A Message from Headquarters

"Anything else?"

Colin took the paper. There was only one line on it. The writing was faint, but every word was clear.

"Leave your people in the West Blue. Come alone. Tsuru."

Colin stood before the desk.

"Boss, you're going alone?"

"I'm leaving the branch to you."

Colin's pupils tightened. His wings opened slightly behind him, feathers rising before settling again. His lips moved, but something seemed to block his throat. All that came out was a muffled breath.

"Me?" Colin's voice was dry.

Jack looked up at him. "You."

Colin rubbed his fingers against the seams of his trousers until his knuckles turned white. He stared at Jack's face. It held no expression, just as it always did. But there was a light in Colin's eyes. Not tears—something harder.

"Boss, can I do it?"

Jack rose from his chair and walked over. Colin had to tilt his head back to look at him. Jack met his eyes for two seconds.

"You've been with me since Iron Cage City. Three months. You've had the Falcon Fruit for three months, and you can fly, scout, and shoot from the air. You've trained in hand-to-hand combat for three months and gone from street-thug level to major level. If you can't do it, no one can."

Colin lifted his chin higher. His wings spread fully behind him, their span nearly touching both walls of the office. The feathers gleamed dark gold under the lights. His talons dug into the floor, leaving four shallow grooves in the wood.

"Yes, sir."

Jack returned to the desk and took a thick book from a drawer. Its black cover bore no writing. The corners were frayed, and yellowing pages showed along its edges. It was about two fingers thick and heavy in his hand.

He set it on the desk and pushed it toward Colin.

Colin looked down, picked it up, and opened it to the first page. It held a hand-drawn map marking every underground black-market contact point in the West Blue. The second page listed Devil Fruit middlemen, with an address, contact details, and trading habits beside each name. The third showed weapons-smuggling routes: courses, schedules, and contact signals, all recorded clearly. The fourth, fifth, and sixth pages were intelligence too. Every page held information Jack had gathered over his months in the West Blue.

Colin pressed his fingers against the cover, feeling its rough texture. After a moment, he closed the book and held it to his chest.

"Keep looking for Devil Fruits," Jack said quietly, each word distinct. "When you find one, hold on to it. I'll come get it."

Colin's grip tightened on the cover until his knuckles turned white. His lips moved, but his throat closed up again. He swallowed and nodded.

"Boss, will you come back?"

Jack did not answer. Silly kid. I just said I'd come get it.

Colin tucked the book under his arm and snapped to attention. His right hand rose from his side, fingers together, fingertips at his temple. His boot heels clicked together. His back was straight, his chin raised, his eyes fixed ahead.

It was the sharpest salute of his life.

Jack watched him, then raised his right hand from his side, fingers together, fingertips at his temple. The motion was neither fast nor slow, every detail precise. He said nothing, but his answering salute carried more weight than words.

They lowered their hands together.

Colin turned and walked to the window. He spread his wings and flew out. His figure grew smaller against the blue sky. Each slow beat of his wings carried him higher. He did not look back.

Jack stood by the window, watching Colin disappear into the clouds. Then he turned, picked up the pen on the desk, and put it in a drawer. He took a bottle of liquor out of the drawer, unscrewed the cap, and took a drink. It was strong enough to feel like swallowing fire, but his steel-hardened esophagus felt no burn. He put the bottle back in the drawer, closed it, then picked up the military cap on the desk and put it on.

The brim sat low, hiding half his face. Only his eyes showed beneath it, and there was nothing in them.

At the docks, the marines of the 16th Branch stood in formation.

Two neat rows. The first held the veterans: Scarface, Baldy, the youngest one, and the former headquarters marines who had been transferred there to coast. Every button was fastened, every collar straightened, every cap set squarely. They watched Jack approach from the office building, his towering figure reflected in their eyes.

The second row held the recruits: the slave fighters rescued from Iron Cage City, the children saved from Moretti's ship, and the fishermen who had escaped from the Mafia. Their uniforms were too large, sleeves rolled several times and trouser legs turned up to their ankles. Yet they stood straighter than any veteran. Tears shone in their eyes, but no one blinked.

Godo stood at the front of the formation without his iron club, standing at attention. His chin was raised and his eyes faced forward. He had fastened every button on his uniform, even the top one. His lips were pressed into a line. He said nothing.

Kafka stood beside Godo. He was darker and broader than he had been three months ago. Most of the boyishness had left his face. His cheekbones were more prominent, his jaw squarer, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes deeper. His arms hung at his sides, fists clenched so tightly his nails cut into his palms. Blood seeped between his fingers and dripped onto the gravel.

Doni stood beside Kafka. The dazed, aimless look he had worn three months ago was gone. His gaze was steady and certain. He knew why he stood there.

Mino and her mother stood beside the dock. Mino held up a small flag. Her mother had cut the cloth from old clothes and dyed it blue with food coloring from the mess hall, leaving it to soak overnight. A seagull was painted on it, its wings crooked and uneven, one large and one small. Its body looked like a ball, and its beak was so long it nearly reached its tail. But the words beneath it, "16th Branch," were written carefully, every stroke separate and neat.

Mino held the flag high. It fluttered in the morning breeze, the seagull's wings bobbing as though it truly flew. Her eyes were red, but she did not cry.

At the far end of the dock stood Colin.

Jack stepped onto the dock and stopped before the formation.

He looked them over, left to right: Godo to Doni, veterans to recruits, Mino to her mother. His gaze rested on each of them for a moment before he drew it back.

"I'm going to headquarters. Don't let me hear you've gone back to the way you were."

He turned and jumped aboard the Patrol Boat.

The Patrol Boat was newly built. The white paint on its hull had not fully dried and gleamed wetly in the sun. Sheet-metal patches were welded to its sides, their edges sanded smooth so they would not cut anyone's hands. The glass at the helm had been replaced. It was clear and uncracked. The gun barrel had been polished bright, its muzzle pointed out to sea, catching the morning sunlight.

Five Patrol Boats lined the dock. They were everything he had built up over his months in the West Blue. Every one had been repaired, every one modified, and every one could fight.

The motor started. The Patrol Boat slipped away from the dock, its bow cleaving the water and sending waves curling aside. Its white paint looked even brighter against the sea, while the metal patches glinted dully in the sun.

On the dock, Godo raised his hand. His right hand came up from his side, fingers together, fingertips at his temple. The movement was slow and heavy, as though he were lifting a stone.

Kafka raised his hand.

Doni raised his hand.

Scarface raised his hand.

Baldy raised his hand.

The youngest one raised his hand.

The veterans raised their hands. The recruits raised theirs. Two rows, dozens of hands rising at once, fingertips at their temples. Their boot heels came together with a single crisp click.

Mino held up her little flag as it snapped in the morning wind. Her lips moved without a sound, but the words were clear. "Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye."

The Patrol Boat traveled farther and farther away, and the figures on the dock grew smaller. Godo's hand was still raised. Kafka's was still raised. Every hand remained up. No one lowered theirs first.

Colin stood at the far end of the dock. His wings spread behind him and beat hard, launching him into the sky. Falcon's wings opened in the morning light, spanning nearly four meters, their feathered edges gleaming gold. He circled once, then landed atop the Patrol Boat's mast, talons gripping the crossbeam, wings folded behind him.

He did not leave. Perched on the mast, he looked down at Jack behind the helm. In the morning light, Falcon's pupils narrowed to two vertical slits, reflecting Jack's back.

Jack did not look up. He gripped the wheel and watched the sea.

Behind him, the dock receded. The row of people became dots, the dots became a line, and the line became a blurred gray shape before vanishing into the morning mist.

Only the Patrol Boat's motor and the waves striking its sides could be heard.

On the horizon, toward Marineford, the sun had risen completely. Its light was dazzling, spreading gold across the water until the whole sea shone.

The Patrol Boat sailed into that gold.