The clang of steel echoed across the training yard as Gale approached one soldier who was methodically stabbing a training dummy. Not slashing, not sparring—stabbing. Over and over, right into the chest, stomach, throat.
Gale squinted. "Hey, marine. Question for you. You ever hear about the second commodore stationed here?"
The guy didn't even pause, just jabbed the dummy in the gut like it owed him money. "Wouldn't know, Captain. Don't even know much about the base commander. I'm here most of the time… honing my craft."
"Honing your craft?" Gale repeated flatly. He crossed his arms. "Yeah, sure. Except no pirate in their right mind is gonna stand still and politely let you poke him in the liver. What kind of 'craft' is that?"
The soldier finally looked up, dead serious. "Oh, I'm not training to fight pirates, sir. I'm training to torture them."
Gale's eye twitched so hard it felt like it might detach. He slowly backed away. "Right. Good talk. Don't stab anyone important."
...
Inside the mess hall, Gale found another marine—this one hunched over a stove, humming while stirring a giant pot that smelled like battery acid mixed with dead fish.
"Hey, you seen anything about another commodore around here?" Gale asked, cautiously leaning back so the smell didn't burn his eyebrows off.
The chef gave him a wide grin, teeth stained some suspicious shade of red. "Commodore, commodore… hmm. Can't say I've seen one. But you know what I have seen? The fear in a pirate's eyes when he realizes the soup ain't for eating—it's for pouring."
Gale pinched the bridge of his nose. "...This explains so much about why no one wants to eat here."
The chef cheerfully ladled some of the glowing sludge into a bowl and offered it to him. "Taste test?"
Gale bolted.
...
Outside, a marine crouched on the ground with chalk, drawing increasingly deranged diagrams across the stone.
Gale leaned over his shoulder, brow raised.
"Oi. What's this supposed to be?"
"A battle plan," the marine said proudly. "See, if the pirates come in from here, we unleash the crocodiles. Then we seal the exits and light the oil trenches. Then—"
"Hold on." Gale pointed at the biggest circle in the center. "This looks like a giant meat grinder."
"Exactly." The marine beamed. "Now, as for your commodore question? Haven't seen him. But if I were a commodore, I'd hide right here."
He jabbed the chalk circle marked "meat grinder."
Gale straightened, muttering under his breath, "Why did I even ask…" and walked away before he had to learn what step four was.
...
On the wall, Gale found a lookout sprawled on the ground with a bottle of sake in one hand and binoculars dangling from the other.
"Oi, lookout. Second commodore—ring any bells?"
The man belched, then gave Gale a lazy grin. "Second commodore, huh? Oh yeah. I seen him."
Gale's eyes widened. "Finally. Where?"
The lookout pointed vaguely at the horizon. "Out there, beyond the waves… sitting on a giant golden lobster, sipping whiskey with the Sea Kings."
There was a long silence. Gale's soul left his body for a moment, then came back just to glare at the man. "…Forget I asked."
...
The infirmary smelled faintly of antiseptic… and more strongly of rum. Gale found a so-called doctor wrapping bandages around his own head like a mummy.
"Doc," Gale said, dead tired. "Commodore. Do we have another one, or not?"
The doctor's eyes widened. "Ah, yes, the phantom commodore! He only appears under the light of the full moon, when the blood of ten pirates has been spilled!"
Gale rubbed his temples. "Of course. Should've known better."
...
The office smelled faintly of ink and bamboo polish, one of those little affectations Vergo insisted on keeping. Papers were neatly stacked on the desk, perfectly squared, a direct contrast to the chaos of G-5 just outside the walls.
The muffled sound of someone screaming—whether in training or in actual pain was anyone's guess—echoed in the background.
The door creaked open and Commodore Yarisugi strutted in, wearing his ridiculous leotard-and-golden-greaves combo like it was a crown jewel of the uniform. He grinned wide, chest puffed out. "Vice Admiral! You called for me? What is it you need?"
Vergo, hands clasped neatly behind his back, turned slightly from the window. His voice was calm, clipped, deliberate. "I've noticed our newest addition to G-5 has been… active. Going around talking to the soldiers."
He adjusted his shades, the gleam hiding his eyes. "Do you have any idea what about?"
Yarisugi's grin widened, almost eager. "Noticed that myself, Vice Admiral. I asked around a bit." He chuckled, shaking his head. "Turns out the brat's been sniffing after our so-called second commodore."
Vergo's frown was subtle, but it was there. "And do you know why he would be asking about that?"
Yarisugi shrugged like it was the simplest thing in the world. "Pfft. He's fresh out of HQ, isn't he? Doesn't understand how things work here. Most of the men can't even read properly, let alone keep records straight. The kid probably thinks every number on a paper means something."
He wagged a finger with mock severity, leotard stretching in ways no one should have to witness. "That's HQ types for you. Too rigid, too neat, too… boring. Can't handle a little organized chaos."
Vergo's voice was steady. "I don't suppose anyone has explained that the commodore was transferred away?"
Yarisugi barked a laugh. "Vice Admiral, please. The men barely remember your name half the time, and you're the one feeding them! Who's going to tell him anything useful? Besides…" He leaned in slightly, grin feral. "It's better to let things be. If nothing else, it'll be amusing to watch the brat chase his own tail."
There was no reply for a long moment. Vergo remained perfectly still, expression unreadable, as though carved from stone. Finally, he murmured, "I see. Dismissed."
Yarisugi gave a jaunty salute, spinning on his heel with the energy of a man who took hazing rituals way too seriously, and strolled out the door without another word.
The silence that followed was heavy.
Vergo slowly turned back toward the window, but his reflection in the glass betrayed the shift. The faintest hardening of his jaw, the barest flicker of tension behind the shades. His expression darkened, the kind of still, suffocating shadow that carried more weight than rage.
There was always the chance of Gale digging around. Just as Doflamingo was quietly pulling threads about Gale himself, the reverse was happening here.
Vergo had dismissed the possibility—it was too small, too absurd. Harlow Gale should have had no reason to doubt him. And yet…
There he was. Chasing whispers. Following trails that, if he was lucky—or unlucky enough—might actually lead to something dangerous. Something Vergo couldn't allow.
He had avoided Gale's presence entirely up until now, just in case he slipped. Not that he ever slipped. But caution had its place.
Still, this couldn't continue. Not for long.
Vergo's fingers twitched behind his back, brushing the hilt of his bamboo stick as he muttered under his breath, low and final:
"…This can't go on."
...
The sun was melting into the horizon, staining the cracked walls of G-5 with an ugly orange glow that made the whole base look even more like a condemned ruin.
Gale sat on the edge of the outer wall, arms crossed, boot tapping against the stone, face twisted in a frown that said "I have officially wasted my life today."
An entire day. A whole, precious day of his very finite lifespan. Gone.
Every soldier he'd questioned had either spewed nonsense, stared at him like he'd asked them to solve advanced calculus, or flat-out admitted they didn't even know what a commodore was.
Gale didn't know what was worse—idiocy, apathy, or that one guy who told him the commodore was actually a "shape-shifting ghost who lives in the latrines."
He rubbed his temple, sighing. 'I knew they were weirdos here. HQ said misfits, Sengoku said misfits, hell, even Kizaru said misfits… but this isn't "misfit." This is a discount madhouse with swords.'
From what he'd seen so far, every soldier in G-5 was some unstable cocktail of stupidity mixed with heavy notes of serial killer and a finishing touch of arsonist. Dangerous, volatile, and somehow still technically marines.
He seriously considered whether the next "questioning session" should start with a fist to the teeth, just to speed things along.
Maybe that's the only language they actually understand. Stupid, violent, and—
CLANK.
The sound of wood striking stone echoed behind him. Gale turned his head slowly, half-expecting another bucket-headed lunatic come to challenge him to a duel over canned beans or something.
Instead, it was… an old man.
The guy shuffled forward on a wooden peg leg, the clunking rhythm echoing against the wall. His marine coat was full of holes, more patchwork than fabric, and when he grinned… oh, gods.
Two rows of yellow teeth revealed themselves, some missing, the rest angled like they'd been in a war of their own.
Gale recognized him. He'd seen the man lounging about the base before, usually in the shade, like someone with absolutely nothing to do. Which turned out to be true—word was, the old man had lost his leg covering for his squad once, saving their lives.
Since then, he'd just… stuck around.
Apparently, he'd become a sort of mascot for G-5. One the others actually looked after out of some principle, which was—honestly—shockingly respectable for this nest of lunatics.
Gale narrowed his eyes, watching the old man hobble closer. 'Great. Just what I needed. I've been chasing phantoms all day, and now the base's one-legged mascot suddenly appears... I wonder what he wants...'
The old man stopped just short of Gale, leaning on his cane with a wheeze. His grin never faded, though it really should have for public safety reasons.
"Evenin', Captain," the old man rasped, voice creaky but sharp enough to cut through the constant racket of G-5. "You've been sniffin' around all day, eh? Ask me, I say you're askin' the wrong people."
Gale blinked at him, then smirked despite himself. "Finally. Someone who doesn't answer with ghost stories or torture fantasies. Alright, gramps. Then who should I be asking?"
The old man's grin widened, almost conspiratorial. "Heh. Maybe me."
...
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