Munch, munch, munch… chew, chew…
Right in front of me, a single-minded girl was tearing into her food like it was the only thing in the world.
I watched with a pleasant smile, the way you might watch a child eat—purely, greedily, happily—thinking, Well, that's adorable.
And honestly, she really does look like a kid. With me being thirty-four, it's hard not to see her that way.
Even if her actual age isn't "child," she's still sixteen. Not even half my age.
Her name is Marianne.
It's her real name, but if you're a fan of the Original Work, you probably know her better as Miss Goldenweek.
Sitting beside her at the same table were two other people—a man and a woman—both stiff with tension.
Mr. 5 and Miss Valentine. Those were their code names.
I didn't know their real names.
All three were remnants of Baroque Works. Naturally, all three were wanted.
"More."
"Sure, sure. Here you go. And you two—don't just sit there. Eat. You're hungry, aren't you?"
"E-eh?! Um… y-yes… thank you…"
"Th-thank you…"
Unlike Marianne, those two hadn't touched the food in front of them, so I nudged them along—but they still looked rigid. No, more than rigid.
They looked scared.
And, well… the reason was probably me.
Even I had to admit it: I'm sitting on a 76 million berry bounty. And these two… if I remember right, they were only the sort of fighters who'd get nervous around someone in the forty-million range.
If they weren't cautious, that would be stranger.
And as members of BW—an organization that wore the mask of a bounty hunter syndicate as well—of course they'd know my face.
So why were three wanted BW remnants in my hotel suite? Why was I calmly hosting them, ordering room service, feeding them like guests?
Simple.
Marianne and I already knew each other.
When I work as the "Pirate Literary Master," whether I'm writing novels or picture books, what I deliver is the text. That's it.
I'm not blessed with much in the way of artistic talent, so whenever a story needs illustrations, the company finds an artist and commissions them.
And Marianne… has taken that job more than once.
I still remember the shock of it—realizing I'd become acquainted with an Original Work character in the most unexpected way, in the most unexpected place.
It wasn't just business either. Back before she joined Baroque Works, we met in person a few times, talked face to face.
Maybe because we were both already living in the underworld back then, there was no awkwardness in meeting at all. If anything, it made things easier.
Even then, she was unhurried to the point of laziness—drifting through everything at her own pace. At first she didn't even seem particularly interested in me, even as a client. But she also wasn't tense around me. Not then, not now.
She did warm up fast once I treated her to expensive sweets, though.
And now, somehow, that same Marianne had fallen—literally—into the pool of the suite I'd rented, along with two colleagues.
I almost thought the world was ending.
In the end, I pulled them out, and since they were clearly starving, I invited them inside. They were soaked, so I made them change into whatever I had on hand. Their clothes were already with room service, being washed and dried.
And so here we were: feeding them.
Marianne, being Marianne—and also already acquainted with me—ate without hesitation. The other two took longer, but after a while they finally began to eat too, cautiously at first.
Once I'd let them settle, I asked what had happened, timing it for when Marianne was in the middle of dessert.
As expected, she wasn't exactly the type who could—or wanted to—give a long explanation. So it turned into her saying the bare minimum while the other two filled in the missing pieces.
As I said, these three were remnants of Baroque Works.
But after the battle on Little Garden, they'd been left behind on the island and forced into survival life until very recently. That was why they hadn't been able to join the events in the Alabasta Kingdom.
Then a News Coo had brought them a newspaper.
That was how they learned Baroque Works had been destroyed—and that their fellow agents, some of whom they'd never even met, had been arrested.
Marianne always looks like she's half-asleep, but she's more loyal than she lets on.
Apparently, she'd decided to rescue the captured members. She and the other two had escaped Little Garden and were on their way toward the detention center—still just a holding facility at this point.
To do it, she used Colors Trap to control a dinosaur and fly.
But in the rain, the ink ran.
The suggestion broke.
And they fell.
And the place they fell… was my pool.
"Thanks. That was good."
"You're welcome. You two—are you all right now?"
"Y-yeah."
"Um… th-thank you for the meal…"
On Little Garden, it sounded like their diet had been mostly dinosaur meat and whatever fruit they could find, outside of whatever supplies they'd brought with them.
So they looked like people tasting "civilization" again for the first time in a long time.
By the end, even Mr. 5 and Miss Valentine were eating with something close to enthusiasm.
…Though there was a faint edge to it, too. A kind of desperate whatever happens, happens recklessness.
Once they'd eaten and the tension had eased—at least a little—I asked what they planned to do next.
"Take me."
"Oh, starting with demands right out of the gate." I let out a short laugh. "Well… I guess I knew that was coming."
Marianne never uses enough words to be convenient, so I filled in the blanks myself: she wanted to go to the Marine holding facility to rescue her comrades, and she wanted me to take her as far as I could.
If she'd gotten here by dinosaur—then crashed—she clearly didn't have a way to reach the detention center from here.
More than that, she probably didn't even have a way off this island.
They could've stolen a ship, or coerced someone into lending one. But luck was luck: an acquaintance—me—happened to be on Kyuka Island.
So they'd decided to ask for help.
Marianne knew I traveled alone, or with only a small number of companions. She likely thought I might be willing to ferry them somewhere close, at least.
And… personally, I don't dislike Marianne.
As a friend, we get along well enough. And she's done excellent work for me—beautiful illustrations that elevated my stories, even if, for her, it was "just a job."
If she was in trouble, I wanted to help.
But her goal…
A detention center raid. A jailbreak.
That's not "harmless underworld business." That's the kind of crime that makes you a direct, noisy enemy of the Marines.
I usually avoid doing anything that overtly "pirate-like," because if you push it too far, you get the kind of attention that doesn't fade.
And even when I do something illegal, I do it quietly—carefully—like the Poneglyph in Alabasta. Minimal exposure. Maximum stealth.
Of course… it's not like I'm innocent. I'm wanted either way. The Marines don't need a fresh reason to come after me.
And even if my current position isn't public yet, it still exists. Emotionally, I might want to scold her for picking a fight with the world—but practically, I'm in no place to judge.
I hesitated, weighed it all—
Then let it go.
"Eh. Fine."
"…!"
All three of them snapped up like they'd been struck by lightning.
"I'll take you near the area," I said, holding up a finger. "But that's it. I'm not helping with the breakout—no fighting, no tricks, no schemes. You do that part yourselves. Still good?"
Rolling up directly to a Marine facility was out of the question. Those places are often built on islands dedicated entirely to that purpose—hard to approach without being seen, even harder to slip in unnoticed.
But a nearby island? That I could do.
From there, they could rent a ship, steal one, whatever it took. Their problem, not mine.
"Mm. That's fine. Thanks."
So that was the compromise.
I'd be their transportation. Nothing more.
Saving their comrades would be their own responsibility. I didn't owe BW enough to risk my neck for a full-scale prison break.
This much was… acceptable.
Acceptable by what standard?
By my own. My personal sense of "I can live with this," built on pure bias and arbitrary lines.
I glanced to the other two. "And you two… Mr. 5, Miss Valentine. That arrangement work for you?"
"Y-yeah. That's more than enough. Just getting us out of here helps."
"We'll handle the rest ourselves," Miss Valentine said, composed in a way that made her feel older than she looked. "That was the plan from the start."
"Good. Then it's settled." I turned slightly. "Honey—start getting ready. It's earlier than we planned, but we should be moving soon."
"I don't mind," Honey said, calm as ever, "but… can't we wait a little? Moving right now feels dangerous."
She was still dressed for vacation—pareo over her swimsuit, drink in hand, looking like she'd never heard the word 'urgent' in her life. Her hair was faintly damp, as if she'd just rinsed off. It made her look… unfairly alluring, honestly.
"Dangerous how?"
"There are Marines on the island," she said. "Quite a few. They're hunting Baroque Works remnants."
The three of them went rigid again.
Of course they would. They were exactly what she'd just described.
But there was another fear under it too—an incredulous, Why now? They'd crashed here by accident, just moments ago. How could pursuers already be here?
Except…
This wasn't about them.
Honey reached for the newspaper on the table.
It wasn't the World Economic News—it was a local paper made on Kyuka Island. The hotel delivered it as a complimentary morning service.
She pulled out two flyers that had been tucked inside and held them up.
And the faces on them were—
"Mr. 3!"
"And this okama too," Mr. 5 blurted, leaning forward. "This one… it says he got captured, but escaped."
"With Mr. 2's Powers, that's possible," Miss Valentine said, eyes narrowing. "So they think those two are on this island?"
Marianne stared at the first flyer and, almost without thinking, whispered the name of her former partner.
Mr. 5 and Miss Valentine also reacted to the other wanted poster—the one with the okama's face. So they knew him too, apparently. The Original Work never really paired them together, but real life doesn't always follow neat arcs.
"I don't know what intel led them to it," Honey said, "but the Marines seem convinced. And even if we're not their target, we're still wanted. If we're spotted, it becomes a scene. I'd rather not kick up pointless trouble. We should wait until the Marines leave, or at least until their vigilance dulls a little, then depart."
"…All right."
Marianne nodded, accepting it. The other two didn't argue.
They wanted to save their comrades. But charging out blindly, getting caught, and ending up in chains themselves would help no one.
"But, uh… Pirate Literary Master," Mr. 5 said, worry creeping back in, "what if our guys get transferred from the holding facility to a real prison while we're waiting? Shouldn't we move fast, even if it's risky?"
"No," Miss Valentine said, cutting in from across the table. "That's probably fine."
"Why?"
"If they transfer them, they'll do it in one sweep—everyone at once. They're moving criminals, so they'll need a proper transport ship, proper equipment, proper manpower. And Boss… Sir Crocodile is among them. For a catch like that, a flag officer will almost certainly be involved. They can't arrange that over and over on short notice."
Her tone was matter-of-fact, like she'd done this kind of calculation her whole life.
"And if they're hunting remnants," she continued, "they'll want to gather as many as possible before moving anyone. Same case, same operation—makes sense to consolidate."
"So because the Alabasta incident was very recent," Honey added, "and there's paperwork, procedure, and logistics… we don't have to panic. In fact, moving right when the island quiets down might be the cleanest timing."
"But," Honey said, eyes steady, "that doesn't mean we have endless time. Once the Marines leave, there's no longer a reason to delay the transfer. That's when the prisoners get moved."
"So the best option is…" Mr. 5's mouth twitched. "We leave while the reason to delay still exists—when vigilance eases but before they catch the remaining 'remnants'—and hit the holding facility before the transfer happens. That's… tight timing."
"It's hard to aim for a perfect razor-thin moment," Miss Valentine said. "So it's better to move as soon as we sense them loosening up. If the hunt began today… maybe two or three days. We watch and adjust."
She laid it out with unsettling ease.
I couldn't help it. "Miss Valentine… you know a lot."
"Well," she said with a small shrug, "I used to be a courier. I'm used to moving when Marine attention dips."
Huh. That explains the calm.
All right, then.
For now, we'd stay the night. Wait. Watch.
And the moment their guard slackened, we'd slip out quietly—without drawing eyes.
If we had to cut our hotel stay short, we'd just tell them our plans changed. And if we didn't demand a refund, the hotel would smile and wave us off.
Before we wrapped up, I looked at the other two again.
"Oh—one more thing. Can you tell me your names? Your real ones. Not the code names."
They blinked.
"That's fine," Mr. 5 said slowly, "but… why?"
"Because I'm not calling you something that screams 'code name' in the middle of town. It draws attention. People remember it. If you don't want to give your real names, aliases are fine—just make sure you respond when I use them."
"No," he said, and exhaled. "Real name's fine. Gem."
"I'm Mikita," Miss Valentine said. Her voice softened, as if the sound of it surprised her. "It's been a long time since I introduced myself to anyone."
"Yeah," Gem muttered. "We've been agents for years. Hell—we only learned each other's names today."
"Our company motto is 'Mystery,'" Marianne said blandly, as if it explained everything. "Can't be helped. I'm Marianne."
I already knew hers, of course. She was saying it for Honey and for the other two—because for all the time they'd spent together, they'd never exchanged names.
And that thought hit something inside me.
People you don't even know the names of.
But you've shared time with them. Walked alongside them. Survived with them.
And when they're taken… you're willing to risk your life without hesitation.
A bond built on nothing visible.
A friendship that doesn't need names.
It was… strangely beautiful.
And just like that, a spark caught.
Inspiration. Creative drive.
A whole story beginning to form in my head—
…
I swallowed.
Then, without shame, I asked:
"Sorry… can we leave next week instead?"
"Why?!" all three shouted at once.
Honey's eyes went flat. "You're doing it again."
The three of them looked like they'd been struck dead on the spot, and Honey—who knew my patterns far too well—stared at me with exhausted resignation.
Yeah.
No. That wasn't happening.
I sighed. "Fine. I'll write it on the ship."
---
That night, at the temporary Marine garrison set up on the island—
The officer in command received a report from two subordinates: one Marine wearing unusually shaped sunglasses, and another with steel knuckle-dusters strapped over both hands.
"No results on the first day," she said, composed. "Well, it's not the kind of thing that resolves overnight. Keep searching. Patiently."
"Yes, Captain!"
"We're searching all major ports, and we're also inspecting any coves where a ship could be concealed. Please await good news!"
"See that I do," she said coolly. "The Government is taking this matter seriously. We need to bring it to a clean end."
"Captain," the sunglasses-wearing Marine added, "there have also been a few sightings of other pirates and outlaws on the island…"
"This island has always drawn outlaws who want to keep a low profile," the officer said. "That can't be helped. Our priority remains the BW remnant hunt. That doesn't change. If something appears that we truly can't ignore, we'll respond then."
She paused, then asked, almost casually, "Do we know who these other pirates are—who the reports are pointing to?"
"We have a list and wanted posters prepared!"
"And we also prepared a bouquet!"
"I don't need a bouquet," she said, without missing a beat. "Just the list."
"…Yes."
The two subordinates drooped so hard they might as well have been wearing those cartoonish "vertical lines" of despair.
The female Marine accepted the booklet—crudely bound like a simple pamphlet—and flipped through it.
Page after page.
Her hand moved smoothly, without hesitation—
Until it didn't.
It stopped.
"…Hina is shocked."
The words slipped out of her as she stared at the face printed there—one familiar woman looking back at her from the page.
To be continued...