Their flesh was withered to sticks, sun-baked skin split and peeling. Strung up over the harbor like rows of desiccated corpses, they twitched just enough that Arthur didn't mistake them for dead.
His lip gave an involuntary jerk. Unable to watch any longer, he turned away and muttered, "I don't think they can last much more. Some have already passed out."
Darren, who'd been reclining with his feet on the desk and eyes closed, opened them, glanced through the window at the grotesque scene, and nodded. "Alright. Lower them. Water first."
Relief lit Arthur's face. He hurried out.
Darren rose, lit a cigar, and drifted outside.
At the gate of the crumbling fortress, Borsalino lay boneless in a beach chair, soaking up the sun.
Does his Devil Fruit activate under sunlight? The absurd thought flashed through Darren's mind before he shook it off and headed for the harbor.
Arthur and the others had already cut the G-5 toughs down from their aerial punishment. They lay scattered on the ground, sipping water in tiny swallows, groaning weakly.
When they saw Darren come up, cigar in hand, they recoiled as if the devil himself had stepped out of the smoke. Faces went chalk-pale; bodies crabbed backward on instinct.
Their "superior" was too terrifying. First he'd flattened them like it was nothing. Then he'd bound them, dragged them to the battleship's stern, and hauled them all the way back to base. And it hadn't ended there. After seawater dunks and sea beast attacks on the voyage, they'd hoped to catch a breath at G-5.
That was only the beginning.
Suspension. Sun exposure.
Two days and two nights without food or water.
Through this man, they'd seen a corner of hell.
Compared to him, words like "thugs," "scum," and "trash" felt almost polite.
Darren crouched over the ragged collection of Marines and smiled, breathing a lazy coil of smoke. "Let's talk. It would be embarrassing if word got out that Rogers Darren was robbed by his own subordinates."
"Frankly, I'm furious."
Their bald, bearded leader worked his throat, then set his jaw. "This… this is how G-5 survives."
"Headquarters gives us scraps—barely any aid or funding. We're deep in the New World, hemmed in by great pirates. If we aren't brutal and ruthless, we don't last."
"The death rate here is insane. You people at Headquarters can't imagine it."
He turned a hard glare on Arthur and the others. "You sit safe in fortresses, living easy, while we fight for our lives every day."
"We ask for funds? 'The budget's tight.' We ask for reinforcements? 'Too far, too difficult.'"
"If Headquarters won't give it, we take it. What's wrong with that?"
His voice climbed, years of grit and bile coming loose.
"This is the New World, not Paradise."
"Only force and ruthless tactics deter pirates. That's the only reason this rotten base still stands."
"Do you know the death rate in G-5?"
"Forty percent. Nearly half the recruits die within a year."
"All to hold this damn place."
He spat blood and sneered. "And what do we get? The cushy posts go to you desk men. You smoke your cigars and call us G-5 'scum,' 'degenerates,' 'trash,' 'thugs.'"
The other G-5 Marines glared like cornered dogs.
Arthur and the Headquarters men pressed their lips thin. They wanted to argue—No matter what, you're Marines, not pirates; how is this different from piracy?—but the words stuck.
Because the man was telling the truth.
A brutal one, painted in front of them: a fortress gone to rot; gun batteries split and useless; battleships shoved under webs; everything rusted through. Even in that "raid," G-5 had carried junk—no expensive firearms, only nicked blades and stained uniforms. Their one seaworthy hull rattled like a can, its guns loaded with the cheapest smoke charges.
Under that weight—supplies dwindling, waters crawling with pirates—lofty talk of justice and duty felt like a luxury no one could afford.
Seeing their silence, Big Beard's smile curdled. "Cat got your tongues?"
His contempt slid over Arthur and the others. "You talk big, but you don't know what we—"
Thud.
A Marine boot smashed his face and sent him tumbling. He rolled across the ground and lay there, swelling already, staring up in shock as Vice Admiral Darren drew his foot back.
We were talking… why the sudden kick?
"I didn't ask for your sob story," Darren said, cold as the sea. "I'm the new G-5 base commander. Do you think I don't know your situation?"
Big Beard flinched. "T-then what do you want to hear?"
"You said I was furious about being robbed by my own subordinates." Darren stared at him like he was simple. "Who said I was mad about that?"
"Then… what are you angry about?" Big Beard asked, genuinely lost.
"Once you pick a target," Darren said, disdain thick in his voice, "you act. Sink my battleship outright. From the way you boarded, you can swim."
"Send us into the drink, then cull us in the water. Faster. Safer. Even if you lose some cargo, it's worth it. If you're quick, we won't even have time to signal."
He swept them with a withering look. "With that level of skill, you dare call yourselves pirates?"
"It's pathetic."
Big Beard and his crew froze as if lightning had kissed them. Their minds went blank—then exploded.
He's right.
Faster, more efficient, safer.
Genius.
Wait—
The thought hit them in the same instant; their faces went slack. They stared at the Marine Vice Admiral.
But… why are you so good at this?
You're a proper Marine officer.
To be continued...