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One Piece: As Heavy as a Gale #73
🕑 Added 2025-06-12 07:52:02 +0000 UTCThe path to Marineford's scrapyard was exactly as scenic as it sounded—cracked stone, broken ships, a faint but ever-present whiff of gunpowder and old coffee someone spilled and just never cleaned up.
Gale walked it with his hands in his pockets, head low, one boot lazily kicking a rusted cog off the path. It clattered noisily into a heap of bent training dummies and half-sunk cannon barrels, scaring off a flock of seagulls that probably smelled like regret.
Two weeks. Two whole weeks of nothing.
No shouting admirals. No emergency calls. Not even a stern lecture for body-slamming a Celestial Dragon’s bodyguard into a decorative fountain. Gale had been bracing himself for some dramatic punishment—KP duty for life, scrubbing Garp’s personal collection of sea king skulls, something.
Instead?
Crickets.
“I think I’m broken,” Gale muttered to himself as he rounded the final corner. “Like, emotionally. Or bureaucratically. Maybe both.”
He ducked under the bent rebar archway that marked the edge of the scrapyard—his personal little playground ever since he stumbled on it, and that boulder with a perfectly even surface.
Most Marines used it to dump busted gear, but Gale used it for training.
There was something comforting about fighting broken things. Honest. Predictable. You hit a metal heap on the ground, it doesn't file paperwork or make you salute. It just falls over.
He kicked a loose pipe out of the way and stepped into the ring of scorched dirt where he usually trained. There were deep grooves in the ground from past sessions—some from his footwork, others from, well… accidents.
As he rolled his shoulders and started stretching, his thoughts kept drifting back to the past two weeks.
No deployments.
No punishments.
Just quiet.
And not the good kind.
He'd seen the base turn inside out as the upper ranks scrambled to respond to the Revolutionary attack on Mary Geoise.
Marines were being packed off like sardines with guns, even the rear admirals getting tossed onto ships like luggage. But not him.
Because he wasn’t officially a Marine yet.
No rank. No division. Just a candidate on standby, waiting for some bored superior to check a few boxes, make him a proper soldier, and ship him off to go shoot at people with slogans.
"Revolutionary hunting," he muttered, wrinkling his nose. “Sounds like the kind of job that comes with guilt and dysentery.”
It wasn’t like he had anything against the World Government. He didn’t care enough to hate it, well, maybe he did, but not to the point of doing something about it.
However, he’d seen enough at the Reverie to remember there were people out there risking everything to fix this broken world, and he sure as hell wasn’t one of them. That was someone else’s story. Some rubbery loudmouth with a smile big enough to carry a kingdom.
As for Gale? He was just trying to find one particular Celestial Dragon and introduce him to the concept of sword-to-face therapy.
But still… he didn’t like the idea of gunning down people trying to make things better—however messily and passively they were doing it.
He crouched down and grabbed a chunk of scrap—a half-melted shield—then flung it into the air and drew his blade.
CLANG.
The metal split in half with a clean, crisp motion, each piece landing in separate junk piles.
“Evaluation’s probably coming soon,” he said aloud, straightening up. “Then it’s rank, uniform, orders, and boom. Off I go to face lame moral dilemmas....”
He gave his sword a lazy twirl and sighed.
“Maybe I can fake being really bad at marching. Or an allergy to flags.”
He took another stance, readying his next move, when a voice rang out behind him.
“Oi, Gale! You still in one piece, or did the rust monsters finally get you?”
Poqin. Late, as always, probably with snacks and booze.
Gale didn’t turn around. “If I don’t get something to do soon, I might even start considering another heist....”
“Make sure it’s after lunch,” Poqin called back.
Gale cracked a grin.
Maybe things weren’t that bad yet. But the silence wouldn’t last.
And when the next storm came, he'd be ready.
Or at least well-stretched.
...
Gale squinted at Poqin and immediately regretted it.
The monk was in the middle of doing push-ups with a boulder the size of a cannon strapped to his back like it owed him money.
Shirtless, of course. The sweat on his bronze skin glistened like some divine oil painting. If a statue of a war god and a whiskey barrel had a child, it’d look like that.
“...Yeah, no, that’s fair,” Gale muttered, watching the ground crack beneath each push-up.
It wasn’t even that Poqin trained harder. In fact, Gale was pretty sure the guy spent more time napping than lifting. And yet there he was, arms like ship masts, shoulders wide enough to carry a family of sea kings.
Gale glanced down at himself. Defined abs? Check. Lithe limbs? Sure. But bulky? Intimidating? Anything beyond “charming rogue with a fast metabolism”?
Absolutely not.
He patted his own pecs as if hoping they'd spontaneously inflate. But, nothing. Still lean, still wiry.
"Maybe my abs are just too humble," he muttered, straight-faced. “Or I got cursed with ‘main character proportions.’”
It wasn’t like he wasn’t training. He still trained like a maniac. It wasn’t genetics either—or maybe it was? Who knew what kind of bloodline mumbo jumbo his new body had inherited.
For all he knew, he could’ve descended from some rare race whose muscle mass went directly into bone density or eyebrow symmetry alongside being mysteriously immune to the adverse effects of devil fruits.
Or maybe it was the devil fruit itself. Cool power, but maybe it burned calories too efficiently. Like a sword-themed metabolism monster, or maybe it just made it so that only the density of his muscles increased and not the size.
“Don’t forget to hydrate!” Poqin called out, mid-push-up. “Your envy’s leaking all over the dirt.”
Gale gave him a dry look and turned away. “Eat shit, monk.”
“Who else would be my drinking buddy if I ate you?”
Suppressing a smirk, Gale shook out his arms and approached the crumbling hull of the ship they’d repurposed as a training dummy-slash-therapy wall.
He drew his rapier with a slow breath, the familiar hum of its blade settling his thoughts. One foot slid forward, one hand behind his back, body turned sideways in that elegant, refined stance Florencio had drilled into him.
He closed his eyes.
And just like that, the scent of rust faded. In its place: bougainvillea and roses.
He saw him. Florencio.
The old master stood tall and still, garbed in his familiar black-and-gold matador finery, crimson sash fluttering in phantom wind. His rapier gleamed like sunlight on silk. Then, with a wrist flick so light it could’ve been mistaken for a bow, the blade moved.
Petals. Dozens of them. Swirling, blooming midair like confetti from a royal duel. They hovered like a storm waiting for permission.
And then—boom—he was gone.
Florencio reappeared in front of a training dummy. His sword, already buried to the hilt in its chest, pulsed.
The petals followed. They struck in a spiraling formation, drilling into the dummy with elegant violence, turning it into something between Swiss cheese and tragic topiary.
Gale exhaled sharply, opening his eyes.
The phantom petals were gone. Just the wind and the groan of rusted metal now.
But he remembered the movement.
He shifted his weight. Raised his rapier. One breath in… and—
"There you are."
Gale didn’t even try to hide the groan that slipped out of him. Of course someone would interrupt now. He turned toward the voice with all the grace and composure of a man ready to bite someone's head off and use their spine as a fencing dummy.
“I swear,” he muttered, “if this is another guy trying to sell me protein powder—”
But the curses died on his tongue when he saw the speaker.
She stood confidently at the edge of the scrapyard, framed by rusting ship hulls and sun-bleached ropes, the white of her Marine cape catching the breeze like a banner.
Her short vermilion hair was exactly how he remembered it, styled in a way that said, I fight pirates before breakfast. A slim rapier rested at her hip, glinting with polished menace.
Gale blinked, recognition clicking into place. “Oh. Hey, uh… Isuka, right?”
The woman nodded with a faint smile. “Correct. I see your memory isn't that bad....”
“Give it a week and I might remember what day it is.”
From where he was toweling off, Poqin gave a loud theatrical gasp. “What? Gale’s brain… functioning? Saints preserve us.”
Gale shot him a look. “One more word and I tell everyone that you sleep in the nude.”
“I do not!” Poqin yelled, scandalized.
Isuka cleared her throat. “As thrilling as this is, I came with orders. You two are being deployed. There’s a briefing waiting. You’re to report immediately.”
That made Gale pause. He shared a look with Poqin—part confusion, part resignation, part yup, it’s finally happening—then shrugged.
“Alright,” Gale said, sheathing his rapier. “Lead the way.”
Poqin slapped his boulder-free back with a loud smack. “Ooh, do we get a cool code name now? I call dibs on Iron Ghost. Or Funky Justice.”
“No,” said Isuka flatly, already turning on her heel.
They followed Isuka out of the scrapyard, their footsteps fading into the clatter of wind-swayed chains and groaning old hulls.
Down by the beach, not far from the edge of the training grounds, a blanket rustled on top of a high, sun-warmed boulder.
The stone had once been smooth and perfect—ideal for napping, really—but now it was riddled with foot-shaped dents, sword marks, and the general chaos that came with two overly energetic maniacs treating it like a gym-slash-dueling ring.
A long sigh escaped from beneath the blanket—drawn-out, theatrical, the kind of sound that said I could be asleep right now, but no, the universe insists on noise. A hand slid out from under the fabric, tugging down a black blindfold to reveal a pair of tired, half-lidded eyes.
Aokiji squinted in the direction of Gale and Poqin as they disappeared around a corner.
“…Finally,” he muttered, voice hoarse with sleep. “Took ’em long enough.”
He sat up slightly, cracking his neck with a low pop and rolling one shoulder like a man haunted by old injuries and louder neighbors.
“First they ruin my favorite nap spot—turn it into some kind of sad martial arts crater. Then every morning it’s ‘huaah, I am the petal!’ and ‘ooh look at me, I can do push-ups with a mountain strapped to my back.’” His voice dipped into mocking impressions, equal parts annoyed and impressed.
He scratched his head, then pulled the blanket back over his face with the dramatic flair of a man who knew he wouldn't get a full nap again until these rookies got shipped off somewhere remote.
“Bunch of noisy kids,” Aokiji grumbled. “Hope their new barracks are next to the latrine.”
With that, he let out a yawn and slumped back into the crook of the boulder, pulling his blindfold down once more.
The waves lapped gently at the shore. The breeze whispered over the sand. And Aokiji resumed his sacred daily ritual: napping through the apocalypse.
...
The briefing room in Marineford looked like someone had designed it with dramatic military monologue in mind—dim lighting, a giant map projector humming at the center, and rows of uncomfortable metal chairs that seemed specifically crafted to encourage short attention spans and lower back pain.
Gale, Poqin, and Isuka sat in front of the room's only occupied desk, where Lieutenant Commander Brannew, complete with his iconic green afro and signature shades, stood before a digital display of the Vashiri Archipelago.
The islands shimmered like polished marbles on a stormy sea. It would’ve been kind of pretty… if not for the ten skull-marked pirate ships currently crowding one of the islands like ants on sugar.
“Admiral Blight,” Brannew began in a clipped tone, tapping a pointer against the map. “Former Marine. Current pirate. Bounty: 150 million beri.”
Gale blinked. “Only 150?”
Brannew raised a brow behind his shades. “Trust me, kid, that number’s conservative.”
“Must be the early bird discount,” Poqin added, stretching with a yawn.
“Blight and his fleet of ten ships—crew strength estimated at over three hundred—have already decimated the Vashiri defense forces. The local naval detachment’s been sunk. What’s left of the resistance is stretched across the archipelago.”
He clicked a button. The map zoomed in on a smaller island on the western fringe of the Vashiri chain. The red mark over it pulsed like a heartbeat.
“They’ve occupied this island. Not tactically important, but close enough to give them access to the canals. If they take even two more islands, the whole archipelago will fall. Vashiri’s economy, culture, and, more importantly, spice trade, will be toast.”
“Not the spices,” Gale muttered under his breath. “How will the world nobles eat curry?”
Brannew ignored him. “The only thing standing in their way is the Order of the Gilded Torrent.”
Isuka perked up. “The knight order?”
“That’s right. About sixty of them remain. They’re elite—tough, trained, loyal. But they’re outnumbered and outgunned. If reinforcements don’t arrive soon, they’ll be wiped out.”
“So…” Gale leaned forward. “We’re the reinforcements, aren’t we?”
Brannew nodded. “Correct. You three will be sent on a fully-manned battleship. Your task: support the knights and prevent the fall of the archipelago.”
Isuka raised a hand like she was in a classroom she didn’t want to be in. “Lieutenant Commander, with all due respect… we’re three people. That’s ten ships, over three hundred men, and a pirate captain with a 150 million bounty. Who else is going with us?”
Brannew’s lips twitched behind the handlebar of his mustache. “No one.”
A long silence.
Gale slowly tilted his head. “Come again?”
“You’ll be going alone.”
Isuka blinked. “That’s insane. No, it’s criminally insane. That pirate’s bounty is probably underrated. And even if it isn’t, three rookies against a pirate fleet—”
“It’s not about what’s fair,” Brannew cut in, pushing up his sunglasses. “It’s about what’s possible. The higher-ups are stretched thin. Every ranked Marine above Ensign has already been deployed in the Revolutionary crackdown.”
He leaned over the desk, eyes hard despite the shades. “And Admiral Blight… well, there’s reasons we’re not drawing attention to him.”
“Let me guess,” Gale said. “Celestial Dragon embarrassment clause?”
Brannew didn’t answer. Which was answer enough.
Isuka crossed her arms. “That just makes it worse. So we’re supposed to handle this while the higher-ups pretend it’s not happening?”
“That is correct.”
Poqin raised a hand. “Are we allowed to loot the pirates after we win?”
Brannew gave him a long, slow blink. “No, and you're not expected to win, just stall for time.”
“Aww.”
Gale, whose stomach was now doing mild backflips, coughed into his hand. “Okay, okay. So who’s in charge of this suicide cruise? Pretty sure none of us are officers. Isuka’s an ensign, and I’m… well, pending.”
Brannew turned to him. “You are.”
“...Excuse me?” Gale squawked.
“You’ll be in charge,” Brannew repeated.
Gale turned slowly to Poqin. The monk was busy balancing a pen on his nose. Then to Isuka, who looked like she’d just bitten into a lemon.
“Oh come on,” Gale groaned. “Why me?!”
“Because,” Brannew said with bureaucratic calm, “you’re the only one who finished the Leadership and Tactical Logistics course.”
“I barely finished it! I passed with a sixty-one!”
Isuka looked offended. “I’ve almost finished it!”
Brannew ignored the outbursts and turned to his terminal. “This will also serve as your final evaluation. Should you succeed, Gale, you’ll be assigned your permanent rank. Poqin, yours will be based purely on combat effectiveness… assuming you stop napping on naval property, though you shouldn't expect anything higher than a warrant officer.”
Poqin gave a thumbs up without breaking his nose-balancing focus.
Brannew stood up and gathered his files. “That will be all. You depart in two hours. Dismissed.”
As they filed out of the room, Gale let out a low groan and dragged a hand down his face.
“Why do I feel like we just got volunteered to play chicken with a sea king in a rowboat?”
Isuka, deadpan: “Because we did.”
Poqin, cheerful: “Hey, at least we’re not on latrine duty.”
