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The bandage-wrapped man took the ringing communicator from his pocket.
"It's me."
"Rossi!"
A chaotic clamor erupted from the communicator. The mechanically simulated face shifted rapidly between terror and anxiety-a viscous, fluid-like face, hard metallic contours, and the soft features distinctive to a woman.
"What happened over there?"
"Hang on! Help is almost there!"
He frowned.
"Quiet down first."
The mechanically simulated commotion stopped abruptly, then settled into a cold, stern profile.
"Stay where you are."
A familiar voice came from the communicator. "Jora and Pica have already left."
"So what exactly are you all so worked up about-"
"We're worked up?"
The voice on the other end shot up, its fury almost burning through the radio waves.
"Your Vivre Card started blackening and curling three hours ago. Isn't that proof of a desperate battle?"
"In the communicator projection in front of us, you're covered in bandages, and even your coat is gone!"
The man looked down at his bandaged torso.
Sea wind poured through the breach in the damaged railing, brushing his bare skin with its briny scent.
"I'm fine."
He finally softened his tone. "Sorry for worrying you."
On the distant deck, Marco made a gesture.
The watching crowd dispersed, leaving the empty wooden deck shining pale blue beneath the moonlight.
As he put the communicator back in his pocket, the man remembered the neatly trimmed slips of paper deep within the Palace in Dressrosa.
Each slip carried a blood-like connection that could point toward its owner and reflect the embers of their life.
He turned around.
Whitebeard was still sitting beside the wine barrel, his enormous body silent as a mountain in the shadow cast by the mast.
"Where were we?"
The man flexed his bandaged wrist. "Right-you said you'd join the fight."
The giant in