Jake woke up on day eight of boot camp with a plan.
If he couldn't avoid being noticed for combat skills, then he needed to redirect that attention. Make himself useful in ways that kept him away from the front lines. And the best way to do that was through knowledge.
Specifically, the kind of knowledge that made you valuable behind a desk rather than on a battlefield.
After morning drills—which his body was slowly, painfully getting used to—Jake headed to the base library during their limited free time. It was a small building near the officers' quarters, dusty and clearly underused.
Perfect.
Inside, he found rows of books on Marine history, protocols, law, navigation, and various technical manuals. An older Marine with glasses sat at the front desk, looking surprised to see anyone enter.
"Help you, recruit?" the man asked.
"Yes, sir. I'd like to study Marine regulations and administrative procedures."
The librarian—his name tag read 'Petty Officer Sato'—looked at Jake like he'd grown a second head. "Administrative procedures? Kid, most recruits come in here looking for combat manuals or stories about famous battles."
"I'm not most recruits, sir."
Sato studied him for a moment, then smiled. "No, I suppose you're not. Third shelf from the left, middle section. Marine Administrative Code volumes one through twelve. Enjoy your reading."
Jake found the books—thick, dry, and absolutely perfect for his purposes. He pulled out volume one and started reading.
If I become known as the guy who knows regulations and paperwork, they'll keep me in an office. Officers hate dealing with administrative work. If I can make myself indispensable as a clerk or administrator, I'll never see combat.
The material was dense, but Jake's previous life as an office worker had prepared him well. He understood bureaucracy, hierarchies, and the importance of proper documentation. Plus, his meta-knowledge of the One Piece world told him which regulations would become important later.
"Morrison?"
Jake looked up to find Marcus standing in the doorway, looking confused. "What are you doing here?"
"Reading."
"I can see that. But why are you reading..." Marcus walked over and checked the book's spine. "The Marine Administrative Code, Volume One: Requisition Procedures and Supply Chain Management?"
"Because it's important."
"It's the most boring book in existence."
"Exactly. Which means nobody else will read it, which means I'll know things they don't."
Marcus sat down across from him. "You're weird, you know that?"
"I prefer 'strategically minded.'"
"Most people would use their free time to train more or rest. You're reading about supply chain management."
Jake closed the book and leaned forward. "Marcus, answer me honestly. What happens to Marines who are really good at fighting?"
"They get promoted, get sent on important missions, become heroes—"
"They get sent into danger," Jake interrupted. "They get assigned to hunt down pirate crews. They get shipped to the Grand Line. They die young and heroic deaths." He tapped the book. "But you know what happens to Marines who are really good at paperwork?"
Marcus was quiet for a moment. "They stay in offices."
"They stay in offices. They live long, boring, safe lives. They retire with pensions."
"That's... actually pretty smart," Marcus admitted. "But also kind of sad."
"Sad is better than dead."
"What about making a difference? Protecting people?"
Jake had expected this argument. "You can protect people from behind a desk too. Good logistics save lives. Proper supply chains mean Marines have the equipment they need. Accurate intelligence reports prevent disasters. I can help people without putting a target on my back."
It was a good rationalization, and parts of it were even true. But the real reason was simpler: Jake wanted to survive. He wasn't a hero. He wasn't brave. He was just a guy who'd been thrown into a death world and was doing everything possible to avoid dying.
Marcus sighed. "I still think you're selling yourself short. You made it to the combat finals."
"By accident."
"You made it to advanced training."
"Also by accident."
"You're one of the best navigators in our group."
"That's... okay, that one's not by accident. But I can be a navigator from a safe office on land."
"You're impossible." Marcus stood up. "Fine. Study your boring books. But when Garp gets here and starts training us, you're going to have to actually try."
"I will try. I'll try very hard to be adequately competent."
"That's not what I—you know what, never mind. I'm going to go do extra combat drills. Some of us actually want to be good Marines."
After Marcus left, Jake felt a pang of guilt. His friend genuinely wanted to help people, to make a difference. Jake's goals were entirely selfish by comparison.
But I'm not going to apologize for wanting to live, he thought. This world is too dangerous for heroes without plot armor.
He returned to his reading, taking notes on key regulations. Over the next few hours, he absorbed information about requisition procedures, jurisdictional boundaries, rules of engagement, and the complex bureaucracy that kept the Marines functioning.
It was incredibly boring.
It was also incredibly useful.
"Still at it?"
Jake looked up to find Petty Officer Sato standing over him, holding a cup of tea. "Yes, sir. This is actually fascinating."
"You're a terrible liar, recruit. But I appreciate the enthusiasm." Sato set down a second cup of tea for Jake. "Can I ask why you're really doing this?"
Jake considered lying, then decided on a version of the truth. "I want to be useful in ways that keep me alive, sir. Combat isn't my strength. But maybe administration can be."
Sato nodded slowly. "Smart thinking. The Marines lose too many good people because they think the only way to serve is with a sword or gun." He pulled out a chair and sat down. "Let me tell you something, kid. I've been in the Marines for thirty years. Started as a combat recruit, just like you. Served in the Grand Line for ten years."
Jake noticed Sato's left hand had two missing fingers.
"I was good at fighting," Sato continued. "Not great, but good. Good enough to keep getting sent on dangerous missions. Good enough to watch my friends die. Good enough to almost die myself more times than I can count." He held up his damaged hand. "Lost these to a pirate's sword. Nearly lost my life too. You know what saved me?"
"Sir?"
"I learned to read and write reports better than anyone else in my unit. When they needed someone to document everything, coordinate supplies, communicate with headquarters—I was their guy. Eventually, they transferred me to administration. I spent the next twenty years behind a desk, and you know what? I saved more lives doing paperwork than I ever did in combat."
"How?"
"Because I made sure Marine units had accurate maps. I ensured supply lines stayed open so they didn't run out of ammunition mid-battle. I processed intelligence reports quickly so pirates didn't get the drop on our people." Sato smiled. "Glory goes to the fighters, kid. But battles are won by logistics."
Jake felt something loosen in his chest. Validation, maybe. Or just relief that someone understood.
"So you're saying my strategy isn't cowardly?"
"I'm saying your strategy is smart. Cowardice is running away when people need you. Intelligence is recognizing your strengths and using them effectively." Sato stood up. "Keep studying, Morrison. The Marines need people like you more than they know."
After Sato left, Jake continued reading with renewed focus. He wasn't just hiding anymore—he was building actual useful skills. Skills that would keep him alive and, apparently, help others too.
Maybe I can do both. Survive and be useful.
The next two weeks fell into a pattern. Morning drills and combat training with the advanced group. Afternoon lessons on tactics, seamanship, and Marine law. Evening study sessions in the library.
Jake's strategy was working. He maintained adequate performance in physical training while excelling in written work and administrative knowledge. Instructors started asking him questions about regulations. Other recruits borrowed his notes.
He was becoming known as "the smart one" rather than "the fighter," which was exactly what he wanted.
Marcus still trained with him during combat drills, and they'd developed a rhythm. Marcus pushed Jake to improve—"You need to be able to defend yourself at least"—while Jake helped Marcus with the academic parts of training.
"I don't understand why we need to memorize all these rules of engagement," Marcus complained one evening while Jake helped him study. "In a real fight, you just do what you have to do."
"In a real fight, following these rules keeps you from accidentally committing a war crime," Jake replied. "Also, knowing them means you can recognize when pirates are violating them, which gives you legal authority to respond with appropriate force."
"That's... actually a good point."
"I'm occasionally useful."
"More than occasionally." Marcus closed his textbook. "Hey, you nervous about Garp showing up next week?"
Terrified beyond words.
"A little," Jake admitted. "He's supposed to be incredibly strong."
"Strong? Jake, he's a legend. They say he's turned down promotion to Admiral multiple times because he doesn't want the responsibility. He's fought Roger the Pirate King to a standstill. He throws cannonballs with his bare hands!"
"I heard he punched a Sea King to death once," another recruit chimed in. Davis, who'd been listening to their conversation, had wandered over. "My cousin served under him. Said Garp once destroyed a pirate ship by throwing another pirate ship at it."
That sounds exactly like something Garp would do.
"Do you think he'll actually train us personally?" Davis asked. "Or just the instructors?"
"Who knows?" Jake said, hoping desperately for the latter. "Maybe he'll just observe and give general advice."
He would, of course, be completely wrong about this.
The day before Garp's arrival, Commander Ripper assembled the four advanced combat recruits.
"Tomorrow, Vice Admiral Garp arrives," Ripper announced. "This is an incredible honor. Most Marines never get to train under a legend like Garp. You four will represent this facility, and you will not embarrass me. Understood?"
"Sir, yes, sir!" they chorused.
"Morrison."
Oh no.
"Yes, sir?"
"I've reviewed your performance over the past month. Your combat skills are adequate but unremarkable. Your academic scores, however, are exemplary. Why?"
Jake chose his words carefully. "I believe in playing to my strengths, sir. I may never be the strongest fighter, but I can be useful in other ways."
Ripper studied him. "Garp specifically requested to meet you."
Jake's brain stopped working. "I'm sorry, sir. Did you say Vice Admiral Garp requested to meet me specifically?"
"Correct. Apparently, Lieutenant Commander Kawa mentioned your navigation skills in her report. Garp is interested in recruits who show aptitude for non-combat specialties."
Why? Why would Garp care about navigation skills? He punches things! That's his whole deal!
"I... that's an honor, sir," Jake managed.
"Don't screw it up," Ripper said flatly. "Dismissed."
As they left, Marcus was grinning. "Dude! Garp personally wants to meet you!"
"This is a disaster."
"This is amazing!"
"Marcus, I specifically joined the Marines to avoid attention from important people. Now a Vice Admiral is personally requesting to meet me. How is this not a disaster?"
"Because it's Vice Admiral Garp!"
Jake groaned. His plan to be forgettable and safe was falling apart more every day. And now he had to meet one of the strongest humans in the One Piece world.
At least it can't get worse, Jake thought.
The universe, as always, was listening.
And laughing.