The sea has become a graveyard of sound.
Brook runs.
His skeletal feet pound against the surface of the water—not sinking, not swimming, but running—each step a small miracle of surface tension and sheer willpower. His cane sword rests in his grip, the blade singing with the particular hum of a weapon that has tasted battle. His afro bounces with each stride. His empty eye sockets burn with determination.
Rearing overhead and carving a silent, suffocating orbit into his blind spot, Bō-Zak Kaminosuke wheeling close with the sovereign patience of an executioner measuring the neck.
The Condor's Vessel has fully transformed. His body has elongated, his arms becoming wings, his face stretching into a beak of stone and shadow. Obsidian feathers mantle his shoulders and back. His eyes—gold-flecked brown, warm and irreverent—burn with the particular amusement of a man who is enjoying himself far too much.
His wingspan stretches fifty meters across. His shadow stretches further.
" You're persistent, skeleton!"
Brook doesn't look back. He just keeps running—his legs pumping, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps, his eyes fixed on the horizon.
The Sunny is there. Small. Burning. Waiting.
" Yohohoho! I must return to my crew!" Brook's voice carries across the waves. "I must—"
Bō-Zak dives.
The condor's massive form cuts through the air like a blade—obsidian wings folded, talons extended, beak open in a shriek that makes the water itself tremble. Brook senses the attack and spins, his cane sword rising, his Haki flaring—
ZAN-SHUT!
The talons meet the blade in a clash of force that sends shockwaves rippling across the sea. Brook staggers backward—his feet losing traction on the water, his body almost sinking—but he recovers, his blade rising again.
"Impressive!" Bō-Zak banks upward, his wings beating against the gray sky. "Most would have been fish food by now!"
Brook's jaw tightens.
"I am already dead, yohohoho! Fish food would be a step up!"
Bō-Zak laughs—a genuine sound, warm and surprised.
"I like you, skeleton!"
He dives again.
This time, Brook is ready. He doesn't block—he dodges, his skeletal body twisting in ways that have nothing to do with human anatomy, his feet finding purchase on the water as he spins. His blade arcs through the air—a horizontal slash aimed at Bō-Zak's wing.
The condor banks sideways, avoiding the strike by inches.
"Too slow!"
The talons come again—not at Brook's body, but at the water beneath his feet. They slam into the surface, and the impact sends a shockwave rippling outward—a wave that lifts Brook from his feet and hurls him through the air.
He tumbles.
He spins.
He lands—somehow—on his feet, skidding across the water like a stone skipping across a pond. His body screams. His bones ache. But he's still standing. Still fighting. Still running.
Bō-Zak circles above, watching.
His gold-flecked eyes carry something that might be respect. Might be amusement. Might be the particular interest of a man who has just found a worthy opponent.
"You're not going to make it, you know."
Brook doesn't look up.
"I have to try."
---
The Pluton rises.
Bō-Zak banks—his wings catching the air, his body tilting, his eyes leaving Brook for just a moment. He sees it—the impossible vessel breaching the surface like a god emerging from slumber, its matte-black hull absorbing the gray light, its crescent-moon prow cutting through the waves.
And on the other side—the Dreadnought Thalassa.
Its fin-sail unfolds. Its Aetherium Terrace blooms open like a mechanical flower. Its crew scrambles across its deck.
And there—emerging from the shattered spheres on the Sunny's deck—the locusts.
They swarm.
Bō-Zak's eyes narrow.
He glances down at Brook—at the skeleton still running, still fighting, still trying—and something in his expression shifts.
"Looks like it's time for me to go."
Brook's head snaps up.
His empty eye sockets go wide. His jaw drops. His voice comes out high-pitched, incredulous, hurt.
"WHAT?! YOU'RE LEAVING?!"
Bō-Zak banks away—his wings carrying him upward, his body already turning toward the Thalassa. He calls back over his shoulder, his voice carrying the particular casualness of a man who has just finished a pleasant conversation.
"It was fun! Maybe next time we get a drink instead!"
Brook's jaw drops.
"WHAT?!"
He stands there—on the surface of the churning sea, his blade still raised, his body still coiled for battle—and watches as Bō-Zak flies away. The condor's massive form grows smaller and smaller, disappearing into the gray.
Brook blinks.
Then he hears it—Nami's scream, cutting through the chaos like a blade.
"ZEUS! GET YOUR CLOUDY BUTT OVER HERE! WE'VE GOT WORK TO DO!"
Brook's head snaps toward the Sunny.
The ship is covered in locusts—thousands of them, tens of thousands, their bodies gleaming with iridescent shells, their wings buzzing with the particular frequency of hunger. They're eating everything—the wood, the rope, the sail. They're consuming the Sunny from the inside out.
And his crew is fighting.
Nami swats at the swarm. Sanji kicks at the air. Franky pounds his fists against the deck. Chopper cries. Yamato swings her club at empty air.
Brook's jaw tightens.
"Yohohoho..."
He takes a breath—not that he needs to, but the habit is ingrained—and runs.
His feet pound against the water. His blade sings. His afro bounces. And behind him—above him—the Pluton and the Thalassa begin to sink.
---
Ember skips through the chaos.
Her boots tap against the burning deck in a rhythm that matches her singsong voice. Her pink space buns bounce with each step. Her mismatched eyes—one icy blue, one gold—scan the destruction with the particular delight of a child who has found a new game.
She's humming.
"Ring around the ashes... pocket full of glass..."
She stops.
Her head tilts.
Her gold prosthetic eye whirs—clicking through magnification levels, locking onto targets, seeing everything.
Usopp lies slumped against the railing—unconscious, burned, broken. His long nose is charred. His clothes are smoking. His eyes are closed.
Ember stares at him.
Her lips curve.
"Eeny..."
She shoulders the Helltide.
"Meeny..."
Her finger finds the trigger.
"Miny..."
She sights down the barrel.
"Moe."
BA-GYUN!
The Sparkler Round screams through the air—a streak of light and heat that slams into the railing beside Usopp's head. The explosion is blinding—a plume of orange and smoke that consumes everything in its radius.
Ember cackles.
"Oops! Missed!"
She doesn't reload. She just keeps skipping—her boots tapping against the deck, her voice rising in a broken nursery rhyme.
"Ring around the ashes..."