Fleet Admiral Sengoku sat slumped behind his desk, the corners of his mouth tugged down in a permanent grimace as he leafed through the latest stack of reports.
The ink on some of them was still drying, smudged like the sea itself was trying to sabotage the paperwork.
Pirates running wild in the Grand Line—again. Surprise, surprise. Sea Kings attacking supply routes. A Warlord refusing to return calls. Some guy named "Chinstrap the Irredeemable" had apparently stolen a battleship. With a donkey.
Sengoku rubbed his temples and sighed through his nose like a bull trying to keep from charging. "We're really understaffed…"
For a brief moment, his mind wandered—anything to escape the tyranny of the paper avalanche—and drifted to the two fresh recruits recommended by Commodore Sicily over in South Blue. Two "youngsters with promise," or so the report said.
If Sicily wasn't exaggerating—and the man was known to be annoyingly sincere—then these kids might actually be worth something. Could follow orders. Had skills. Might even survive a week without starting an international incident.
"Maybe," Sengoku muttered, glancing at the ceiling, "just maybe I'll get lucky for once."
He didn't have any delusions. Two capable rookies weren't going to fix their manpower crisis, but at this point, if a seagull learned to salute properly, he'd give it a desk and a pension.
Still, reinforcements were reinforcements. And if they were even half as competent as Sicily claimed, they wouldn't need much time before hitting the field.
They should be arriving at HQ soon, too.
He'd originally told the communications center to dispatch the nearest ship to Roshwan Island and have its commanding officer escort them back. Keep it simple, efficient. But just in case—because nothing in the Grand Line ever went according to plan—he'd quietly moved some pieces around.
As luck would have it, Vice Admiral Strawberry had been deployed nearby on a special mission. And that was something he could work with.
Strawberry wasn't one of the glory-hound types, or one of those fanatics frothing at the mouth about "Absolute Justice" every time someone jaywalked. But he wasn't a loose cannon like Garp either.
No, Strawberry was that rare kind of marine—disciplined, principled, and sane. The holy trifecta. Sengoku liked him because the man followed orders without questioning everything, and still had the spine to say something when things went sideways.
"Someone like that," Sengoku muttered, steepling his fingers, "could actually teach those kids something. Real marine values."
Maybe even keep them away from the nutcases.
God knew they didn't need more marines going full Aokiji and sleeping in random places, or worse, going full Akainu and vaporizing anything that frowned at them funny. And don't even get him started on Kizaru. That man's entire personality was "accidental HR complaint."
If all went well, he'd have Strawberry show them the ropes, ease them into the mess, and—most importantly—keep them far, far away from Garp.
Sengoku leaned back in his chair with a long exhale, staring blankly out the window at the seagulls circling over Marineford like they were debating unionizing.
Just as Sengoku was in the middle of a rare and peaceful fantasy—one where the Marine Corps was staffed entirely by sensible, clean-shaven, regulation-abiding officers like Vice Admiral Strawberry—his daydream was rudely interrupted by a knock at the door.
He blinked, straightened in his chair, and cleared his throat. "Enter."
The door creaked open, and in stepped the man himself—Vice Admiral Strawberry.
Draped in his usual pristine Marine coat, wearing that sharp green suit like he walked straight out of a dress code handbook… and of course, that ridiculously tall cap that somehow made his already-long neck look longer. The man looked like someone hit the "stretch" tool on a marine action figure.
"I'm here to report, sir," Strawberry said in his slow, sleepy drawl. His eyes were half-lidded, like he hadn't had coffee in fifteen years.
Sengoku's gaze flicked behind him.
Nobody.
His brows lowered. "Where are the kids you were supposed to bring with you?"
Strawberry tilted his head, genuinely confused for a second—as if Sengoku had asked him if he'd brought snacks. "I did receive a request to escort a pair of new recruits," he said finally, "but I refused it. I was this close to capturing my target. I couldn't afford the distraction."
Sengoku's stomach did a flip.
A bad flip.
One of those flips that ends with someone face-down in wet cement. "You refused…?"
Strawberry gave a slow nod. "Of course. I sent a rejection through the proper channels."
"Then—" Sengoku's voice cracked halfway through the question. "Who took the request?!"
Strawberry raised a finger to his chin. "I'm not sure. But… I did hear that Vice Admiral Garp was somewhere in the area. Something about trying to catch a Sea King with his bare hands. On his day off."
Sengoku didn't scream. Not exactly.
It was more of a strained, internal meltdown in slow motion. His left eye twitched. His jaw clenched so tight you could hear the tension. That lovely little dream of a stable, professional Marine Corps full of disciplined rookies guided by responsible mentors?
Dead. Vaporized. Punched into orbit by Garp's chaos aura.
Sengoku could already picture it. Garp laughing like a lunatic while flinging one kid into a Sea King's mouth to "teach them reflexes" and the other one tied to the mast for "insubordination by complaining about drowning."
He rubbed his face slowly. Deep inhale. Slow exhale. "Why… why does this always happen…"
Strawberry shifted awkwardly. Not an easy feat for a man who looked like a slightly distressed celery stalk. He cleared his throat. "Uh… about the report—?"
"Send it in writing," Sengoku said through gritted teeth, eyes twitching like a broken transmission snail. "Just… leave. Please."
Strawberry, ever obedient, gave a quick nod and turned on his heel. The moment the door shut behind him, Sengoku collapsed forward into his hands.
"Garp's got the damn kids…" he groaned into his palms. "They're doomed."
And for once, it wasn't just the pirates giving him a headache.
It was his own damn Navy.
...
The salty breeze of the East Blue rolled across the deck as the Marine ship finally pulled into port. Foosha Village looked like it had been ripped out of a painting—calm waves, creaky wooden docks, sun-bleached houses, a couple of lazy windmills spinning in the distance.
Compared to the wild storms of the Grand Line, it was practically a vacation brochure.
Gale leaned over the railing, taking it all in. "Huh. Not bad," he muttered. "Could definitely retire here after a long career of absolutely not dying horribly."
Poqin snorted beside him. "You'll be lucky to last a year before getting fired."
"Don't ruin my future plans with your realism."
Down below, the townspeople were already waving. Men, women, even a few kids—all grinning ear to ear as Garp jumped down from the ship like gravity was optional.
"Vice Admiral Garp!" one of the fishermen shouted. "Back already?"
Garp let out his signature laugh—loud, bombastic, and absolutely terrifying to anyone with sensitive hearing. "Gahahaha! Had to check on my stupid grandson before he blows up the island!"
The villagers welcomed him like a favorite uncle. And to be fair, Garp had done more for Foosha than most nobles did for their entire kingdoms—fending off pirates, dropping off supplies, wrestling sea kings for sport… typical small-town hero stuff.
Gale followed after, boots hitting the dock. It was weird seeing civilians this chill around a Vice Admiral. Usually, Marines got cautious respect or nervous side-eyes. But here? It felt like Garp was just Garp, not The Hero of the Marines™.
"This place is kinda… cozy," Gale muttered.
"Don't get too comfortable," Poqin said. "We're not on vacation."
"Speak for yourself. I'm calling dibs on a hammock and ten hours of sleep."
They made their way through the village, passing familiar sights from the canon—though Gale tried very hard not to freak out. "Okay, okay, play it cool," he told himself. "It's just Foosha Village. Where Luffy grew up. No big deal. Totally normal. Not the birthplace of the Pirate King 2.0 or anything."
Eventually, they reached Party's Bar, a warm, homey place nestled near the edge of town. The sign creaked gently in the breeze, and light laughter spilled out from the open windows.
Garp pushed open the door like he owned the place. Which, let's be honest, he kind of did in spirit.
"Makino!" he boomed. "Your favorite old man's back!"
The woman behind the counter turned, wiping her hands on a towel. Her expression lit up like a lantern. "Garp-san! It's been too long!"
Gale nearly tripped over himself. Oh no. She's even prettier in person. And animated girls aren't supposed to get prettier.
Makino walked around the bar to give Garp a warm hug. She was exactly as Gale remembered from the anime—kind smile, soft eyes, the kind of person who could make hardened criminals say "please" and "thank you" with just one look.
"These two knuckleheads are new recruits," Garp said, jerking a thumb toward Gale and Poqin. "Thought I'd show 'em what real Marines look like before we head into the mountains."
Makino gave them both a welcoming smile. "It's nice to meet you. I'm Makino. Welcome to Foosha."
"Pleasure's all mine," Gale said, putting on what he hoped was a roguishly charming smile. "Name's Gale. Harlow Gale. But you can just call me—"
"No," Makino said, already turning back to the bar.
Gale blinked. "That… that was fast."
"Better luck next time," Poqin whispered with a smirk.
"Maybe she's into the strong, silent type," Gale muttered, nursing his pride. "I can be silent. I can absolutely be silent. Like, dangerously silent. Deadly even."
Garp, meanwhile, had already parked himself at a table, slamming a massive fist against the wood. "Bring us drinks! The kids are still dry!"
The villagers who'd tagged along didn't need any more encouragement. Soon, the bar was full of laughter and clinking glasses. Plates piled up with roasted fish, steaming rice, grilled veggies—it was the kind of meal that made you feel human again after too many nights at sea.
Poqin ate like a disciplined soldier, neat and efficient. Gale, on the other hand, inhaled food like someone who'd once tried to live off berries and tree bark on a deserted island. Because, well… he had.
Makino moved gracefully between tables, refilling drinks and making small talk. Every time she got close, Gale straightened his back and tried to look cooler.
She never even blinked in his direction.
By the third attempt, Poqin leaned over and whispered, "It's like watching a goldfish try to seduce a cat."
"I'm laying groundwork," Gale insisted. "Charm is a long game."
"She literally told you 'no' before you finished your sentence."
"Which means I left an impression. That's step one."
Garp was halfway through his second barrel of sake by the time he turned back to the recruits. "Alright, brats! Enjoy yourselves and get some rest. Tomorrow we climb that mountain."
"Why?" Poqin asked, lips still greasy from fried mackerel.
"To check on my idiot grandson," Garp said proudly. "Wanna make sure he hasn't blown himself up or joined a cult or something."
Gale's smile froze. He knew exactly who Garp meant. There was only one rubbery, straw-hat-wearing chaos engine that fit that bill.
Luffy. Actual Monkey D. Luffy. THE Monkey D. Luffy.
Tomorrow was about to get very interesting.
But for now?
The night was young, the drinks were flowing, and Gale still had a very pretty bartender to impress. He wasn't one to give up so easily. Rejection? Please. He ate that for breakfast. (Usually with a side of shame and regret, but still.)
He leaned against the bar, watching Makino laugh at something Garp said. Her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled, and honestly, Gale was starting to understand why entire villages wrote songs about bartenders.
"Alright," he whispered to himself. "Time for the nuclear option."
From behind his chair, he pulled out the one thing no self-respecting flirt ever left port without—a worn, slightly cracked guitar.
Poqin noticed and immediately groaned. "Oh no. Not that look."
Gale grinned, strumming a few warm-up chords. "If charm and wit won't do it, I shall unleash… musical peacocking."
"You're gonna peacock yourself into a black eye."
"Worth it."
He stood up, cleared his throat dramatically, and gave the crowd his best "mysterious wandering bard" face. Only slightly ruined by the fact that his shirt still had fish sauce stains on it.
He started slow, voice low and folksy:
"Well, me father often told me when I was just a lad. A sailor's life is very hard, the food is always bad…"
The tavern chatter started to quiet down. Heads turned. Someone in the back started clapping to the rhythm.
"But now I've joined the navy, I'm aboard a man-o-war. And now I've found a sailor, ain't a sailor anymore…"
Gale tapped his boot against the wooden floor, picking up the tempo. More people joined in, some laughing, others humming along. Even Garp raised a brow, clearly impressed—though that might've just been the sake kicking in.
"Don't haul on the rope, don't climb up the mast. And if you see a sailing ship, it might be your last…"
Makino had stopped cleaning mugs and leaned against the counter, arms folded, one eyebrow slightly raised. Not a smile. Not a no, either. Progress.
"Just get your civvies ready for another run-ashore. A sailor ain't a sailor, ain't a sailor anymore!"
The bar erupted. Villagers laughed, some sang along (badly), and Garp slammed his tankard on the table in rhythm. Poqin just stared at Gale like he was witnessing a man juggle knives on a unicycle made of bad decisions.
"Thank you, thank you," Gale said with a mock bow. "I'll be here all week. Mostly because I can't afford to leave."
Makino walked over, a towel draped over one shoulder. "That was… surprisingly decent."
Gale beamed. "Coming from you, that's practically a love confession."
"It's a compliment. Don't make it weird."
"Too late."
She shook her head with a soft chuckle and slid him a drink. "On the house."
"Because I was good?"
"Because Garp paid for everything already."
Still, Gale took the drink with the flourish of a man pretending he was one step closer to victory. "Progress," he whispered to Poqin.
"Delusion," she corrected.
Gale raised his glass and toasted the ceiling. "To both."
The night wore on with more laughter, songs, and even a brief arm-wrestling match between two villagers that ended with a broken table leg and someone yelling "I told you not to challenge Grandma Momo!"
By the time the crowd started thinning and the fire dimmed, Gale leaned back in his chair, heart light, stomach full, and ego slightly bruised—but not broken.
Tomorrow, he'd climb a mountain and meet the rubbery incarnation of chaos.
Tonight, he sang his heart out and didn't get slapped.
Not a bad start.
...
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