The first thing Gunnar felt was pain—raw, all-consuming pain that pulsed like war drums in his bones. It wasn't just one wound. It was every inch of him, singing a song of agony. He groaned, a low, sand-dry rasp that scraped from his throat like gravel, and tried to pry his eyes open.
Even the dim light was brutal. It pierced like spears behind his lids, forcing him to squint until his vision finally sharpened.
Wooden beams. A low ceiling. The faint sway of the floor.
A ship.
He lay in a small, spartan cabin, bandaged like a mummy, limbs heavy and uncooperative. When he tried to sit up, lightning shot through his ribs and spine, dropping him back to the cot with a grunt.
"Ugh… hell…"
The effort alone stole his breath.
A noise—a grunt—cut through the silence. He turned his head, a slow, torturous motion. Another cot. Another body.
Red hair, matted with sweat and grime.
"Ace?" he rasped, voice like broken glass.
The figure stirred. A groan, then: "Gunnar? You sound like a corpse." A breathless chuckle, followed by a wince. "Then again… I probably do too."
It was Ace, alright. Wrecked. Alive.
Relief and unease swirled in Gunnar's chest. His gaze flicked around the cramped cabin. It was just the two of them. No guards. No nurses hovering. No—
"Smoothie," he croaked. Her name tasted bitter, like ash on his tongue. His chest tightened with more than just broken ribs. "Where's… the Juice Queen?"
Ace shifted weakly. "No clue. Last thing I remember was fire… and then the sea. I've seen some medics. Fossa, maybe. But no Smoothie." He coughed, grimacing. "My ribs feel like Zephyr was using 'em for drum practice."
Gunnar clenched his jaw and tried to move again—stubbornness overriding pain. "Damn it…"
The cabin door creaked open.
Fossa stood there, broad and battle-worn, the ever-present cigarillo nowhere in sight. His gaze swept across the room, settling on Gunnar and Ace. For a heartbeat, he looked older—like a man who'd seen too much in too little time.
"Well, look who finally decided to wake up," he said, voice gruff but touched with warmth. "You two scared the hell outta the crew. Gunnar, we thought you'd gone and met your unknown mother in the afterlife."
Gunnar's tone sharpened, cutting through the fog of pain. "Smoothie. Where is she?"
Fossa held up a hand. "She's fine, Alpha. Wasn't with us on Port Obsidian. Last word, she was coordinating with allied crews farther east. When Zephyr hit, everyone scattered. She's probably out there giving someone hell." He cracked a tired smile. "It's only been a day since we dragged your frozen-lava carcass out of that crater. We're en route to the Moby Dick now. Pops is waiting."
That hit like a breath of fresh air. Relief loosened the knot in Gunnar's chest—but only slightly. One day. It felt like a lifetime.
---
Hours later, the Moby Dick emerged like a white whale on the horizon—majestic, immense, and surrounded by the scattered teeth of Whitebeard's fleet. The flagship's decks bustled with familiar chaos: laughter, shouts, the clang of steel and wood. Life.
Fossa and a pair of burly crewmen carefully carried Gunnar—still bound in bandages and attitude—onto the deck. Izou handled Ace, equally delicate and precise.
A wave of cheers erupted.
Thatch, beaming like a man who'd won every gamble, held up a ladle as if it were a trophy. "Soups on, boys! You look like you could drink a barrel of broth between you!" Vista gave a solemn nod. Marco, leaning against the mainmast, offered a quiet smile—but his doctor's eyes were sharp, noting every twitch and wince.
And then—Whitebeard.
Sitting upon his throne like a mountain of muscle and myth, his presence cast a shadow across the deck, steady and immovable. His gaze swept over his sons. Pride flickered there. And something gentler, something closer to love.
"Gurararara!" His laugh boomed like cannonfire. "So the pups return. Heard you gave that stubborn dog Zephyr a bite he won't forget."
Propped on the stretcher, Gunnar smirked through the haze. "He won't be barking… anytime soon, Pops."
Ace, half-awake, managed a grin. "Might've overdone it a little…"
Whitebeard's eyes softened further. "Rest, my sons. You've done enough. Fought like true Whitebeard Pirates." He paused, then looked directly at Ace. "You too, lad. You fight like one of us."
It wasn't a declaration.
But it was a beginning.
Marco stepped forward, unfurling a scroll with a sigh. "Well, the world took notice."
He turned it around. Two new bounty posters.
The first bore Gunnar's image mid-transformation—ice and lava spiraling off him, horns shadowing his face, power barely contained.
GUNNAR NEWGATE
DEAD OR ALIVE
฿ 550,000,000
Thatch let out a long whistle. "Five-fifty! That's a real number. Finally paying for all that collateral damage, huh, Alpha Dog?"
The second poster showed Ace in mid-stride, flame wings unfurled behind him, eyes burning with resolve.
PORTGAS D. ACE
DEAD OR ALIVE
฿ 550,000,000
Ace stared at it, stunned. His hand shook slightly as he held the paper.
He glanced at Gunnar.
Gunnar looked back, his smirk tinged with fire and frost.
"Well, Matchstick," Gunnar rasped, a crooked grin tugging at his bloodied lips, "looks like you've finally earned your place on the Marines' headache list. Welcome to the club."
Marco chuckled, shaking his head. "The reports must be chaos. 'Ex-Admiral Zephyr defeated by a pair of rookies flying Whitebeard's flag.' You took out his Neo Marine brass, wrecked two Vice Admirals… Sengoku's probably redecorating his office with your wanted posters as we speak." He glanced between them, pride flickering in his eyes. "You've made your mark. Now, let's get you to the infirmary—properly this time—before Pops gets excited and shakes the ship apart celebrating."
Just as Marco signaled for the stretcher crew to move, a stir near the gangplank drew everyone's attention. Pirates parted instinctively, and through the space strode a tall, commanding figure—three sharp eyes sweeping across the deck with cool precision.
Smoothie.
She wasn't her usual pristine self. A streak of dirt smudged one cheek, her long violet hair braided back in something more functional than fashionable. But she still carried herself like a queen who'd carved her way through chaos to get here.
Her gaze found the stretcher—Gunnar, wrapped in bandages, bruised and bloodied—and lingered.
A flicker of something unreadable passed across her face. Jaw tight. Eyes narrowing. But then it was gone, masked beneath the usual veil of aloof elegance. Without a word, she walked straight up to him, ignoring the crew entirely.
"Well, look what the Sea King coughed up," she said, voice low and smooth, yet cutting through the murmur of the deck like a blade. She looked him over—every wrap of gauze, every torn scrap of cloth. "Trying out a new look, Gunnar? 'Corpse couture' isn't really in this season."
Despite the pain, a warm flicker stirred in his chest. Familiar. Annoying. Welcome.
"Jealous, Juice Queen?" he muttered, lips twitching into a crooked grin. "Knew you couldn't resist seeing me when I'm at my sexiest."
Smoothie snorted—an elegant, unimpressed sound. She reached down and snatched the stretcher handles from the crewmen with effortless strength. "I'll take it from here. You lot'll probably drop him and finish the job."
The crew wisely stepped aside as she maneuvered the stretcher like she'd done it a dozen times before.
"Heard you picked a fight with an antique and his rock collection," she said coolly, pushing him toward the infirmary. "Got your ass handed to you, then probably leveled something stupid just to win."
"Details," Gunnar rasped, wincing as the stretcher jolted. "Point is, they're out of the picture. Zephyr, his lieutenants, a couple big-name Marines. Clean sweep."
He tried to puff out his chest. It only made him cough.
"Showed 'em who the real monster is."
Smoothie paused at the infirmary door, glancing down at him.
"Monster?" she echoed, tone unreadable. "Or just a reckless idiot with too much power and no survival instinct?" Her fingers brushed a lock of red-and-white hair off his forehead—delicate, almost tender.
His breath caught. He stared up at her, bravado cracking.
"You weren't there," he said quietly. The words slipped out—half accusation, half plea. "When I woke up. You're always yelling at me."
Her lips twitched. "Someone has to. You clearly lack basic self-preservation." She leaned in, breath tinged with sea salt and exotic fruit. "And don't think I didn't hear about your little Titan meltdown. Half an island gone. Real subtle."
"It worked," he grumbled, dazed by the closeness. "They started it."
"They always 'start it' with you," she murmured, gaze drifting from his bandaged chest to his eyes. That flicker returned—concern, maybe something more—quickly hidden.
"And what am I supposed to do," she continued, "when word gets out that my idiotic, battle-magnet… partner… is trying to die halfway across the Grand Line? Send a fruit basket to your funeral?"
His good hand trembled as it rose to catch her wrist. The grip was weak, but his eyes burned—fierce, hungry, Ranvijay-intense. "You'd miss me too much, Juice Queen. Who else gets under your skin like I do?"
Her fingers tightened around his. "Entertained? Or perpetually on the verge of homicide?" She sighed, long and exasperated—but didn't let go. "Next time, try not to turn yourself into a jigsaw puzzle. Bandages are hell on my color palette."
He let out a hoarse laugh. "No promises. But… it's good to see you."
"Likewise, you reckless brute," she replied, lips twitching into a smile so small it barely existed—but it was real. She gave his wrist a final squeeze before letting go.
"Now let's get you stitched up," she said, turning and guiding the stretcher inside. "So you can break something else. Hopefully not yourself—for at least a week."
Behind them, Marco, Ace, and the others exchanged knowing looks—amused, weary, and deeply unsurprised. The Titan and the Juice Queen were at it again.