The moment I landed on the Thousand Calamities, I shed the Hydra costume and returned to my human body. Believe me, stone-cracking dragon drama is entertaining for the masses—nothing makes a Marine soil themselves quicker than a skyscraper of a lizard exhaling poison napalm—but the deck of the ship made of black wood? That's home of the real comfort. Hard. Relatable. Won't sass you right back when you place your entire body on it—like those certain goth girlfriends who use silent passive-aggressiveness as a deadly weapon.
Perona and Shyarly waited for me like a two-man firing squad of disgruntled aunties. Staring. Judging. Eyes heavy enough to shatter hull planks. Perona's pink pigtails quivered like indignant antennae, and Shyarly's gaze was depth and patience, the type that said, I've watched men drown in less water than you're hauling today. Neither said anything, because why bother using words when you're just going to emit silent judgement like a lighthouse of condemnation?
I put on my best smile, "Don't worry, Captain Genius has a plan" face, but my head at the time was a smooth blender of bad plans, lingering adrenalin, and the kind of fear you feel after nuking a holy castle from the skies.
"Alright, enough gawking," I clapped my hands, theatrics on full blast, like I was about to unveil the iPhone 37. "We've got to move before the Marines start cosplaying Where's Waldo with our heads on the wanted posters. Shyarly, give me the scenic-but-not-suicidal route. Perona, make the ship look less like a floating health hazard. Chop-chop."
Perona's eyes went hard. You know that glare you receive from the person who's downright sure they're better than this job but the check is just too pretty to walk away from? That was the look. She didn't bother giving me the words. Simply turned on her heel, pink hair whipping behind her like she'd practiced the diva exit in a mirror, and marched down deck. Probably already writing a melodramatic diary entry about how she, a woman of refinement and culture, was relegated to babysitting a wild hair gremlin who thought "strategic planning" was winging it with special pyrotechnics.
Shyarly stayed. Entirely different vibe. She leaned against the railing with her elbow, candlelight sea behind her silvering her blue hair. Her fingers tapped on the wood, slow and rhythmic, like she was putting her heart to the rhythm of the currents—or maybe the rhythm of mine. Her eyes were soft, but they were not giving me a free pass. Not tonight.
"You okay?" she said. Plain words. Hazardous words. Gentle enough to sound illegal on a vessel that's essentially cursed just for being.
"Peachy," I lied with a grin sharp enough to cut glass. My shoulders ached like I'd been carrying the Hydra form for a century, and the weight of the last few hours sat on my ribs like an elephant in steel-toed boots. And then, just because I live for unnecessary drama, I reached back and hurled my battered warhammer into the ocean. No speech. No teary goodbye. Just splash. A wet, echoing full stop to a chapter I wasn't rereading.
Shyarly gasped, hand to mouth as if I just kicked a dog onto the sidewalk. "That was your hammer!"
"Yeah, well, it had its moment," I shrugged, casual as flipping phone carriers. "No weapon lasts forever."
What I didn't reveal was that it wasn't the hammer. It was me. How nothing—victories, people, tools—remains. The hammer was just the sight of that principle, and witnessing it sink was less agonizing than putting it into words. But why unpack the trauma and not just play it like a mic drop?
I stepped away from the ripples and down toward the cabin, boots thudding in a funereal cadence that was less a victory lap than a dirge. The ship went quiet, respectfully still, as if the ship itself realized that I was treading stormy weather below.
Inside, the air smelled of aged whiskey, salt-damp wood, and the kind of truths you only admit when nobody's around to laugh. The walls leaned in close, heavy, suffocating, like they were trying to stage an intervention. A plush chair sat behind the desk, waiting like a velvet trap, but I wasn't about to collapse into its embrace yet. Sitting felt like surrender, and surrender wasn't part of the brand.
Killing Celestial Dragons. Yeah. That one kept circling my skull like a hungry vulture. Even for me—even for a man whose ego could deadlift a battleship—that was a big swing. Necessary? Definitely. Cathartic? Oh, beyond words. But also a cosmic-level "oops" just waiting for the universe to cash in. Mariejois wasn't just a city. It was a neon bullseye, a world government's pride and joy. And I'd glassed it like it was a sandcastle.
Fallout on the way. Marines. Admirals. Cipher Pol agents with more knives than sense. Bounty hunters, leeches, half the world looking to scalp a piece of me for cash. Doomsday. That's the moniker they'll tag me with. Not Cassian. Not Captain of the Thousand Calamities. Just Doomsday—the man who dismantled heaven's front porch and spat on the embers. A wonderful branding opportunity, honestly, if you don't mind the "whole world wants you dead" situation.
But prior to the PR fiasco that went into hyperdrive? Break time. Comes: a freed bottle of aristocrat whiskey. Most likely taken from an aristocrat's private supply, dust still adhering to the glass as if it waited decades for a person of value—or lack thereof—to uncork it. Popped the cork using the finesse of a sidewalk wizard and drank a swig that burned my throat more intensely than dragonfire. Smooth? Not at all. Yet who is smooth with apocalypse on his CV?
The room trembled in the corners, candles merging with shadows as if Salvador Dalí won a contract to redecorate my life. My knees trembled, the bottle crashed onto the desk, and the whiskey wrapped itself around me like a fireproof blanket that felt more than most humans ever have. My eyelids started to plot against gravity, pulling me down, down, until I was a Cassian-formed crash test dummy in the chair I promised not to touch.
The candle danced, its walls casting shadows with hydra-headed mouths, dragons with more teeth and more complaints than they were due. Ghosts? Guilt? Hallucinations of 90-proof? You pick. Didn't matter. The bottle crooned a flame-and-silence lullaby and I let it. Tonight, the world, the storm and my name and my sins and my legend—all of those and more would have to wait until morning.
But now? Now I was merely a man in a chair, amidst shadows and remorse, holding on to the merciful brevity of whiskey and the slender belief that tomorrow would allow me to rise before the world chose to burn me alive.
**
It was like the universal circuit breaker was thrown. One second, I'm drowned in whiskey, hating myself, and the scent of bad decisions. Then—bam!—I'm staring down into an abyss as uncompromisingly white as it made my cabin look like Vegas on a Friday night. Not mist. Not clouds. The kind of bare canvas on which God forgot to finish painting. No boat. No ocean. No bottle. A spotlight, just me, and the growing feeling that I'd been recruited for some universal talent show.
And then—he of course—he arrives. Capital H. The Random Omnipotent Being. The dude who witnesses the chaos of creation and goes, "Ah. You know what this multiverse is missing? Dragons, large property damage, and a snarky pirate with a god complex." Basically the director's cut that nobody asked for.
"Cassian, my boy!" bellowed R.O.B., voice echoing like Dolby Atmos on steroids. "You've outdone yourself! Mariejois—flattened! The crown of tyranny, turned to confetti! Brilliant! The world order? Shaken, not stirred—just my flsvor."
Picture the strongest person in the universe applauding for you and you're still wondering if you forgot to brush your teeth. That's the atmosphere. His admiration flowed over me like a hot shower after fulfilling my goal—reassuring, indeed, but you can't help but wonder if the pipes are corroded. In the background, my conscience was playing a full-fledged drum solo, yelling, Uh, buddy, did we have to glaze a spiritual city?
I screwed my eyes into the cosmic spotlight, trying to make out His face, but I got nothing but the outline of a man who had more confidence than sense. "If you're here to give me a gold star, hard pass," I said to him.
R.O.B. guffawed—a noise that could only be likened to a supernova on a karaoke night. "Oh, no, no, no, Captain Cassian," He said, smiling through the void. "I don't deal in participation trophies. I deal in cosmic balancing acts."
With a careless flick, He called forth a hammer. A hammer. The hammer. Shining, buzzing, more or less shouting "worship me" to every atom in the void. It suspended itself between us as if it owned the place.
"This," He said, "is your new toy. Think Mjolnir, but with attitude and without that dann tedious worthiness provision. Impervious. Yours alone. As hospitable to strangers as a black hole at brunch."
I grabbed for it, and as soon as my hand surrounded it, the object vibrated with power like a second heartbeat. Weighing the balance precisely, heavier than remorse but not as heavy as indecision. "What's the catch?" I asked, because my life has more fine print than a Vegas prenup.
"The more destruction you cause, the stronger you become," said R.O.B., smiling and all-knowing. "Chaos is strength. You, Cassian? You're a virtuoso of chaos. My most entertaining symphony.
"Fake Mjolnir," I said, giving it a swing. The weight was comfortable in my hand like a busted leather jacket—familiar, deadly, and probably still blood-soaked from a night at the saloon. A smile tugged at my lip. "So what now I'm Thor?"
"Thor?" he thought, plainly having a good time. "Nah, nah. You're the Anti-Thor. Herald of Disaster. Thunder is for weather reports. You're in the cataclysm business."
And with that, He waved. The hammer glued itself to my side like an overly affectionate pet, whispering promises of destruction in my ear. My chest buzzed like I'd swallowed a small star. Then the lights dimmed, reality hiccupped, and just like that—He was gone. Curtain closed. Omnipotent Being exits stage left.
I blinked. My cabin was there again. Bottle of whiskey on the desk, unfazed, acting like none of that ever went down. But the hammer? Ah, the hammer was real. Sitting against me, humming softly, as if it'd been there the whole time. Running into R.O.B. again was just as unexpected as discovering a shark in a swimming pool at a hotel. Not unlikely. Simply… wonderfully inconvenient.
Cue headache from hell. The cabin rotated like a drunk carnie's carnival ride and just as I was considering the lovely relief of unconsciousness, came a rap on the door. Since the universe has a perverse sense of timing.
"Enter," I croaked, feeling as if I'd gargled with razors.
The doors groaned open, and who do you expect but the peanut gallery: Perona and Shyarly. Two white faces. Two starry eyes. Two faces that appear to have just seen me jokingly juggle live hand grenades. Which, given what I'd just done, wasn't quite unbelievable.
Perona came to. She stormed over and slapped a crumpled sheet of paper in my face. "What have you done?" she growled, dripping goth cheerleader rage.
Ink on my face. I scratched it off and—voilà. Wanted poster. My own police picture, looking specially sinister, with "WANTED: DOOMSDAY" in a font size of 400.
And the bounty? Ten. Billion. Beri. A '1' with enough zeros after it to make accountants cry. My face, now the hottest ticket on the Grand Line. Pirates, bounty hunters, Marines, mercenaries—just about anyone with a death wish now had a real good reason to include me on their to-do list.
"Well, that's how you go viral," I said, faking cool as my stomach was doing Olympic-level twists.
Shyarly stepped back, with her hand on her mouth. "Cassian… what have you done?" she whispered, half in wonder and half in horror.
Perona, on the other hand, was thrumming with otherworldly energy. "The entire world's going to come for you now," she said, glancing at the hammer. "You've truly gone and done yourself proud, Captain Doomsday." She spoke in the tone of admiration and doom.
I sat forward a bit more, holding the hammer. The weight centered me, murmured soothing little falsehoods of power and fate. "At least we're not dull," I joked. "And I have a bounty to keep up with my ego. Brand recognition, girls. Bigger picture."
Perona rolled her eyes so hard I thought gravity might not get them back. "Brand recognition? You've painted a target on your forehead the size of Red Line itself."
I held up the hammer, gave it a lazy twirl. "Hey, if nothing else, the merch is going to be fire."