Gale narrowed his eyes at the old man, suspicion written all over his face. He'd met way too many weirdos in this madhouse of a base to assume this one would suddenly hand him a straight answer on a silver platter.
No, he wasn't falling for that trap again.
Instead, Gale leaned back on his hands and said dryly, "Alright, let me flip this around. What should I be asking, then?"
The old man tilted his head, blinking at him for a long, awkward second before grinning wide—too wide. The kind of grin that gave Gale another front-row seat to the horror show in the man's mouth.
"You should start by asking my name," the old man croaked, chest puffing with pride. "That's the polite thing to do."
Gale pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "...Fine. What's your name, mister?"
The man nodded like a teacher pleased with a student finally answering the obvious question. "My name is Rofus. I'm eighty-one years old as of next month. I like long walks on the beach, and I hate broccoli."
Every syllable came with a flash of his teeth, and Gale couldn't stop his brain from supplying the obvious commentary: Yeah, and I bet you hate brushing too. Figures.
Oblivious to the silent judgment, Rofus kept rattling off his autobiography like Gale had asked for it.
"I'm a Scorpio," he added proudly, tapping his chest with a yellowed fingernail. "I prefer dogs over cats… and tits over ass."
Gale threw his head back with a groan and finally cut him off. "I'm sure you're many things, old man. Probably too many to list in one sitting. Let's leave it at that before my brain starts leaking out my ears, yeah?"
Rofus only shrugged, his grin unfading. "Youngsters these days. Zero patience."
Then he shook his head slowly, like a disappointed grandfather lecturing his grandkid for not finishing his vegetables.
Gale eyed him warily, noticing how the old man's jaw twitched like he was winding up for another speech. Just staring at that half-toothless grin was bad enough—listening to another half hour of his rambling? That was a fate worse than death.
For a fleeting moment, Gale considered the idea of just hurling himself off the wall instead. The fall wouldn't kill him… probably. And even if it did, at least it would be quicker than listening to Rofus explain his star chart.
In a last-ditch effort to shut the old man up—and maybe, just maybe, dig out something useful—Gale leaned forward, plastering on the fakest smile he could muster.
"Yes, yes, you're right," he said, waving his hand like he was agreeing to a sermon. "We're all impatient and anxious, lacking wisdom and experience. Meanwhile, you old-timers are just walking mountains of enlightenment, dripping with pearls of insight. Absolutely. Crystal clear. Message received."
He sucked in a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose before adding, "…So now that we've established all of that, how about we skip the foreplay and you tell me about this second commodore that no one seems to know anything about?"
Rofus gave him a look like he was the idiot here. "If you wanted to ask about Commodore Rigg, you should've just said so instead of wasting my time with all those useless questions."
A thick vein bulged on Gale's forehead. His finger trembled with suppressed rage as he jabbed it at the old man.
"Now listen here, you old sack o' shit—" Gale barked, voice cracking with frustration. "It was one fuckingquestion. One! That you told me to ask in the first place! I ought to—"
Then he froze. His words stumbled, caught in his throat as his brain suddenly blue-screened. "…Wait. Did you just say… Commodore Rigg? That's his name?"
Rofus scratched the back of his neck lazily. "That's his name. Why? You know him?"
Gale let out a long, world-weary sigh and dragged a hand down his face.
"More or less." He chuckled bitterly. "Ran into him a long time ago, actually. He was the one who recommended I join the Marines. Said I had potential. Thought I might do some good."
His chuckle turned into a hollow laugh. "Not that it did me any favors in the long run. By the time I was finally ready to sign up, the guy had already been demoted and shipped off to G-5. Figures."
He leaned back against the wall, staring off into the torch-lit distance. 'So the ghost of my career beginnings is here after all. Just my luck.'
Meanwhile, Rofus just nodded sagely, the firelight glinting off his graveyard of a smile. "Happens all the time, kid. Marines chew you up, spit you out, then hand you a mop and tell you to clean up the mess yourself."
Gale squinted at him. "That's… actually the most coherent thing I've heard all day."
Rofus beamed like he'd just won an award.
Gale rubbed his temple with two fingers, already bracing himself for the headache he knew was coming. "And? Where is Rigg?"
Rofus shrugged, leaning on his peg leg like the question weighed more than his whole body. "Transferred away. Shortly after he earned back his rank as a commodore…" He trailed off, his grin faltering into something more cryptic. "…Or so the story goes."
Gale's expression darkened instantly. He didn't need a Haki vision to see where this one was heading.
"Great," Gale muttered under his breath. "Another story. Because those always end well."
He hadn't known Rigg long. Their interactions had been fleeting, barely a blip in Gale's chaotic journey. But even so, the guy had left an impression. And not the Vergo kind of impression, where you leave someone bleeding in a ditch—no, Rigg had been… decent. Honest, even.
That alone made him an endangered species.
Hell, based on what Gale remembered, Rigg was the kind of man who sat back and let Rigel—the gladiator-slave Gale (Bayle, back then) had clashed with in the Centaurean colosseum—start an uprising, topple the tyrant king, and curb-stomp him into retirement.
Or was it the grave? Gale didn't know the fate of the old king and didn't care much for it either.
In any case, that kind of act wasn't just tolerance; that was moral compass north enough to make even Garp look like a drunkard playing darts with a blindfold on.
So yeah, if Rigg caught even the faintest whiff of the rot Vergo was hiding under his perfect "model officer" mask, he'd have done something about it... or at least tried to.
Which only left two possibilities. One: Rigg was dead. Buried under some "tragic accident during deployment" footnote. Two: he was alive, stashed away in some dark dungeon, waiting for someone stupid—or desperate—enough to pry him out.
Gale exhaled through his nose, muttering to himself, "Knowing my luck? Definitely the first one. Maybe chopped up and served with bamboo garnish."
Still, a part of him clung to the second option. Rigg didn't deserve a traitor's grave. He hadn't been around long enough to become a friend, but he had helped Gale out back in Centaurea, when some weasel of a lieutenant tried to skim the bounty Gale had dragged in.
The memory made Gale scoff under his breath, but before he could ask Rofus anything useful, the sharp tap-tap-tap of boots on stone stole his attention.
He turned, already bracing himself for another G-5 headache, and sure enough—one of the branch's marines came strutting toward him with the smugness of a man who thought "reading" was a special skill.
"Captain Gay," the marine drawled, waving a folded piece of paper like it was the will of the heavens. "Orders. From Vice Admiral Vergo."
He didn't even hand it over properly. Just crushed it in his fist, lobbed it at Gale's chest, and let it fall to the ground like garbage.
The marine smirked, quite pleased with himself—as if he'd just invented disrespect on the spot—then spun around and started walking away.
Gale watched him go for a moment, then slowly bent down to pick up the paper.
A pebble clung to it, caught in the crease. Gale weighed it in his palm, hummed thoughtfully, and without a second thought hurled it.
Thwack.
It nailed the marine right in the back of the knee. One strangled groan later, both knees hit the stone with a satisfying crack. His face followed immediately after, kissing the ground so hard the sound echoed up the wall. For a glorious second, the man just froze there—face on the floor, ass in the air like the world's saddest prostitute.
Then, groaning, he pushed himself upright. His cheeks were burning red, probably from humiliation more than impact. He turned, face twisted in a glare that promised murder.
Gale met his eyes. No words. No expression. Just one cold, flat look.
That was all it took.
The marine bolted like a scared dog, boots slapping the ground as if Gale had just pulled a bazooka out of his coat.
Gale shook his head, sighing. "And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why bullies don't live long careers. Or have intact knees."
He unfurled the crumpled orders, eyebrows climbing higher with every word. "Depart at once. Intercept pirate crew departing from Risky Red Island."
His eye twitched. "Oh, how convenient," he muttered. "Because obviously the world bends over backward just to give Vergo excuses to ship me off to some death trap."
He turned back toward Rofus, hoping to pick up where they left off. Maybe squeeze a little more out of the old man before bedtime. But the wall was empty.
Rofus was gone, vanished into the night like a fart in the wind.
Gale pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, of course. Old man spouts nonsense and then Houdini's out the second I'm about to get some real leads. Why wouldn't he?"
With a groan, he crumpled the orders back into a ball and tossed it over the side of the wall, listening to the faint splash below. Then he stood, brushing off his coat, and muttered, "I fucking hate it here..."
He shoved his hands into his pockets and started toward the port, the glow of the torches flickering across his irritated scowl.
...
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