like he'd just won a bet. He leaned sideways, muttering something to the guy beside him—a Marine who, for reasons beyond human comprehension, was wearing slacks and a bucket as a helmet.
Gale couldn't hear the words, but whatever it was, it made the bucket-head grin back and nod like an obedient idiot before stomping forward to intercept him.
The two closed distance. Gale slowed his walk, narrowing his eyes, waiting.
Then came the voice—nasal, smug, like nails on a chalkboard.
"So you're that punk from HQ, huh? Captain Gay or something?"
He spat the words with the kind of confidence only a man with a bucket on his head could have. And just to punctuate his genius insult, he leaned down and hawked a fat loogie right at Gale's boot.
The spit slid down the polished black leather, dripping onto the dirt.
Gale didn't twitch. Didn't frown. Didn't even look down.
Instead, he smiled. Warmly. Pleasantly. Like he'd just been complimented on his tie.
"Name and rank, Marine."
That was all he said. Calm. Polite.
The bucket Marine's grin widened like a shark scenting blood. He turned back to the pack behind him and bellowed, "Name and rank, he says!"
The whole group howled with laughter, clutching their sides and stomping the ground as though Gale had just told the funniest joke in the world.
Bucket turned back, still grinning. "Your rank might mean something back at HQ, boy, but here at G-5, it's might makes ri—"
He didn't finish.
Gale's hand shot out like lightning, clamping down over the man's face.
The laughter cut off instantly as Gale, still smiling that same warm, polite smile, drove the Marine's head straight into the dirt with a sickening CRUNCH.
The bucket helmet split apart on impact, shards clattering across the ground like coins spilled from a purse. A couple teeth went with them, bouncing uselessly into the dust.
The man's body twitched once, then went slack.
Gale crouched slightly, looking down at him with that same pleasant expression, his eyes upturned just enough to make it clear he was not joking anymore.
Then he looked back to the crowd.
"Might makes right, huh?" he said softly, almost conversational. Then his grin sharpened, losing all its warmth.
"I think I'm gonna like it here."
He let the silence hang, tension crawling through the group like static. Marines who had been jeering a moment ago were suddenly second-guessing their life choices, eyes darting between their unconscious comrade and the man who'd dropped him without breaking a sweat.
Gale straightened, dusted off his hands, and let his smile die altogether.
"…A lot more than you lot will."
The line landed like a hammer. No one laughed this time.
Somewhere in the crowd, someone swallowed hard enough for Gale to hear.
...
High above, at the top of the cracked and battered tower, Vice Admiral Vergo stood like a gargoyle, silent and unmoving. The sea wind tugged at his coat, flaring it against the ruined stone. Behind his shades, his eyes narrowed as he watched the scene unfold below.
From his vantage point, it was like watching a tide part—G-5's marines splitting into two messy lines, jeering and leering as Captain Harlow Gale strolled right through the middle of them.
The farce he just witnessed was standard procedure in this cesspit of a branch. A hazing ritual, a test of mettle.
Usually it was reserved for new recruits or petty officers. Not captains.
But then again… Commodore Yarisugi had never been particularly bright. Recently promoted from Captain, he had the restless ego of a man who had suddenly realized his hat came with an extra stripe, and he was desperate to flex it.
And what better target than a young "hero" from HQ?
Vergo didn't move. Didn't call it off.
Normally, he would. Normally, he'd descend with that calm, mild-mannered voice of his and remind the marines that "discipline" mattered more than theater, keeping his mask of an amiable base commander intact.
But not today.
Today, he wanted to see.
His fingers tapped absently against the railing as Gale's little demonstration sent one unlucky marine's bucket helmet clattering across the ground. The crowd went dead quiet.
The young captain straightened, smiling with that razor-edged grin, and Vergo noted—just for a moment—that the man didn't look like a rookie being tested.
He looked like a wolf who'd just realized he'd walked into a den of mutts.
Vergo's jaw didn't move, but behind the shades his eyes glinted faintly.
So he can handle himself. That much is clear.
Still, the question lingered like smoke in his mind: was this young man capable of plotting the assassination of a celestial dragon and framing Diamante for the deed?
Vergo didn't know.
If he was… then this little display of bravado wouldn't save him. Nothing would.
For now, though? Gale seemed to fit right in. Almost too well.
And that, Vergo thought, was worth watching.
...
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