The courthouse of Enies Lobby loomed like a cathedral designed by someone who thought "subtlety" was a kind of seasoning. Colossal columns, thunderous echoes, and enough dramatic lighting to host a Broadway villain monologue. Gale followed behind Garp, Poqin, and Bogard, his boots clicking on the polished stone floor as they entered the grand chamber.
And there, at the far end of the hall, perched atop a hilariously oversized podium like some kind of legal Muppet Show, sat Chief Justice Baskerville.
Three heads. One body. Zero sense.
Gale blinked. "Oh right… these guys."
Judge Baskerville, the terrifying (and by terrifying, we mean absurd) embodiment of judicial chaos, was already mid-rant. The coat wriggled slightly, and all three heads moved with the coordination of three roommates trying to share one Netflix account.
The left head—a stubbled, square-jawed man with a high-pitched voice—slammed his tiny gavel like it owed him money.
"I say we quit wasting time and send this creep straight to Impel Down! Level six, lifetime sentence, lock him up, toss the key, better yet, blow it up!"
Gale squinted at him.
"That guy sounds like he's one bad day away from becoming a Batman villain…"
Then the right head, who looked like a relatively young man, raised a finger in protest.
"Objection! This is all too sudden! We can't rush justice! I say we study the case more thoroughly. For all we know, this man might be innocent!"
The left head wheezed in disbelief.
"INNOCENT?! He almost burned his entire kingdom to the ground!"
"Allegedly," the right head corrected.
At this point, all eyes in the courtroom turned to the middle head. The "moderate" one. The supposed voice of reason.
The middle head, with a frown sharp enough to cut glass, slammed his fist onto the bench.
"I say we EXECUTE HIM IMMEDIATELY! In fact, let's set him on fire and dropkick his ashes into the sea!"
There was a beat of silence.
The left and right heads immediately turned and headbutted him in unison.
"YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE THE MODERATE ONE!" they scolded in stereo.
Poqin leaned toward Gale and whispered, "Is this what passes for law in this world?"
Gale shrugged, eyes narrowed. "I think the World Government's version of 'due process' is just a wheel of fortune labeled 'death' and 'worse death.'"
Bogard stayed quiet, arms crossed, only the faintest twitch in his brow betraying what might've been... secondhand embarrassment. Garp, meanwhile, let out a loud yawn and stretched like he was sitting through a particularly dull opera.
"Hurry it up already," the Vice Admiral said. "We've got better things to do than listen to you argue over who's the sanest lunatic."
The Baskervilles, after a brief huddle that involved some light slapping and possibly a nose bite, finally settled on a middle ground.
"LIFETIME in Level Six of Impel Down!" they declared in shaky harmony. "No parole, no appeal, no dental!"
The gavel slammed down so hard it cracked the bench.
A nearby Marine stepped forward with a brisk salute. "Does the prisoner have any objections?"
Gale's eyes flicked to the restrained man in the center of the courtroom. Avalo Pizarro—the once-king turned psycho-warlord turned furniture-bound convict—was still strapped up tighter than a Christmas roast, a thick gag covering his mouth.
The Marine reached to remove the gag, and Gale couldn't help but tense a little.
"Here we go," he thought. "Time for the part where the villain says something cryptic, unhinged, or both. Probably both."
Pizarro's eyes gleamed, almost like he was waiting for his chance to speak.
Gale braced himself.
"Ten berries says he monologues," he whispered to Poqin.
Poqin grinned. "You're on. My money's on him just telling the weirdo judge to suck it..."
The Marine bent down and started removing Avalo Pizarro's gag with the sort of caution usually reserved for defusing bombs or waking up a cat that's sleeping on your laptop.
Gale leaned in slightly. This was the moment.
He fully expected some grand villain monologue—maybe a rant about injustice, or a declaration of vengeance, or just a rude insult involving the judge's mother.
Instead… Pizarro headbutted the poor Marine square in the face.
"NYAAAH!" the madman roared, snapping forward like a feral goat.
The Marine yelped, fell back, and dropped his keys with a clatter.
Before anyone could react, Pizarro twisted, bit into the keyring like a rabid dog, and tore them clean off the man's belt. With the keys clenched between his teeth, he started trying to jam them into the locks on his cuffs—despite still being hogtied like a Thanksgiving turkey.
A moment of stunned silence washed over the courtroom.
Then someone finally screamed, "The prisoner's trying to escape!!"
Chaos erupted.
A dozen Marines lunged toward Pizarro in a panic, shouting over one another and drawing weapons. The once-king—hands cuffed, legs bound, and with a key in his mouth like a deranged parrot—somehow didn't flinch.
He twisted, snarled, and began shaving across the floor in wild, explosive zigzags, ramming Marines with his shoulders, hips, and once with what might've been his face.
"DON'T TOUCH ME, NYA! I'M A KING, NYA! YOU DARE LAY HANDS ON ROYALTY, NYA?!"
"Did he just attack a guy with his hip?" Poqin asked, halfway between shocked and impressed.
Gale stared at the mess unfolding in front of them, eye twitching like a busted pressure valve. "Did he end his sentence with 'nya'? Did that actually happen?"
Pizarro, now spinning like a furry cannonball, crashed into another Marine and sent him flying into a row of benches.
"YOU WILL PAY FOR THIS, NYA! YOU'LL ALL SUFFER, NYA! EVEN YOUR PETS, NYA!!"
Gale turned to Garp.
The old man was picking his nose. Like, really going for it. Pinky finger deep in there, humming a jaunty tune with all the concern of someone watching clouds drift by.
"…Shouldn't we, I don't know," Gale said slowly, "help them?"
Garp shrugged. "Nah."
That was it. Just nah. One syllable. Absolute apathy. Gale could practically hear the word echo in his soul.
Bogard, standing beside them with the eternal calm of a man who meditates in volcanoes, let out a long, weary sigh. He stepped forward and drew his sword—still sheathed.
Then he vanished.
Instantly. One second he was there, the next—gone.
Pizarro barely had time to blink.
With a flash of motion, Bogard reappeared right behind him and, with one smooth motion, cracked the back of Pizarro's neck with the hilt of his sword.
Thunk.
The ex-king's eyes rolled back like dice on a bad roll, and he collapsed to the ground like a sack of meaty potatoes.
Silence.
Marines froze mid-struggle, unsure if they should cheer or check if they were dreaming.
Gale blinked. "Okay. Note to self: never, ever make that guy angry."
Poqin leaned in. "You think he teaches private lessons?"
Garp, without missing a beat, finally pulled his finger free and examined it like it held the secrets of the universe. "Ah. There it is."
Gale sighed. Somewhere deep down, he was starting to wonder if this was just a really long, elaborate prank show.
...
The walk back to Garp's ship was surprisingly chill, considering they were dragging an unconscious, possibly rabid ex-king behind them like a very large, very angry duffel bag.
Two Marines grunted as they hauled Avalo Pizarro's limp body across the stone pier, muttering about hazard pay and spinal injuries. His hands were still cuffed, his mouth was re-gagged (twice for safety), and his once-regal cape was now doing a fine impression of a mop.
Gale strolled beside Poqin, casually tossing a pebble in the air and catching it. "So, real talk. How many times do you think he's ended a royal decree with 'nya'?"
Poqin snorted. "At least enough to for his people to rebel..."
Up ahead, Garp let out a yawn and scratched his back with such intensity it looked like he was trying to peel his own skin off. Bogard, as always, walked silently at his side, hands in his pockets, wind gently fluttering his coat like some kind of cool uncle action figure.
As they reached the ship, Gale immediately noticed something was off.
There was a man already standing on deck, leaning against the railing like he owned the place—or at the very least, like he'd been waiting long enough to be annoyed about it.
He was tall, dark-skinned, with a thin Fu Manchu mustache and a sharp, pointed goatee. His long hair was braided into a thick, scorpion-tail-looking queue that hung down his back, almost flicking at the air.
He looked familiar. Uncomfortably familiar.
Gale squinted. "Is that…?"
Before he could squeeze the name out of his foggy memory, Garp beat him to it—by taking a more direct approach.
"HEY!" Garp barked, loud enough to make a seagull drop dead mid-flight. He turned to the two Marines dragging Avalo. "Who's this punk, and what's he doin' on my ship?"
The Marines stiffened. One of them nearly dropped Avalo on his face.
"Sir! He's, uh, CP9, sir! Says he's been assigned as an additional escort. Orders from above."
Garp stared at them.
Then he stared at the man on the ship.
Then back at them.
Then let out a huff like someone had just told him his lunch break was canceled and his dog got promoted above him. He said nothing, but the aura around him radiated pure, distilled annoyance.
You could practically hear his thoughts: Why do I gotta share my ship with some cipher pol spook? I didn't sign up for this nonsense.
Still, he didn't argue. Just marched up the gangplank, muttering under his breath.
Gale, meanwhile, kept staring at the man on the deck, brain churning at full speed. 'Wait… CP9... Mustache... scary chill vibe... queue braid...'
He mentally snapped his fingers. 'Oh crap. It's that guy! What was his name again... Jabber? Jambura? Jambalaya?'
Jabra must've noticed Gale giving him the ol' squint of suspicion, because the moment Garp casually lumbered past him—still muttering about "damn paperwork and damn spooks"—the CP9 agent grinned like a wolf spotting a limping deer.
Then—fwip—he vanished in a blur of Soru, reappearing directly in front of Gale and Poqin with all the subtlety of a surprise slap.
"Well, well," he said, looking the two of them up and down like they were menu items he hadn't ordered, noting their clothes. "What's this? Marines moonlighting as tourist guides now?"
Bogard's eyes narrowed slightly, which for him was basically the equivalent of flipping someone off and writing them a formal complaint.
"Not that it's any of your business," he said coolly, "but they're new Marine recruits."
Jabra gave a theatrical, obnoxious "Oho~!" and turned his attention squarely onto Gale.
Gale didn't flinch, but he was starting to feel like he was being inspected for sale.
Jabra's gaze landed on Gale's hips. Specifically, the swords.
One was Kiwanu's lightweight rapier—sleek, fast, and definitely used. The other was still wrapped in cloth, untouched, resting in its sheath like it didn't belong there. Because it didn't.
"Ohoho," Jabra chuckled, leaning closer with a smug glint in his eye. "What valiant little recruits we have these days. This one's even got two swords. What's the point of that, huh?"
He smirked wider. "What, you keep an extra prick in your trousers too?"
Poqin audibly groaned. "Wow. Real original."
Gale just stared at Jabra like he was a fly buzzing too close to his ear, then shrugged, turned on his heel, and started walking away. No comeback. No glare. Just an unspoken nope.
Jabra blinked. "Huh."
He watched Gale's back, lips twisting into something a little less playful. "The hell's this? Future of the Marines is doomed if recruits don't even have the balls to quip back."
Gale still didn't respond. Just kept walking, like he had places to be and Jabra's entire personality wasn't one of them.
That seemed to really grind the man's gears. Jabra reached out and casually grabbed one of Gale's swords—
Not the one he usually used.
Not the one he received from Kiwanu.
The other one.
The one wrapped in cloth.
Florencio's sword.
The one Gale never drew. Never trained with. Barely even touched.
The one that felt more like a gravestone than a weapon.
"Come on," Jabra said, his fingers tightening on the hilt. "Say something, boy—"
Gale froze mid-step.
And for a second, the world did too.
He looked down slowly. Saw the hand.
Then turned.
His eyes met Jabra's—and whatever smug glint the agent had in his own gaze flickered. Just for a heartbeat.
Because Gale wasn't glaring like a pissed-off rookie.
He was staring like someone who'd just seen his father's grave getting pissed on.
No words.
No smirk.
Just cold, razor-thin silence.
And that look alone?
It was enough to make Jabra reevaluate his life choices.
...
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