With Kizaru leaning casually against the rail like he was people-watching at a café, and Poqin sitting cross-legged on a crate sipping tea like this was a vacation cruise, Gale let out a long, soul-weary sigh.
"Right," he muttered, stepping up to the railing. "Guess I'm the only one who read the job description."
Without wasting another second, he jumped.
Midair, Gale focused his power—lowering the density of his entire body while keeping his leg muscles packed tight like springs. Just as he hit the surface of the sea, he kicked off with Florencio's signature footwork technique: a gliding, flickering motion that made him look more like a ghost skipping across water than a man.
He blinked forward in bursts—appearing for split seconds before vanishing again, the water beneath him barely disturbed.
"I should trademark this," he thought. "Gale-Step. Now with 30% more dramatic flair."
As he darted forward, he caught sight of the Alabasta ship growing larger in the distance, smoke curling up from the deck, steel clashing, and the unmistakable bang-bang of gunfire echoing across the waves.
Halfway there, a stray thought popped into his mind:
"Wait. What if I increase the density of the water instead? Like… make it solid and walk across it like ice?"
Then, a second later:
"...and immediately sink into the water and start glowing. Yeah, let's not science right now."
The thought got shoved into the mental folder labeled 'Bad Ideas for Later.'
Drawing nearer, he coiled his legs beneath him and launched himself skyward in one mighty leap, soaring high above the deck like an avenging superhero with zero budget for CGI.
He crashed down in the middle of the ship with a loud thud, landing in a low crouch and sending a few startled pirates scrambling back in surprise.
Straightening up, Gale's eyes scanned the chaos.
The deck was a war zone. Soldiers and pirates were in full brawl mode, blades clashing, fists flying, someone had lit a barrel on fire for no reason—and in the middle of it all stood King Cobra, unmistakable with his regal robes, white beard, and permanent expression of "this was not in the royal itinerary."
Directly in front of him, like loyal guard dogs with a serious bite, stood Pell and Chaka, both in their Zoan hybrid forms—one looking like a muscular falcon with piercing golden eyes and massive wings folded at his sides, the other like a lean, armored jackal snarling through gritted teeth.
They were locked in a three-way clash with what could only be described as… a weirdly aggressive platypus man.
Gale blinked.
"...Is this what a hybrid platypus looks like?"
Indeed, the pirate captain—short, wide-shouldered, with a flat beak where his nose should've been and webbed claws for hands—let out a garbled war cry and lunged at Chaka, who batted him back with a growl.
The guy's body was an awkward fusion of muscle and duck-billed menace, with a low-slung tail smacking the deck behind him. It was… not elegant. But it sure looked like it hurt.
"Hurry it up, you morons!" the platypus-man shouted, smacking one of his crewmates upside the head. "Get this damn ship under control before the Marines decide they actually give a crap and board us! We need to get out of here on the double!"
Gale cracked his neck and drew his sword and revolver in a smooth motion.
Before Gale could land his cool one-liner—something classic like "Too late for that," or maybe "You need to show me your tickets first"—he had to abruptly yeet himself sideways as a screaming pirate lunged at him from behind with a rusty saber raised over his head.
The guy blew right past Gale, clearly running on more rage than accuracy, and slashed straight into the deck. The blade embedded itself with a satisfying CHUNK, sending a little shower of splinters into the air.
Gale turned, blinking.
The pirate was now doubled over, his sword lodged firmly in the floor, and his ass up in the air—legs kicking like a turtle flipped on its back, trying desperately to yank the weapon free.
Gale raised an eyebrow.
"Well, now you're just asking for it."
With a grin of casual malice, he stepped forward and planted a solid kick right between the poor bastard's legs. The effect was immediate and almost poetic.
The pirate froze.
Completely still.
For one glorious, cinematic moment, Gale was certain the man was about to turn to stone and shatter into dust like a forgotten villain from an old kung-fu flick.
Instead, he let out a high-pitched wheeze and toppled to the side, still frozen in that stunned expression of "why does existence hurt."
"Rest in pieces, bud," Gale muttered, stepping over the human tragedy.
More pirates were already charging in his direction. He didn't miss a beat—spinning around to parry a strike with his sword, shooting another one in the shoulder with his revolver, and using his Devil Fruit to glue a third into the deck by drastically increasing the weight of the guy's shirt mid-leap.
There was a loud thud followed by an even louder crack as the unlucky pirate made an unplanned, face-first rendezvous with the floorboards.
"Should've worn a seatbelt," Gale quipped, sidestepping a wild swing from another attacker.
The chaos blurred into rhythm. A dance of footwork, weight shifts, and bullets whizzing past as Gale ducked, dodged, and delivered karma like it was being handed out on discount.
Eventually, the swarm of small fry pirates had either retreated, been knocked out cold, or were trying very hard to pretend they were unconscious already.
Gale rolled his shoulders and took a breath only to hear a squelchy splat behind him.
"You've got some moves, boy," the platypus-man growled, cracking his webbed knuckles. "But now it's my turn."
Gale turned slowly, taking in the weird hybrid freak show in all its glory.
The pirate captain—still part-man, part-platypus, all nightmare—was glaring at him with beady eyes and a weird hissing noise coming from his throat.
His beak twitched. His arms were thick with muscle, and his webbed claws looked like they could crush coconuts. A long, slimy tail thudded against the deck behind him.
"Name's Captain Quagg," the creature rasped. "And you're about to be flattened."
Gale sighed. "Why is it always the weirdos?"
Quagg lunged.
Fast. Surprisingly fast.
Gale barely ducked in time, feeling the air whistle past his cheek as those claws swiped through the space where his head had just been. He twisted, trying to put distance between them, but the platypus bastard was on him, swinging and snapping with his beak like an unhinged nightmare Muppet.
Gale ducked, parried, jumped back, then flicked his wrist—suddenly making his sword ten times heavier mid-swing. The added weight drove the blade down harder, throwing Quagg's balance off as he blocked with his arm.
The pirate hissed in pain, stumbling back a few steps.
"Oho? That's new," Quagg muttered, shaking his limb.
Gale gave him a cheeky wink. "Density tricks. Trademark pending."
Quagg came in again—this time swiping low with his tail. Gale jumped, flipping midair and landing behind him. He spun and struck, but Quagg whirled and caught the blade between his claws with surprising finesse.
For a second, they were locked—steel grinding against scaly flesh.
Then Gale smirked.
"Hey, buddy."
"What?"
That was all Captain Quagg had time to say before Gale vanished—his body density dropping to the limit, slipping past the platypus-man's guard in a blink.
And then—bam—he was behind him.
Gale didn't hesitate. With his own mass still featherlight and his sword weighing in like a wrecking ball, he spun and cracked the flat of the blade across Quagg's skull with a satisfying THWACK that echoed across the deck like a bell being rung.
Quagg's eyes rolled up.
He staggered in a slow, awkward circle, made a confused honk-like noise—
—and dropped face-first with a dramatic splat, tail flopping behind him like a sad pool noodle.
The fight was over.
Gale straightened, brushing imaginary dust from his coat. "And that's why you don't mess with ducks on land," he said to no one in particular.
A few nearby Alabastan guards actually paused to blink at him, clearly unsure if they were supposed to laugh or not. One coughed awkwardly.
"Impressive work," came a calm, gravelly voice from behind.
Gale turned to find none other than King Cobra himself approaching, robes only slightly singed, posture regal despite the chaos.
"Thanks for the help, young man."
Gale waved a hand casually, sheathing his rapier. "Ah, no need to thank me. Your bodyguards seemed to have things under control. But, y'know, it's kind of my job as a Marine to stick my nose where it doesn't belong."
He grinned. "Occupational hazard."
Chaka stepped forward then, still partially in his jackal hybrid form—long ears twitching, golden eyes sharp. "Even so, your assistance gave us the edge we needed. As the king's royal guards, our priority is his safety. You helped ensure that. We owe you a debt. May I ask your name?"
"Harlow Gale," he replied with a small bow. "Marine recruit. Temporarily assigned to… uh… whatever Kizaru feels like doing."
Chaka nodded. "Well met."
Pell, the falcon Zoan, hovered above briefly before landing beside them and returning to his human form, feathers shedding off in a burst of wind.
He gave Gale a curt nod of approval, which Gale took as high praise coming from a dude who probably judged everyone's worth by how well they could fly into a cannonball.
Gale tilted his head toward Cobra. "Everyone alright? I heard the Alabasta royal family was traveling. You've got a daughter, right? She okay?"
King Cobra paused.
Cleared his throat.
"She did not accompany us," he said evenly. "She's fulfilling an important duty back home. We… needed her there."
"Ah."
Gale nodded politely, but his mind was already spinning.
He frowned inwardly.
Right. Vivi.
If memory served—and he wasn't exactly trying to remember, but, well, when you're from a world where One Piece was a manga and you suddenly live in it, details stick—she should've been off playing double agent right about now.
Infiltrating that shady organization thing. Was it Mask Stocks?
No, wait—Stork Porks?
Squad Forks?
Something with a lot of capes, dumb glasses, and secret codes, whatever it was. It definitely involved weird code names, questionable fashion, and, of course, Crocodile being a smug bastard in a fur coat.
Gale squinted up at the sky, sighing internally.
'Yeah, well… not my circus. Not my straw hat-wearing monkey. Let Luffy and the gang deal with that disaster in a couple years. I'm not about to dive into a mess with a warlord and a secret crime syndicate just because my brain says "hey, you read that arc once."'
Still, he made a mental note. Just in case.
Because nothing in the One Piece world ever stayed someone else's problem for long.
Especially if you had the misfortune of standing too close to the plot.
...
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