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One Piece: As Heavy as a Gale #41
🕑 Added 2025-05-05 12:43:56 +0000 UTCThe deck of the merchant ship groaned beneath Gale’s boots as it rocked over the swells, sunlight flickering off the water like a broken mirror. He leaned against the railing with one hand, the other holding a folded-up newspaper he’d found tucked behind a crate of sour oranges.
It was a few days old—ink smudged, edges wrinkled, and smelling faintly of citrus and fish—but the headline was still legible enough to make him snort.
KING OF CENTAUREA DEAD IN STORM – FORMER GLADIATOR RIGEL ASCENDS THE THRONE
"Former gladiator, my ass..." Gale muttered, smirking as he skimmed the article.
The wind caught the corner of the page, nearly tearing it from his grip. He smacked it down with the back of his hand and kept reading, though he already knew how the story ended.
Rigel. That big, self-sacrificing, iron-skulled meathead. Gale had known the guy would have to make a move eventually—losing in the Colosseum had effectively torpedoed whatever greasy little deal he’d made with Magnon and the Centaurean nobility.
No way the aristocrats would keep their end of the bargain with a guy who’d just been publicly bodied by some masked nobody calling himself Bayle from Jagged Peak.
Which, unfortunately, had been Gale. In disguise. On a whim. With a half-broken dragon mask and a shoddy exit plan that was basically winning and running. Like hell. Really, the whole thing had been one massive, flaming cartwheel of poor decisions.
“I beat him up because he annoyed me,” Gale muttered, crumpling the newspaper slightly in his hand. “Not because I wanted to rewrite the political history of Centaurea.”
And yet here they were. The old king, apparently blown off a cliff or swept into the sea, or most likely killed off—depending on which dramatic retelling you believed—and Rigel now sitting pretty on the throne. Or as pretty as a guy with cauliflower ears and a broken nose could sit.
Gale leaned back against the mast and stared out across the ocean. Somewhere out there, nobles were probably wringing their silk-stained hands and whispering about outside help and covert interference and how did the gladiator get a fleet of loyal soldiers overnight.
If he actually gave a damn, Gale figured he could piece it together. There was always someone pulling strings—like a certain organization whose members liked to stick it to the world government and their Celestial Dragon overlords...
But no. That wasn’t his circus anymore.
He'd left the prize money behind, left the glory, left the mess. All he’d wanted was to humiliate Rigel out of sheer stubbornness and spite—maybe flip Magnon the metaphorical bird in the process—and then vanish before anyone decided to ask too many questions about the masked stranger who’d punched a national symbol in the jaw.
Mission accomplished.
Well... sort of.
The only downside was that Bayle from Jagged Peak now had a reputation. A very inconvenient, possibly bounty-worthy reputation. Which was why Gale had no intention of ever putting that mask on again. Let the legend rot.
Let Rigel run his kingdom and try to pass tax laws with his fists. For all Gale cared, Centaurea could turn into a flaming chicken coop tomorrow and it still wouldn’t be his problem.
A shadow fell over the newspaper, and Gale didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The scent of dried squid and mild annoyance gave it away.
“You’re really into that fish wrapper, huh?” Poqin said, leaning on the railing beside him with his usual sleepy slouch. “Who's Rigel? Some ex you forgot to write home about?”
Gale let the paper fold in on itself and gave a noncommittal shrug. “Rigel’s a famous gladiator back in Centaurea. Or, well, was. Big name, iron jaw, the kind of guy who could flex and shatter a watermelon. I saw him get his ass handed to him in the Colosseum right before I skipped town and headed for Karate Island.”
He kept his tone casual, like he hadn’t just watched the guy on the front page of the newspaper become a king because of his actions. Minor details. Totally unimportant.
Poqin raised a hand and waved him off. “I asked who he was, not for your autobiography. Damn. You always this chatty or is the sea air turning your brain to soup?”
Gale just grinned at him. “Soup with croutons,” he said, tapping his temple. “Gourmet stuff.”
Poqin rolled his eyes and straightened up, brushing some windblown hair out of his face. “Well, what I do need to know is why you wanna join the Marines.”
That made Gale pause. He blinked at Poqin for a beat, then tilted his head like the question had come in through the wrong ear.
“To spread justice, equality, love, and peace,” he answered, voice solemn and hand pressed dramatically over his chest like he was auditioning for a propaganda poster.
Poqin made a noise halfway between a laugh and a scoff. “Yeah right. What, you gonna fight pirates with group hugs and flower arrangements?”
Gale chuckled, the grin returning. “I’ve got my own reasons.”
He turned back toward the sea, crumpled newspaper under one arm, and nodded toward the horizon. “Soon as we make land in Roshwan, I’m heading straight for their Marine branch. Gotta make it official.”
Then he shot Poqin a sideways glance, smirk still lingering. “You’re free to do whatever you want from there, y’know. You wanted off Karate Island, and now you’re off, so go find someone else to bother....”
But Poqin didn’t look all that ready to part ways. He stared at Gale like he was the confusing one in this situation, then nodded once, firm. “What are you talking about? I’m joining the Marines too.”
Gale blinked. “Wait, what?” He turned to face him fully, brow furrowed. “Why the hell would you do that? You don’t even like authority. I remember you stealing the constable's boots just because he said your sandals looked ‘unprofessional.’”
Poqin crossed his arms and gave him that irritatingly smug look he wore whenever he was being weird on purpose. “I wanna figure out why you’re doing it.”
Gale stared at him for a moment. “You’re crazy.”
“Maybe,” Poqin said with a grin. “But you’re not boring. And hey, if being a Marine sucks, I’ll just desert. Easy. Until then, I’m sticking around. You’ve got main character energy, and I’m not done watching the fireworks.”
Gale shook his head, but he was smiling despite himself. “I’m not a main character,” he muttered. “I’m more like... a guy with a recurring role and zero job stability.”
“Exactly,” Poqin said, throwing an arm around his shoulder like they were headed for a tavern instead of probable military service. “My favorite kind.”
Gale sighed. It was going to be a weird ride.
But at least he wouldn’t be bored.
...
Commodore Sicily sat hunched behind his desk, a steaming cup of something that might’ve once been coffee going cold by his elbow. The office smelled faintly of ink, mildew, and regret—standard Marine base ambiance.
Paperwork was scattered like the aftermath of a seagull attack, half of it stamped “Urgent,” the other half “Classified,” and none of it actually helpful.
He rubbed his temples, squinting at the latest report. It was the third one this week referencing that name: a war criminal turned underground mercenary, allegedly hiding somewhere within his jurisdiction.
The file painted the guy like a ghost—no fixed face, no trail, just whispers and scorch marks. Worse still, this particular ghost apparently had a grudge against anyone wearing a white coat and a sense of duty.
How the hell was he supposed to catch someone like that? With good intentions and strongly worded memos?
Sicily exhaled through his nose and leaned back in his chair, which creaked like it was protesting his entire life. Maybe it was. Even the furniture seemed done with this nonsense.
Then came the knock. A polite, rapid-fire rat-tat-tat that already sounded like bad news.
He groaned. “It’s open.”
The door swung open and in stepped a private, young and wide-eyed, like a deer who’d walked into a lion’s den and was pretending he had an appointment. The poor kid snapped into a salute.
“Commodore Sicily, sir! Sorry to interrupt, sir!”
“You better be,” Sicily muttered, not looking up. “What is it? Pirates? Sea Kings? Budget cuts?”
“Uh, no, sir. It’s… someone wants to enlist.”
That got Sicily’s attention, but not in the way the private probably hoped. The commodore lifted his head just enough to aim a glare over his spectacles. “And you thought I needed to hear about this personally?”
The private flinched like he’d been smacked with a mop. “Well, it’s just that—he’s asking for special admission. Straight to HQ. No boot camp. Claims he’s ready for active service.”
Sicily groaned and slumped back in his chair like a man being slowly buried alive in red tape. “Of course he is. Let me guess—some punk with more bravado than brain cells. Thinks he’s the next Garp because he beat up a drunk in a tavern once.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “Tell him to piss off and come back when he learns how to salute without tripping over himself.”
The private opened his mouth, hesitated, then swallowed. “Sir. He… also said he was recommended. By Commodore Rigg.”
That made the room go quiet. Even the creaky chair seemed to hold its breath.
Sicily narrowed his eyes. “Rigg?”
“Yes, sir. Commodore Rigg.”
Sicily sat up slowly, suddenly very awake. He wasn’t fond of Rigg. The man was a straight flyer, too straight for his good. But Sicily respected him as a fellow marine. Sharp as a cutlass, big as a bear, twice as loud, and not the type to slap his name on just anyone.
If he vouched for someone, it was either because they were incredibly skilled or a walking disaster with potential. Sometimes both.
“Bring him in,” Sicily said, voice low now. Measured. “Let’s find out if this kid’s full of hot air… or if I just got handed another headache I can’t afford.”
The private nodded and darted out the door like it might close behind him and eat him alive.
Sicily stared at the cold coffee, then at the towering stack of paperwork still waiting for him, and muttered under his breath, “This better not be a waste of my time...”
...
The Roshwan Marine Branch wasn’t exactly what Gale would call “inviting.” The walls were all the same shade of soul-crushing off-white, the kind that screamed “government-funded” and “we ran out of paint halfway through.”
The floors were squeaky clean but somehow still looked dirty, and every hallway echoed like a crypt—which was fitting, since the place had all the charm of a graveyard with better lighting.
As Gale and Poqin were led through the maze of beige and boredom by a stiff-backed seaman with no sense of humor, Poqin leaned closer with a mock-whisper. “You sure this isn’t a prison with really polite guards?”
Gale glanced around at the neatly pressed uniforms and severe glares. “I dunno, if it is, it’s got worse décor than the Torino village latrine. And that thing was literally just a hole in a tree.”
“Yikes.”
They passed a row of offices, each one more depressingly uniform than the last.
Not a single plant. Not a single piece of art. Just endless cabinets and that one weird poster of a Marine grinning while pointing at the viewer like a used seastone salesman. We Want You!—yeah, sure you do, until we get a little personality.
Eventually, their guide stopped in front of a big double door and gave it a knock sharp enough to make Gale flinch. The door creaked open and a voice from inside said, “Come in.”
The office was slightly less bleak than the rest of the base—slightly—but at least there was a window. Behind the desk sat Commodore Sicily, a man whose hair and mustache both looked like they'd lost a fight with a stiff breeze and decided to live out the rest of their days in quiet defiance.
His desk was a warzone of papers, mugs, and at least one sandwich fossilized by neglect.
Before anyone could even offer a greeting, Gale stepped forward, clapping his hands together. “Alright. Let’s cut the dance, yeah? I’m here to enlist. What do I gotta sign, and when’s the next ship to HQ?”
Sicily blinked at him. Slowly. Like a man recalibrating after being hit with a brick made of overconfidence.
“I agreed to meet with you,” he said flatly, “not to ship you off to Marine Headquarters. Especially not straight in.”
Gale raised an eyebrow. “You serious? Look, Rigg promised—said if I joined up, I’d be fast-tracked to HQ. Said I wouldn’t even start as a private. That I’d be getting training, resources, that kind of thing. So if you don’t believe me, I dunno, call him up. I’m sure he’ll back me.”
Sicily let out a long, tired breath through his nose. He didn’t look mad, just deeply, existentially done with the situation. “This isn’t about whether I believe you or not. Even if Rigg did make that promise—and knowing him, I wouldn’t be surprised—it doesn’t matter anymore.”
Gale tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
Sicily rubbed his temples like the conversation itself was giving him a headache. “I mean Rigg was demoted. Stripped of his title and sent to G-5.”
That brought Gale up short. He blinked. “G-5?” His voice dropped a notch. “As in the New World loony bin? The place they send problem children and emotionally unstable sword freaks?”
“I'm surprised you even know about it, but that’s the one,” Sicily muttered. “A rogue division. No discipline, no protocol. A swirling soup of chaos and bad decisions.”
Gale’s mouth opened, then closed. His brain was doing a slow backpedal, trying to make sense of it. “Okay… but why? Rigg’s a bit overly enthusiastic, sure, but he’s not that bad. What did he do?”
Sicily leaned back in his chair, the springs creaking under the weight of disappointment. “He stood by. Watched the king of Centaurea get dethroned. Didn’t lift a finger. Let some gladiator take the throne.”
“Wait…” Gale blinked. “You mean Rigel? That guy?”
“The very one.”
Gale let out a breath and tried not to smirk. “That’s… actually kinda funny.”
Sicily shook his head. “The old king was incompetent and tyrannical, yes, but he had friends in very high places. People who didn’t take kindly to Rigg’s so-called ‘neutrality.’ Now he’s in G-5. Possibly starting a fight club in the mess hall.”
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