Wicked_Fiction
patreon
One Piece: As Heavy as a Gale #43
🕑 Added 2025-05-07 13:19:56 +0000 UTCThe room was quiet, save for the low rustling of papers and the soft, rhythmic creak of a chair under considerable strain. Fleet Admiral Sengoku sat at his desk with a hand on his forehead, eyes narrowed at the mountain of reports in front of him.
His goat, as usual, was contentedly munching on something important—possibly a budget request or someone's honorable discharge papers. Sengoku didn’t even care anymore. Let the damn thing eat.
Maybe the goat would choke on something classified and save them all the trouble.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, a long, simmering breath that spoke of years of stress, far too many headaches, and not nearly enough coffee or Garp-proof walls.
"This is not a good year..." he muttered, more to himself than to the goat, though the goat blinked up at him like it agreed. “Hell, this isn’t even a bad year. This is a cursed year. Like a sea king sneezed on the calendar.”
He reached for the latest report and grimaced. “Portgas D. Ace,” he read aloud. The name practically dripped with future migraines.
The D was bad enough—because if there was one universal truth in the world, it was that nothing good ever came from people with D in their name. They were always too powerful, too rebellious, or just too damn loud.
But what really made Sengoku feel like slamming his head through his desk was the other name attached to Ace’s file.
“Grandson of Monkey D. Garp.”
There it was. The cherry on top of this hell sundae. As if he didn’t have enough to deal with when it came to Garp the Fist himself, now he had to deal with the man’s offspring’s offspring.
And of course, he wasn’t some average hooligan—no, he had to be a prodigy, a fire-flinging menace from the East Blue, already building a pirate crew and making headlines in less time than it took for paperwork to reach Enies Lobby.
Sengoku leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling like it owed him money. “Why does it always have to be Garp’s family?”
As if that wasn't enough to push him toward early retirement, there was the Punk Hazard incident.
He shuffled to another report, this one singed along the edges—probably metaphorical, but he wouldn’t put it past the island to spontaneously combust through sheer regret.
Some rogue scientist, a former assistant of Vegapunk, had decided he didn’t like rules, ethics, or common sense and conducted a “radical experimentation of atmospheric composition restructuring.”
Which, in less fancy terms, meant “he blew up the weather.”
The island’s ecosystem was fried, half the fauna mutated or dead, and several prisoners left permanently paralyzed after being used as human barometers. And the cherry on top? Vegapunk was so furious he stopped returning their calls. Probably too busy muttering “amateurs” under his breath while building a cyborg tea kettle or something.
“And we still don’t know where that damn scientist ran off to,” Sengoku growled. “He could be anywhere. Selling death gas to pirates. Or worse—trying to refreeze Punk Hazard. Idiot.”
He grabbed another file off the mess and instantly regretted it.
Now it was about the Warlords.
Two of them—he wouldn't name names in front of the goat (who was still chewing on confidential material)—but two of them were clearly in bed with the Emperors. Not literally, hopefully, because that mental image was too much even for him.
But the evidence was stacking up, and worse, the higher-ups were ignoring it. Why? Because "the balance must be preserved" and “a little piracy never hurt anyone, Sengoku-san, please don’t flip the table again.”
“I'm this close to flipping the building,” he muttered.
But no, the real kicker—the final nail in his sleep schedule—was the mess in South Blue.
There had been a rebellion. A proper, honest-to-sea uprising. The kind with banners, chants, and dramatic speeches on balconies. And the Marine commodore stationed there?
The bastard just watched. Didn’t intervene. Didn’t even file a complaint. He probably sat in a lawn chair with a snack while the revolution unfolded in 1080p.
And now? The new king, freshly crowned in the ashes of rebellion, had taken to the global stage and declared, in no uncertain terms, that they would no longer pay the Heavenly Tribute and were revoking all affiliation with the World Government.
Sengoku pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Of course,” he said flatly. “Of course they did.”
The Revolutionary Army hadn’t even tried to hide their fingerprints. It was like they signed the rebellion with a monogrammed torch. And what could Sengoku do? Nothing.
Well, nothing except send another politely furious letter to the Gorosei, who would read it, nod thoughtfully, and then tell him to send a fruit basket to the new king to "open diplomatic channels."
He slumped forward, letting his forehead hit the desk with a soft thump.
“I miss when pirates just wanted treasure,” he said.
The goat baaa’d sympathetically and offered him the corner of a heavily chewed report.
Sengoku muttered something very un-fleet-admiral-like under his breath, rubbing his temples as he stared down at the rebellion report again. "This has the Revolutionary Army written all over it," he growled, tapping the parchment like it had personally insulted him. “Revoke the heavenly tribute… renounce World Government affiliation... how bold of them. Next thing you know, they’ll be printing t-shirts.”
He leaned back and slid open his desk drawer, praying—pleading—that just this once, fate would throw him a bone. His eyes lit up the moment he spotted the small package inside. His precious rice crackers, still intact, still blessedly untouched by the ever-hungry menace known as Vice Admiral Garp. Sengoku blinked in disbelief, then let out a dry chuckle.
“Well I’ll be damned. Giving that bastard time off might’ve been the smartest move I made all year,” he said, unwrapping the snack with the reverence of a priest preparing communion. “No fists through my walls, no dogs in the mess hall, and no missing lunches. A golden age.”
He took a bite, let the crunch linger in the quiet. For the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to lean back in his chair without some new geopolitical disaster knocking on his door.
“On the bright side,” he mused between chews, “things can’t get any worse.”
Naturally, that’s when the Den Den Mushi on his desk sprang to life with a cheery little purupurupuru like a toddler about to announce a fire.
Sengoku froze, mid-chew, eyes narrowing at the transponder snail as if he could glare the impending doom back into its shell. He swallowed, sighed, and reached for it with the hesitation of a man defusing a bomb.
“This is Fleet Admiral Sengoku,” he answered with the grim patience of a man who knew exactly how this would go.
“Sir! Commodore Sicily reporting in!” chirped the snail in a voice far too chipper for Sengoku’s taste.
His brows lifted slightly. Now that’s a surprise. He straightened in his chair and sat up, brushing the crumbs off his coat. Sicily wasn’t exactly famous for delivering good news, but he was reliable, at least when motivated by sheer terror of failing orders.
“Sicily? Finally,” Sengoku said, his voice lifting with cautious optimism. “Tell me you’ve got him. That war criminal—what’s his name... Suleiman, yes. Please tell me you’ve got him.”
There was a pause. A very specific kind of pause. The kind that usually preceded sentences beginning with "funny story" or ending with "and then everything exploded."
“Ah—well, not yet, sir,” Sicily said.
Sengoku’s eye twitched. “Not. Yet.”
“Yes, but! I’ve got something almost as good,” Sicily added quickly, clearly sensing the temperature drop through the transponder line. “I’m calling to recommend two exceptionally promising young talents I encountered while investigating Suleman's movements. I think they’d be perfect candidates for Marine HQ.”
Sengoku stared at the snail. Then stared harder. “You’re calling me—instead of capturing a dangerous mercenary—to recommend interns?”
The Den Den Mushi cleared its throat—an unsettlingly human affectation for a snail—and Sicily’s voice came back on, a bit sheepish now. “I wouldn’t say they’re interns, sir… more like ready-to-deploy assets.”
Sengoku raised an eyebrow. “Assets, huh? And what makes you say that, Commodore?”
There was a pause. A long, meaningful one. You could practically hear Sicily calculating how much damage his pride could take in a single transmission.
“Well, one of them managed to bring in a pirate captain who’d been evading capture for, uh... two decades? Give or take? Turned him in for a bounty.”
That got Sengoku’s attention. He straightened in his seat and leaned forward, crumbs still clinging to his beard. “A captain on the run for twenty years?”
“Yes, sir,” Sicily continued. “Caught him without backup. Brought him in with nothing but a busted-up rapier and what I assume was a lot of yelling. And, uh... he also managed to beat me. In a duel.”
There was a silence on Sengoku’s end that could’ve curdled milk.
“…He beat you? Some youngster?”
“Just barely!” Sicily blurted, and the Den Den Mushi’s snail eyes twitched like it was sweating. “Barely beat me! And I think—I think—he was holding back.”
Sengoku blinked at the snail. Then leaned back, staring at the ceiling again as if searching for divine commentary. None came. Not unless you counted the distant sound of the goat violently sneezing up part of a report it had just eaten.
“Right,” he muttered. “A kid out in South Blue shows up, catches a fugitive with more experience than some admirals, and then beats up a marine officer who's supposed to recruit him... What next? He’s secretly a prince?”
Sicily quickly changed the subject like a man trying to outrun a sea king. “The other one’s no slouch either. Some kind of martial arts prodigy from Karate Island.”
Sengoku tapped the desk with a thick finger, brow furrowing beneath the weight of too many thoughts. This wasn’t exactly the kind of good news he had expected, but it wasn’t bad news either. Honestly, for this year, it might even qualify as a minor miracle.
Marines were always short-staffed. It felt like every time he blinked, a new pirate crew popped up screaming about freedom, treasure, or how “this era belongs to them.” Ever since that damned Roger got himself executed with a smile on his face, the seas had been one endless headache after another.
New blood was a blessing—and one that rarely came with this much field-tested credibility.
He gave a slow nod. “Good. I’ll take your word for it, Sicily. But if they turn out to be full of hot air…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to. Every Marine knew Sengoku’s threats didn’t come with punctuation—they came with transfer orders to G-5 or permanent reassignment to paperwork duty.
“They’re the real deal, sir,” Sicily said firmly. “The one who beat me—goes by Harlow Gale—reminded me of a young Vice Admiral Garp.”
Sengoku stared at the Den Den Mushi like it had just declared the moon was made of meat and expected him to serve it for lunch. Reminded him of Garp? Why the hell did Sicily say that like it was a good thing?
That wasn't praise—that was a warning label. A cursed omen. The kind of thing that should come with a hazard sign and a waiver.
If he had a hundred Berries for every time Garp had caused him a migraine, he'd finally be able to retire and buy that quiet little farm on an uncharted island—preferably one where no one had ever heard the words “D,” “justice,” or “donuts.”
Still… talent was talent. Even if it came wrapped in a Garp-shaped disaster.
Sengoku let out a long breath through his nose and leaned back in his chair again, arms crossed, his rice cracker now sadly forgotten. He couldn't afford to turn away capable recruits just because they might develop into a shirtless hurricane of property damage.
The Marine Corps was stretched thinner than his patience, and if this kid really was as strong as Sicily claimed—strong enough to solo a veteran pirate and humble a Commodore, even slightly—then he’d be a fool not to bring him in. And Sengoku refused to be the second fool in a conversation that also included Garp.
No, the old bastard wasn't going to ruin this one for him. Not this time. So what if the kid acted a little like Garp? They’d just need to beat that out of him.
Metaphorically.
Probably.
Okay, maybe not metaphorically.
“I’ll just assign him to someone with a sense of duty,” Sengoku muttered aloud, rubbing his temples. “Some poor bastard with discipline and enough self-respect to teach the boy how to salute without throwing a punch immediately after.”
Meanwhile, back on the other end of the line, Gale sat nearby twiddling a toothpick between his teeth, eyes still fixed on the snail with mild curiosity.
From what he'd heard so far, the guy on the other end sounded like every principal who ever got warned ahead of time about a new transfer student.
Honestly, he didn’t mind being compared to someone powerful. “Vice Admiral Garp, huh?” Gale muttered under his breath. “Cool title. Wonder if I can get there without actually following rules...”
Sengoku, completely unaware of Gale's mental to-do list, gave a final resolute nod to himself. “Alright, Sicily,” he said, voice sharp again. “Get in contact with HQ communications. Find a ship headed toward Marine HQ and get that boy on it.”
There was a beat of silence.
“And for the love of justice, make sure he gets there directly.”
Sicily grunted in acknowledgment. “I’ll send him straight there. No detours.”
“Good. Sengoku out.”
He ended the call and sat there for a moment, staring at the now-silent snail. Then, finally, he leaned forward, picked up the rice cracker he'd dropped earlier, and took a bite. He chewed thoughtfully, eyes narrowed toward the horizon.
This wasn't the good news he'd hoped for. But maybe—just maybe—it was the start of something interesting.
Of course, “interesting” was how Garp’s entire career could be described. Right before someone added, “and then the building exploded.”
Sengoku sighed again, louder this time. This year really wasn’t getting any easier.
