If anyone else said they wanted to get "tougher," it would mean hardening their body—steel skin, diamond bones. But with Tokikake wearing that fervent, lovestruck look, Darren could only rub his temples.
"Back to the Pleasure District again?" he snapped.
Tokikake chuckled, sheepish. "Well, I had that card… And what's the point of having it if I don't use it, right?"
Darren: …
Seriously? A VIP card isn't a license for self-destruction.
Watching Tokikake's uneven gait and the dark moons under his eyes, Darren regretted ever handing over that Black Card.
"Didn't Yamakaji give you medicine for that?" he asked.
Tokikake flushed. "It works… but I might've overused it. The effect's weaker now."
Darren's lip twitched.
Wonderful. He's built up a tolerance.
"Fine. I'm stationed at Headquarters for a while anyway," Darren grumbled, heading for the door.
Tokikake's face lit up, only to falter. "Where are you going?"
"Didn't you say you were treating me to a midnight snack?"
Tokikake: …
I was just being polite. You took it literally?
---
Marineford's commercial district glowed like a festival, the pedestrian streets humming with life.
"Congratulations on your promotion, Yamakaji!"
Marine officers crowded a barbecue tavern, grinning at the neatly bearded young man as they raised their glasses. Yamakaji scratched his head, bashful, his brand-new cloak gleaming under the lights, the shoulder boards of a Headquarters Rear Admiral flashing bright.
"Just luck," he muttered.
They laughed; everyone knew his "modesty" routine.
Familiar faces ringed the table: the ever-stern Onigumo; hard-as-steel Doberman; Strawberry, already a shade rosy; Dalmatian in his spotted cap. They were graduates of the Third-Term class of the Elite Officer Training Camp.
Unlike Darren's legend-in-the-making career, most of them had taken the standard path—guarding distant outposts, rotating through Headquarters, stacking merit. Talent and grit had carried them up, rung by rung.
"Feels like ages since we've seen Darren," Yamakaji said after a shot of strong liquor.
"Recent reports say Vice Admiral Darren fought Roger on Fish-Man Island," Onigumo said coolly. "The Roger Pirates were routed."
Silence fell. Their expressions differed, but the same realization crept in: while one of their own was clashing with the era's strongest pirates alongside Vice Admiral Garp, they were celebrating a promotion for wiping out a crew worth a hundred million in bounties. By any measure they'd outpaced most—but against that monster, they were ants before a god.
"Hey now, not inviting me to a late-night feast? That's cold."
They turned. Darren strolled in with Tokikake at his shoulder, a faint smile on his lips.
"Darren!" Yamakaji sprang up, eyes bright.
"Sit," Darren said, easing him back down. "Tonight's yours."
He dropped into an empty chair, poured himself a drink, and—without ceremony—snagged a skewer, biting down as if he owned the place.
Just like that, the air shifted—back to training days, to cheap jokes and friendly jabs. The stiffness bled away, replaced by grins.
"What brings you back?" Doberman asked.
Darren flicked cigars around the table. "Ran into Roger. Almost got myself killed. Came back to lick my wounds." He bit down on a cigar, lit it, and blew a lazy plume. "Besides, we've been meaning to catch up."
They traded looks, amusement glinting.
Some things never change.
A few stiff drinks later, warmth unknotted their shoulders. Darren watched the familiar faces—more worn, still themselves—and felt his mood lift. It had only been months, yet it felt like another lifetime.
He listened to the gossip of Headquarters: who'd sacked a pirate stronghold and earned a step up, who'd been transferred to command a Branch, how Vice Admiral Garp had made off with half a box of Sengoku's senbei…
"Oh, I heard the Fourth-Term Training Camp starts soon," Yamakaji said. "Zephyr-sensei's bringing in guest instructors."
"Guest instructors?" Dalmatian mumbled around a drumstick. "Any good?"
"Who knows," Onigumo sneered. "Just means Zephyr-sensei won't be teaching full-time."
Tokikake chuckled. "Quality drops, mark my words."
"Hey, Vice Admiral," Yamakaji asked, scratching his head. "You know who they're bringing in? Sakazuki? Borsalino?"
Laughter burst around the table. Even Onigumo's mouth twitched.
Those two? Sakazuki the iron-fisted hardliner and Borsalino the lazy joker—try picturing either as a patient mentor.
Two images flashed, equally absurd:
"Master Tekkai by sundown," Sakazuki growled at a trembling recruit, black smoke coiling from his right arm. "Fail, and you can try again in your next life."
"What terrifying talent," Borsalino drawled with a wry smile. "Mastering Tekkai in only three months…"
"That was me," Darren said.
They stared.
He's already a drill instructor?! So he really has changed…
"Hah! Darren! I knew you'd show up!"
A voice rang from the entrance, brimming with youthful fire.
Kuzan stood there, finger pointed, eyes blazing. "I heard you clashed with Roger! Damn it—if only I'd taken leave with Vice Admiral Garp!" He gritted his teeth. "Tonight, we settle this!"
Bang!
Darren kicked his chair aside, hopped onto the table, and grinned, confidence crackling off him. "Bring it on!"
---
"Rock, paper, scissors!"
Darren's rock crushed Kuzan's scissors.
"Hahaha! I lost! As expected of the rival I, Kuzan, acknowledge! You even predicted my prediction!"
He roared with laughter, cracked a can, and chugged it down. His cheeks flushed; warm breath puffed from his nose.
"Again!"
Darren's eyes glimmered crimson as he threw another fist.
Yamakaji and the rest watched the two fools at their eternal game, exasperation carving lines on their faces—then, inevitably, they started laughing too.
Yeah. Not a damn thing's changed.
---
Darren woke clear-headed. With his body, a hangover was a fantasy.
The previous night replayed itself, ridiculous and glorious: getting blind drunk, slipping into the military zone, raiding the armory for bombs and powder, sprinting to an abandoned port to turn the lot into fireworks.
Sengoku's thunderous pursuit and ear-splitting tirade afterward only made the memory sweeter.
They were getting older—families, partners, heavier duty. Nights like that would be rarer.
He shook it off, washed up, pulled on a crisp uniform, and stepped into the morning.
Today was the opening ceremony for the fourth term of the Elite Officer Training Camp.
To be continued...