One Piece: As Heavy as a Gale #140

In the quiet of Marineford, with only the muffled bustle of paperwork and distant shouting from the training yards below, Sengoku sat hunched behind a fortress of documents, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The setting sun threw long shadows across the floor of his office, painting the room in fading amber.

The Den Den Mushi on his desk rang. Once. Twice. It was the special line—direct from G-5.

Sengoku didn’t hesitate. He picked it up, and the snail morphed its features into something perpetually chewing… like it was hiding something behind a dumb, lazy smile.

That alone told him who was calling.

“Vice Admiral Vergo,” Sengoku greeted, tone flat. “This better not be another supply request for bamboo polish.”

Vergo’s voice came through, calm and steady, as if he were talking about the weather.

“No, sir. I’m calling to report… Captain Harlow Gale. He’s been killed. In the line of duty.”

Sengoku froze.

The room, so peaceful a moment ago, seemed to drop several degrees.

“…Repeat that,” he said, tone darkening like a coming storm.

“Gale is dead, sir,” Vergo repeated. “I sent him to Risky Red Island to intercept a rising pirate crew. He chose to go ashore alone... left the crew and ship behind.”

Sengoku’s jaw tensed, and his fist hit the desk with a dull thud.

“Why? Why would he go in alone?” He narrowed his eyes. “Why would you let him?”

“He didn’t exactly ask for permission,” Vergo replied, a hint of annoyance in his tone. “I gave him a low-risk assignment to keep him occupied. Thought I was throwing him a bone. But according to the men… he left the ship against orders. The ship was later attacked. The pirates claimed they killed Gale and handed over his badge.”

“Badge?” Sengoku repeated, quietly this time. He stared at a blank spot on the wall, as if trying to see through it. “You're telling me he’s confirmed dead?”

“Not visually. His body wasn’t recovered,” Vergo admitted. “But the pirates are talking, the crew’s writing up reports, and his effects were found. That’s the working assumption. Death in the line of duty.”

A long pause.

Sengoku leaned back slowly, rubbing his temples. The creak of his chair sounded far too loud.

“I told you, Vergo… I explicitly told you to keep him away from anything real until the heat died down. That boy wasn't ready for the New World!”

“And I planned to do just that,” Vergo replied smoothly. “But he was getting restless. It’s G-5. We don’t exactly have a zen garden to keep them busy. Captain Gale was growing… agitated. Thought it’d be better to send him off chasing shadows.”

“And that shadow killed him,” Sengoku snapped. “A Marine captain is dead because you thought you could keep him busy with some babysitting job?”

“I don’t deny my mistake,” Vergo said, with a voice that could pass for solemn if one didn’t know him better. “I’ll accept punishment if you deem it necessary. But for now, I need to know—what do you want done?”

Sengoku stood from his desk, fists clenched, pacing behind it as the weight of the moment settled on his shoulders.

A promising young officer.

Gone.

No body. No closure. Just a badge and a death claim handed over by some mangy pirate dog.

He hated how familiar this felt.

After a moment, he stopped and stared out the window toward the sea, voice quieter now. “Who knows about this?”

“So far? Just the Marines on the ship. And now… you.”

“…Good,” Sengoku muttered. “Keep it that way. At least for now.”

“Understood. I’ll have the full reports compiled and forwarded within the hour.”

Sengoku didn’t respond immediately.

His hand hovered over the Den Den Mushi, then finally he muttered:

“Damn it, kid…”

And then click. The line went dead.

The fleet admiral sat back down heavily, the wood of his chair creaking under the shift. His jaw worked soundlessly, teeth grinding together in a slow, measured rhythm. For once, the mountain of paperwork on his desk wasn’t what gave him a headache.

It was a single name.

Harlow Gale.

Chaotic. Undisciplined. Reckless to the point of being infuriating. A walking hazard to chain of command, sanity, and in some cases, basic physics.

And yet…

Sengoku’s lips tightened into something caught between a scowl and a reluctant smile.

That boy had charm. Not the political kind, not the smug “smile for the papers” kind.

No, Gale had the raw, infuriating kind that made you forget yourself. That made veterans laugh when they should’ve been chewing him out. That made junior officers run into battle just because he happened to grin at the right time.

It reminded Sengoku of another life. A younger version of himself, back before mountains of parchment buried him alive. Back when his only concerns were chasing the next pirate, fighting under open skies, and letting the sea breeze tear through his hair as the horizon promised something outrageous just over the edge.

And beyond the nostalgia… there was the reality.

Harlow Gale wasn’t just some brat running on luck and smart-assery. He had potential. Enough potential to bend the future of the Marines if given time. Sengoku had seen it firsthand. The boy could’ve been molded—into a leader, a pillar, maybe even one of the Navy’s greats.

But it wasn’t just about the future.

In the short, chaotic blink of his career, Gale had already done the impossible more than once. He made miracles look casual. The world noticed. The press noticed. The people noticed.

Hell, the Marines themselves noticed. Morale shot through the roof every time his name came up. His very existence boosted the Navy’s prestige.

Everyone loves a hero, after all.

And now that hero was “dead.”

Sengoku’s teeth gnashed harder. The thought of it—of announcing to the world that one of their rising stars had been snuffed out by some backwater pirate crew—made his blood boil.

The World Government would scream about wasted resources. The people would wail about justice being fragile. The pirates would cheer, emboldened by the idea that Marine “heroes” were nothing but meat for the grinder.

It would be chaos.

No. This couldn’t get out. Not yet. Not until Sengoku had time to spin it into something survivable. Something the Navy could use instead of suffer from.

With a long, weary sigh, he reached for the transponder snail again. Its eyes blinked up at him, sluggishly mirroring his scowl.

“…One problem at a time,” Sengoku muttered under his breath, rubbing his temple. “First, contain the storm… then decide whether to ride it or bury it.”

The snail’s eyes blinked, waiting.

And Sengoku began to dial.

...

The bar was quiet, save for the sound of Poqin slurping loudly from a frothy mug of ale. He leaned back on his stool with all the posture of a wet rag, robes loose, bare feet propped on another chair, humming off-key to himself between gulps.

“Ahhh,” he sighed, smacking his lips. “Now this is the life. No training, no lectures, no crazy captains dragging me into suicidal situations. Just me, alcohol, and—”

The door slammed open.

Five Marines barged in, weapons out and faces sweaty from the run here.

“There he is!” one barked, pointing dramatically. “That’s him—the deserter!”

The bar fell silent. Poqin froze with the mug halfway to his lips. His eyes flicked from the Marines, to the mug, back to the Marines.

“…You sure you got the right guy?” he asked lazily.

Another Marine shouted, “Bogard promised—whoever brings him in gets a transfer to any branch they want!”

“ANY branch!” the first Marine repeated, stars practically shining in his eyes. “Imagine—literally anywhere but Garp’s nightmare training regiment!”

Poqin’s jaw dropped, not from fear, but sheer offense.

“Hold on, hold on, you’re telling me Bogard put a bounty on me that’s… basically a get-out-of-hell-free card?!” he yelled, slamming his mug down.

“That’s—”

The Marines lunged.

Poqin screamed, “—BULLSHIIIIIIIIT!” and bolted.

He didn’t even use the door. He smashed through the wall, splinters flying, daylight pouring in as he sprinted out into the street barefoot, shrieking at the top of his lungs:

“I’D RATHER DIE THAN GO BACK TO GARP’S TORTURE CHAMBER!”

The Marines skidded to a stop, staring wide-eyed at the gaping hole in the wall, dust still settling.

“…Did he just…” one muttered.

“…choose the wall… over the door?” another finished.

The five of them stood there in stunned silence, weapons still raised but motivation evaporating. None of them moved to chase.

Behind the bar, the bartender slowly polished a glass, unamused. His eyes slid from the giant hole in his establishment, to the Marines still frozen mid-pose.

“You’re gonna pay for your friend’s drink,” he said flatly. Then he jabbed the cloth toward the jagged wreckage of the wall. “…And the wall he smashed through.”

The Marines looked at each other in panic, realizing in unison that none of them had brought their wallets.

...

The bar smelled of sawdust and sweat. The five Marines from earlier were hammering away at the wall, each wearing the expression of a man questioning every life decision that led him here.

The “man-shaped” hole was still obvious—splintered edges traced the outline of Poqin’s frantic escape like some kind of grotesque mural.

The door creaked open.

Vice Admiral Garp ducked inside, hands shoved into his coat pockets, Bogard trailing behind with his usual sword at his hip and unreadable face. A few extra Marines followed them in.

“Oi…” Garp’s voice rumbled, low and confused. “The hell is this?”

Every head turned toward him. The five wall-repairing Marines froze, hammers mid-swing. Their eyes lit up like cornered rats seeing cheese.

The bartender, however, didn’t even flinch. He calmly polished a glass and jerked his chin at the repair crew.

“They didn’t have any money to pay for damages,” he said flatly. “So I told ‘em if they couldn’t pay, they could fix the damn wall themselves.”

A heavy silence fell. One of the hammering Marines swallowed audibly.

Garp blinked. Once. Twice. Then he turned toward Bogard, voice rumbling like a cannon misfiring.

“…How much money we got left in the budget?”

Bogard didn’t even look up from the paperwork he was reviewing. His voice was flat as steel.

“None. You spent it all on meat two days ago.”

The entire room froze. The Marines hammering the wall exchanged horrified glances. The bartender slowly stopped polishing his glass.

Then Garp let out a sheepish laugh, scratching the back of his head like a kid caught stealing snacks.

“Bwahahaha! Oh, right… forgot about that.”

Bogard finally glanced up, unimpressed. “You forgot about two carts of beef?”

“Eh, my stomach remembered,” Garp said with a grin, patting his belly. Then he cleared his throat, shifting gears with the subtlety of a cannonball. “A-anyway. Bartender! I’ll be taking these soldiers off your hands. If you want compensation, contact Marine HQ.”

The bartender’s eyebrow twitched, but he said nothing. He just nodded, slow and resigned, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Bloody cheapskates in uniform…”

“Oi, you brats!” Garp barked, clapping his hands together with the force of a gunshot. The five repairing Marines nearly jumped out of their boots. “Hurry it up, we’re leaving!”

They dropped their hammers immediately and scrambled to line up, relief washing over their faces like a divine blessing.

As they marched out, Bogard leaned closer to Garp. His voice was low, calm, but cutting as always.

“…Are we going to keep chasing Poqin?”

Garp gave him a dismissive wave, grin plastered on his face.

“Nah. HQ called. We got a mission to handle. We’ll hunt down that ungrateful brat later. Ain’t like he’s goin’ anywhere!”

Bogard’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t argue. He’d seen this play out before.

With that, Garp strolled out the bar door like a man without a care in the world, Marines scrambling behind him, and Bogard quietly making notes in his ever-growing “Garp Damage Control” list.

Behind them, the bartender just sighed, staring at the crooked, half-patched wall.

“...Never letting marines into the bar again...”