Three days slipped by in a blink.
Marineford was livelier than ever. Reporters from every corner of the seas crowded the wharf, caras at the ready. On the plaza, ranks of Marine elites stood in immaculate formation, the polished barrels of their rifles catching the sun. It looked less like a reception and more like the prelude to a war.
Even Sengoku, soon to take the Marshal's seat, waited with a cluster of senior officers at his back, eyes fixed on the horizon, jaw set. The tableau drew whispers from civilians and press alike.
"Isn't this excessive? The Seven Warlords may be a Governnt initiative, but having the Fleet Admiral-to-be and half of Headquarters lined up to welco them is a bit much."
"Exactly. They are pirates at the end of the day."
"Chief of Staff Tsuru and those monster Vice Admirals are here too. If I did not know better, I would think they were about to launch a major campaign."
The murmurs never stilled, though shutters never stopped clacking either. A few sharp-eared reporters smirked at the provincials.
Small-ti rags, they thought. You have no idea. This is the World Economic Journal's turf. We have the real tip.
A handful of Warlords would not make the Navy wheel out the red carpet like this.
The reason was simpler, and far more dangerous.
A true big shot was coming.
A dark sliver edged up from the far line where sky kissed sea. Spines stiffened along the quay. Sengoku's brows knit. The signal runner he had stationed at his elbow leaned forward for orders.
Are they here.
The hull grew distinct, the figurehead clearer. Sengoku exhaled and waved the runner back to position.
Not yet. Only the Caravel.
The first ship to arrive at Marineford was a mid-sized vessel with a flamingo head carved on the prow.
"Fufufufu… What a spectacle," drawled the man at the bow, suit crisp beneath a billowing pink feathered coat, golden hair bristling like a hedgehog under mirrored shades. Legs crossed, Donquixote Doflamingo surveyed the reception line with lazy amusent. "So enthusiastic, Marines."
Every paper except the World Economic Journal sward, lenses flashing. A Warlord on cara was still a bounty of clicks. The Journal's people barely glanced up. Their attention was pulled by a shadow circling overhead.
"Is that… the Seagull King."
A razor-eyed gull spiraled down and settled on a junior reporter's shoulder with the unruffled confidence of a field marshal. Within the Journal there were only two creatures who commanded that level of respect: Big News Morgans himself, and this crowned bird.
The gull tapped the kid's cheek with a wingtip, then scratched a note on his pad with one talon.
Thirty minutes out.
Anyone the Seagull King personally flagged, anyone who warranted this level of Marine readiness, would not be a re underboss.
"I got it. Thank you, Your Majesty."
The Seagull King took off with his cara kit, a white streak against blue. While other outlets wasted film on filler, the Journal's team paced themselves for the mont that mattered.
Inside information. That was the edge.
"Fufufufu… Admiral Sengoku, honored Ms. Tsuru, you did not have to co so early just to greet us."
Hands in pockets, Doflamingo wore his most wicked smile. Before Tsuru in particular he paused, as if savoring the mory. This old woman had once threatened his life. Legal status suited him now, and he was itching to preen.
Neither Sengoku nor Tsuru spared him more than a glance. When he lingered, Tsuru finally cut her eyes his way.
"If you have arrived, go to the reception hall. Do not loiter and get in the way."
"Nani."
The smile on Doflamingo's face stalled. Veins stood out faintly at his temples. He was not the strongest of the Seven, perhaps, but ever since he had mastered flowing armant, he was certainly among the front ranks. Aside from that hawk-eyed freak, who could claim a sure victory over him. Who among the Warlords had the clout to make him step aside.
He flexed one finger. A gleam flared red across his lenses.
The plaza tilted into absurdity.
Marines who had held parade posture without a blink suddenly flinched. A wave of confusion rippled through the ranks. Hands rose of their own accord, steel rasped from scabbards, and n turned on their own comrades with a clatter of blades.
Ching.
Bootsteps lost their cadence. Shouts spiked.
"What is happening. My arm is moving on its own."
"Stop. Stop."
A pair of privates lunged at their sergeant. A corporal sobbed as he parried his friend's wild swing. The neat geotry of the formation shredded in seconds.
"Fufufufu…"
"Marine Headquarters, Marineford. What a lively place," Doflamingo sang, fingers twitching. Each small flick yoked another soldier into violence, a puppet seized by invisible threads.
Faces darkened across the officer corps. On the steps, Sengoku's fury ca up like a squall.
"You bastard, Donquixote Doflamingo. Do you understand what you are doing."
Marines not caught in the strings drew rifles and took aim, but Sengoku lifted a hand without looking back and they held their fire.
"Fufufufu… It is only a joke. You will not raise a hand over such a trifle, will you, Admiral Sengoku, lord of this ceremony."
Gecko Moria had co in behind Doflamingo, as had Hanafuda. From a safe distance they watched the farce with interest. Sengoku knew he could not let it run. He pinched down his temper and tried the only tool left to him.
"I am not going to strike you," he said, voice flat. "But are you sure you want to do this, Doflamingo."
"Why not," Doflamingo murmured, leaning in with insolent delight until his breath stirred Sengoku's sideburns. "What can you do, exactly."
He was not wrong about one thing. At this juncture, Sengoku could not brawl a Warlord in the plaza without handing the tabloids a feast. He would swallow it. Doflamingo's grin spread.
Then Sengoku spoke in his ear, almost idle, and the smile calcified where it was.
"In that case, let say this. The formation and atmosphere you just ruined were not for the Warlords."
"They were prepared to welco Ozz."
The world seed to click, silent and sudden.
Doflamingo did not move for a beat. Sothing like a hairline crack ran through his swagger. Around them, Tsuru's gaze stayed cool as winter. Rifles lowered a fraction. The controlled Marines twitched, the strings slackening by degrees as Doflamingo's finger stilled.
Ozz.
Not the Black Emperor's flag. Not one of his captains. Ozz himself.
A gust out on the water pushed a new ripple toward the harbor mouth. Out beyond the flamingo figurehead, the line of the horizon brightened, as if the sea had just rembered how to breathe.
Doflamingo clicked his tongue. His shoulders rolled once, languid again by effort. The faintest crack showed when he spoke, a hair off his usual cadence.
"Fufufu… I see."
His finger dipped. The threads cut clean. The clamor on the plaza sputtered out. Marines snatched back control of their limbs and stumbled away from one another, panting.
Sengoku did not look at Doflamingo. He lifted his chin and began to reset the board, command snapping from him like taut rope.
"Reform by companies. Reset the honor guard. Musicians, standby. Tsuru."
"I will handle the injured," Tsuru said, already moving. "No fatalities. Light concussions and cuts only."
"Good."
Caras around the square started clicking again, harder now, angling to catch both the chaos and the sudden, nervous order. The World Economic Journal held its fire. The Seagull King glided back to the masthead and stared seaward.
Thirty minutes, the note had said.
The second hand struck its mark. A shadow washed across the bay, too clean to be a cloud, too fast to be a storm. The plaza fell into a hush that felt like pressure.
Sowhere up front a junior reporter gulped.
"Who… who exactly are they waiting for."
His editor did not answer. He was writing the headline in his head and he was careful to leave space.
Welco to Marineford, Saint Ozz.
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