The lower decks of the Thousand Sunny stretch before them like the intestines of some great beast—narrow corridors, low ceilings, the particular smell of oil and salt and the faint, sweet tang of cola that powers the ship's engine. The walls groan around them, wood flexing and complaining with every impact from above. Explosions thunder through the hull like distant drums. The whole ship shudders, vibrating with the violence of the battle raging on deck.
Penguin leads the way.
His long face is set in grim determination, his features twisted with something that might be concentration, might be discomfort, might be the particular expression of a man who knows he's doing something wrong but can't stop. His feet slap against the wooden floor in a rapid rhythm. His arms pump at his sides.
Behind him, Shachi follows—his grin firmly in place, but his eyes carrying something darker underneath. His hat sits low on his head, shadowing his features. His hand rests on the wall as he runs, steadying himself against the ship's violent motion.
Clione comes third—his thin frame moving with nervous energy, his long face pale, his eyes darting to every shadow, every corner, every place where something might be waiting. His voice comes out worried, uncertain, guilty.
"This feels kind of wrong."
Shachi's grin widens—but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Yeah. But we have our orders."
Uni brings up the rear—broad-shouldered, solid, the quietest of the group. His voice rumbles through the corridor, thoughtful, hesitant.
"But don't you think the Straw Hats would have helped? If we just asked?"
Penguin doesn't slow down. His voice carries back through the corridor, measured, practical.
"Marya isn't really the asking type."
Shachi picks up where he left off—finishing the thought, completing the sentence, the way they've always done. "And the Captain wants payback for all the times the Straw Hats messed up his plans."
The corridor narrows. The ceiling lowers. The smell of oil grows stronger—thick and heavy and wrong, mixing with the salt and cola into something that makes Clione's nose wrinkle.
"Oh yeah," Uni mutters. "But still..."
Clione cuts him off. His voice is sharp, final, resigned.
"It's too late now. We're already here."
The corridor opens into a wider space—the engine room's antechamber, lined with barrels and crates and the particular clutter of a ship that has been lived in for years. The walls are covered in pipes and gauges, dials that flicker with the ship's pulse, mechanisms that hum and click and breathe.
Penguin stops.
He turns to face them, his expression hard, his eyes carrying the particular weight of a man who has made his choice and will see it through.
"Yeah. And you saw what happened to Vesta when she tried to stick up for the Straw Hats."
Shachi nods. His grin doesn't waver, but his voice is flat, cold.
"Yeah. She got locked in her room."
The words hang in the air—heavy, final, warning. They all know what that means. They all know what happens to members of the Heart Pirates who question orders. They all know what Law does to those who disobey.
They round the corner.
The engine room door looms before them—thick wood reinforced with metal bands, marked with the particular wear of a door that has been opened and closed a thousand times. Beyond it, the heart of the Sunny beats—the engine that powers the ship, the mechanism that keeps her moving, the technology that Franky built with his own hands.
Penguin and Shachi exchange a glance.
Then they kick.
The door explodes inward—splinters flying, metal bands snapping, the whole thing crashing against the wall with a sound like a thunderclap. Clione and Uni rush in behind them, their feet pounding against the metal floor.
The engine room stretches before them.
Barrels line the walls—dozens of them, stacked three high, filled with the cola that powers the ship. Pipes snake across the ceiling and floor, carrying fuel and water and the particular energy of a living vessel. Gauges flicker. Dials spin. The engine itself sits at the center of the room—a massive, complex machine of gears and pistons and the particular genius of a shipwright who built his masterpiece from scrap and dreams.
The group pauses.
Their eyes scan the room—the barrels, the engine, the pipes, the gauges. The heart of the Sunny. The thing that keeps her alive.
Penguin speaks first.
"Okay. You know what to do."
He turns to Clione and Uni, his expression hard, his voice carrying the particular authority of a man who has been given command.
"Smash the barrels. Shachi and I will sabotage the engine."
Clione rubs the back of his neck. His long face is twisted with discomfort. His voice comes out hesitant, worried.
"Do you really think this will work?"
Shachi nods. His grin is firmly in place—but his eyes are cold, calculating.
"Of course it will. If the barrels are empty and their engine and masts are broken..."
Clione cuts him off. His voice is sharp, anxious.
"No, I mean—they're going to fix it, right?"
Uni shrugs. His broad shoulders rise and fall with the particular fatalism of a man who has stopped questioning orders.
"Think it's all about getting a head start."
The ship bucks.
The Sunny lurches—a violent, wrenching motion that sends everyone stumbling. Clione crashes against a barrel. Uni grabs a pipe. Penguin and Shachi windmill their arms, fighting for balance. The engine room groans around them, metal screaming, wood splintering, the whole ship shuddering with the force of something massive happening above.
They get their footing.
Penguin's voice comes out sharp, urgent.
"Let's hurry. We may not have as much time as we thought."
The group scatters.
---
Clione and Uni attack the barrels.
Clione's thin arms wrap around the first one—a massive thing, easily as tall as he is, filled with the sweet, sticky cola that powers the Sunny's engine. He heaves. He strains. His muscles burn. The barrel tips—slowly, agonizingly—and then crashes to the floor.
The top pops off.
Cola spills across the floor—dark and sweet and sticky, pooling around Clione's feet, splashing up his legs. He grimaces. He grabs the next barrel.
Uni works beside him—his broad shoulders straining, his thick arms wrapping around barrel after barrel. He doesn't bother tipping them. He just lifts, his massive strength sending them crashing to the floor, their contents spilling out in waves of brown liquid.
The engine room floor becomes a river of cola.
The smell is overwhelming—sweet and cloying and wrong, mixing with the oil and salt into something that makes Clione's head spin. He keeps working. He keeps destroying. Barrel after barrel. Wave after wave.
Uni's voice rumbles through the chaos.
"This is... a lot of cola."
Clione nods. His voice comes out breathless, strained.
"Yeah. Franky really likes his fuel."
They keep smashing.
---
Penguin and Shachi attack the engine.
Shachi's hands move with practiced meticulousness, finding the seams, the joints, the places where the machine can be taken apart. He's not a shipwright. He's not an engineer. But he's spent years on the sea, years learning how ships work, years figuring out how to break things that other people built.
He finds a panel. He pries it open. His eyes scan the tangle of wires and pipes and gears inside.
"Here."
Penguin joins him—his long fingers finding the same wires, the same pipes, the same mechanisms. They work together in silence—pulling, twisting, breaking. The engine shudders. The gauges flicker. The particular hum of the Sunny's heart begins to stutter, to falter, to fail.
Shachi's voice comes out quiet, satisfied.
"That should do it."
Penguin nods. His expression is hard, resolved.
"Let's finish the barrels and get out of here."
They turn.
The ship bucks again.
Harder this time—violent enough to send everyone crashing to the floor. Cola splashes over them. Metal screams. The engine groans, its dying heart struggling to keep beating. And somewhere above, the sounds of battle intensify—explosions, screams, the particular crack of something breaking that should never break.
Clione's voice rises above the chaos, panicked, desperate.
"We need to go! Now!"
Penguin pushes himself up. His body aches. His clothes are soaked with cola. But his voice is steady, commanding.
"Finish the barrels. Then we run."
They work faster.
Barrels crash. Cola spills. The engine room becomes a disaster zone—a flooded, broken, dying heart at the center of a ship that is fighting for its life.
And above them, the battle rages on.
---
The last barrel falls.
Clione stands in the middle of the engine room, his chest heaving, his body soaked with cola, his eyes wide with the particular terror of a man who has just realized the full weight of what he's done. Uni stands beside him—solid, silent, steady. Penguin and Shachi join them, their hands stained with oil and grease, their expressions unreadable.
The engine room is destroyed.
Barrels lie shattered across the floor. Cola pools in rivers around their feet. The engine—the heart of the Sunny—sputters and groans and dies, its mechanisms broken, its pipes severed, its particular genius reduced to scrap.
Penguin speaks first.
"Let's go."
They run.
Through the corridors. Through the lower decks. Through the particular darkness of a ship that is dying from the inside out. Their footsteps echo against the walls. Their breath comes in ragged gasps. And behind them, the engine room groans, the sound of a heart failing, the sound of a dream breaking.
They burst onto the deck.
The battle rages around them—explosions, lightning, fire, smoke. The Sunny burns. The crew fights. And somewhere in the chaos, their captain waits for them.
Penguin looks back at the ship—at the mast that Yamato shattered, at the engine they just destroyed, at the home they just crippled.
His voice comes out quiet, guilty.
"We did it."
Shachi nods. His grin is gone now—replaced by something harder, something sadder.
"Yeah."
Clione's voice is barely a whisper.
"I hope it was worth it."
Uni doesn't speak.
They turn. They run. They disappear into the fog, into the chaos, into the particular darkness of a world that has begun to break.
And behind them, the Thousand Sunny sputters, its heart failing, its crew fighting, its future uncertain.
The battle continues.
The world breaks.
And the Heart Pirates have done their job.