The flapping of the news birds' wings mixed with the early-morning bustle of Marineford, but not a sound could pierce through the glass window of Renzo's private kitchen.
Inside, the only noises were the gentle clink of Sanji's ladle against the pot's rim and the soothing gurgle of creamy pumpkin soup simmering to perfection.
Warm sunlight poured over Renzo, who lay slouched in his custom-built wide armchair, half-closing his eyes as he slowly sipped the last bit of golden-orange soup from his cup.
Smooth, rich, and perfectly balanced between sweet and savory, it wiped away the final trace of displeasure from his "early morning", at least, early for him.
"Rear Admiral! Outside, it's gone crazy out there!"
Potts practically crashed through the door, clutching a freshly delivered newspaper in his hand. His voice cracked from both running and panic, his face written all over with alarm.
"They're… they're saying war's coming! Fire Fist Ace! Whitebeard! The execution's in one week!"
He spread the paper open on the counter, the huge black headline cut across the page like an ugly scar, ruining the kitchen's cozy calm.
Sanji's pan paused mid-flip. The fish fillet sizzled with a sharp tsshh as it hit the hot iron.
He frowned, not at the news itself, but at the chaos it would inevitably cause.
"War, huh? That's gonna throw logistics into a mess. We'll need to stock up on preserved stuff, smoked meat, dried goods, ration bars… otherwise certain picky slackers are gonna throw a fit when their snacks run out."
He shot Renzo a side-eye full of habitual disdain, though behind it was a quiet sense of foresight.
Renzo finally deigned to lift his gaze from the empty cup and lazily glanced at the headline. Not a ripple of emotion crossed his face.
He calmly dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin, as if Potts had just told him egg prices went up at the local market instead of delivering world-shaking news.
"Let it happen," he murmured, his tone dripping with post-meal languor. "Kizaru's out front, his light kicks clear the riff-raff fast enough. Sengoku and Akainu will handle the rest."
Then came the only question that truly mattered to him.
"Sanji, how much South Sea butter and Sky Island cloud-berry jam do we have left? Think wartime rationing will mess with deliveries? Especially the volcano oranges, I can't go a day without fresh-squeezed juice."
Sanji rolled his eyes as he flipped the fish. "Relax! Even if Whitebeard flattens Marineford tomorrow, I'll make damn sure your last meal comes with a glass of volcano orange juice!"
Despite his irritation, he was already mentally tallying basement storage and which suppliers to bribe in advance.
Potts looked between the two, one utterly unconcerned, the other worrying about groceries instead of war, and had no idea whether to laugh or cry.
In his mind, a real officer would've jumped to his feet, called an emergency meeting, and begun troop deployments.
"But… Rear Admiral…"
Potts wanted to remind him, about Whitebeard's terrifying power, about how bloody the coming battle could be.
Renzo interrupted him with a yawn. "Potts, head to logistics later. In the name of the 'Strategic Wartime Supply Office,' sign off a top-priority special food requisition, use Sanji's list. As for the reason…" He waved lazily. "Just write 'To ensure high-ranking officers maintain proper nutrition for key decision-making under wartime conditions.'"
He delivered the excuse with the practiced tone of a man who'd perfected the art of laziness disguised as duty.
"Huh? Y-Yes, sir!"
Potts instinctively stood at attention, something felt off, but obeying orders was second nature by now.
"And," Renzo continued, sinking deeper into the soft chair, "the reports I'm supposed to review this afternoon, you know, those daily updates on the underground prison's security, send them over to Admiral Kizaru's office. He's got more experience; let him 'advise' me."
The meaning couldn't be clearer: dump the work on Kizaru.
The blame, if any, would technically still fall on him, not that anyone would bother to chase him down.
But the benefits of peace and good food? All his.
Potts hurried off, leaving the kitchen peaceful again, filled only with the scent of grilled fish and the warmth of soup.
Sanji plated the perfectly seared fillet, drizzled it with special sauce, and pushed it toward Renzo with an annoyed grunt.
"Here. Your wartime 'special-issue' meal. Eat it, then start figuring out how we're keeping my kitchen, and your snack stash, safe."
Renzo picked up his knife and fork, cutting neatly into the fish. "Didn't I already solve it? Requisition order, delegate to Kizaru. Any more effort before the trouble actually arrives is just… unnecessary."
His logic was flawless, in the laziest way possible.
For a man like Renzo, the best way to face an approaching storm was to do nothing until the rain physically hit his roof, and even then, to let someone else grab the umbrella.
Meanwhile, Marineford itself was tightening like a pressure cooker.
At the docks, warships came and went nonstop, unloading not food or supplies, but crates of shells, medical gear, and fortification steel.
On the training grounds, the soldiers' shouts grew louder and sharper, heavy with pre-battle tension.
By the piers, Koby and his patrol squad moved through their rounds.
He noticed how everyone's faces looked darker, how every whispered conversation centered around Ace, Whitebeard, and the execution.
The air itself seemed to weigh more, thick with anxiety.
A scarred veteran clapped Koby's shoulder so hard he nearly stumbled. "Hey, Ensign! What're you daydreaming for? Get your head on straight! A real fight's coming, don't go wetting your pants, hah!"
The laugh was rough, but the fear behind it wasn't hidden.
Coby forced a smile, though his heart pounded like a drum.
He didn't want a war, and couldn't imagine standing against that man, Edward Newgate.
He prayed quietly he wouldn't be assigned to the front line, or worse, stationed near the underground prison where the storm's heart lay.
Just the thought made his knees weak.
All across Marineford, emotion boiled under pressure, fear, resolve, dread, excitement.
Only in one converted kitchen corner did peace remain, that lazy, blissful peace.
Renzo finished his fish, commented mildly, "Decent heat. Sauce's a bit too sour," then accepted a tall glass of freshly squeezed volcano orange juice. He took a deep, satisfied sip.
Outside, a massive warship's horn blared through the harbor, echoing across headquarters.
Renzo merely frowned slightly, the noise was disturbing his after-meal rest.
"Sanji, add a bit more ice to the juice tomorrow."
"…You shameless, spoiled sloth!"
As the storm gathered on the horizon, the man at its center cared only about the temperature of his drink.
For Renzo, guarding this peaceful daily routine was his way of preparing for war, the laziest, yet somehow the most effective, response possible.
Everything else?
He'd deal with it when the trouble finally knocked on his door.
.....
If you enjoy the story, my p@treon is 30 chapters ahead.
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