The fishing rod dipped and swayed over the rail, but nobody watching would have mistaken Finn for a man consumed by the effort. He was leaning back in his chair with a half-eaten apple in one hand, the rod balanced loosely in the other, and the expression of someone who had already decided the day was going well.
Behind him, from somewhere near the stern, came the crack of gunfire.
He didn't flinch. He had stopped flinching at it two days ago.
Sphinx was at it again, leaning over the rail with those oversized revolvers of hers, popping shots at the distant swells with the enthusiasm of someone who had spent most of her life imagining what this would feel like. She had never been on a Marine warship openly before. She had certainly never been permitted to fire a weapon off one. The novelty had not worn off.
Issho stood nearby, calm and unhurried, the faint curve of a smile on his face.
Finn turned partway in his chair, looked at the stern, and called out, "Hey. Quiet down, or I'll throw you in to feed the fish."
"Tsk." Sphinx's voice floated back to him. "I hate stingy men." But the gunfire stopped.
Finn turned back to the Den Den Mushi on the table beside him, took another bite of his apple, and said, "Sorry about that. Go ahead."
"Newgate, Linlin, and Kaido held three more meetings after the first one." Smoker's voice came through, measured and even, the way it always was when he was reading off something he'd spent time thinking about. "Based on what we've seen, I think they're moving toward a formal arrangement. There's a good chance they actually cooperate this time."
Finn chewed slowly, staring out at the water.
"The only target that makes sense," Smoker continued, "the only thing that could realistically bring all three of them to the same table, is us. The Marine."
"Makes sense," Finn said.
He finished the apple, considered the core for a moment, and tossed it over the rail.
"Let them," he said, wiping his hands. "Do you think this is still the pirates' age? There's no ship in the world big enough to carry those three out of the hole they're already in. Honestly, if they're going to come at us eventually, I'd rather they do it together. Catch them all at once instead of cleaning up one at a time."
There was a pause on Smoker's end. "Admiral, even if we've beaten each of them before, the three of them combined represent the peak of what the New World can field. That's not nothing."
"No, it isn't nothing," Finn agreed. "But think about what it means that they're doing this at all. They used to be lions. Now they're crowding together for warmth." He leaned back further in his chair. "Isn't that interesting? We'll keep eyes on them. Don't underestimate them in the particulars, but don't lose sleep over the general picture. When I'm back at Headquarters, I'll have Intelligence step up the monitoring. Maybe these relics of the old era can still surprise us."
There was a longer pause.
"...Maybe," Smoker said, and the word had a dry quality to it.
Finn was quiet for a moment himself, looking at the horizon. "Could be time to start thinking about cleaning house entirely," he murmured, more to himself than to Smoker.
At that precise moment, the fishing rod jerked hard in his hand. Finn sat up straight, eyes bright, grabbed the handle with both hands, and heaved. The line snapped.
He stared at the frayed end for a second.
"Anything else?" he said, setting the rod down.
On the other end, Smoker seemed to be running through his mental list. Then, after a beat that was slightly longer than it needed to be, he asked: "Admiral. How much longer am I going to be a pirate?"
The fishing line's broken end dangled over the rail.
Finn set the rod aside and rubbed the back of his neck. Smoker wasn't in front of him, which made it easier to look slightly sheepish without anyone noticing.
"Until this business with Whitebeard and the others wraps up?" he offered. "After that you'd be coming back to the Marines. And look, I'm confident we can get you a Admiral candidate position. Comfortably."
Smoker's silence on the other end had a very particular texture.
He had, in fact, heard this before. Several times. In different phrasings. But somewhere along the way, between the years of white coats and bounty posters and playing a role that had started to feel less like a role, he had made his peace with it. Not resigned, exactly. Something closer to settled.
"I'm looking forward to it, then," he said.
"You're one of the Four Emperors," Finn said, with full sincerity. "Coming back as an Admiral candidate is the least you've earned."
"Mm." Smoker rolled his eyes at the Den Den Mushi, invisible to anyone. "Nothing else to report." He paused. "I'm sure you'll say something inspirational now."
"The future belongs to—"
Smoker hung up.
Finn looked at the silent Den Den Mushi for a moment, then put it back on the table with a small smack of his lips. "Seems fine. My morale-building skills really are something."
Ahead, along the line where sky met water, the silhouette of G-7's port was beginning to take shape.
He was still watching it when the Den Den Mushi rang again. He glanced at it. Hina.
"Hina. What is it?"
Her voice came through clear and bright. "Admiral, just in from Mary Geoise: Director Stussy has officially been confirmed as Director General of the CP Agency."
Finn was quiet for a second.
He had known it was coming. Stussy had left Gran Tesoro ahead of him, crossed the Red Line, gone up to Mary Geoise to deliver her reports and, incidentally, to receive what was effectively a coronation. The outcome had never really been in doubt.
Still. Director General.
"Right," he said. "Not surprising."
"Not surprising?" Hina's voice took on a tone of genuine admiration. "She actually did it. Director General of all CP. In the Marines, that's practically Fleet Admiral level in terms of what it means for—"
"I know what it means." There was something in his voice that wasn't quite pride and wasn't quite anything else he had a word for. He chatted with Hina about it for a short while, letting the conversation breathe, before she moved on.
"The World Conference is coming up soon. Fleet Admiral Sengoku asked me to pass along the question: do you have any topics you want submitted in advance?"
Finn thought about it. Raising the subject of Lord Im directly, at this stage, before the photograph operation had produced anything usable, would be clumsy at best and catastrophic at worst. Not yet.
"Submit a proposal to discuss the rights and obligations of member states," he said. "Something reasonable and procedural. And tell the Fleet Admiral I need some time with him privately after I'm back from Impel Down. In person. It's important."
Normally he wouldn't have bothered flagging it specially, but the World Conference had the entire Headquarters rotating on escort duties for the first time in eight years. Sengoku was managing the whole operation from scratch, dealing with admirals and vice admirals who had never done escort work in their careers, and the machinery was busy enough that he didn't want his message to get lost.
"Understood, Admiral," Hina said.
The warship was pulling into port by the time he hung up. He pocketed the Den Den Mushi and stood, straightening his coat as the dock came into view. Behind him, he heard Issho and the Sphinx fall into step without being asked, far enough back to be polite, close enough to keep up.
The smell of salt and engine oil drifted up from the harbor. G-7's port was busy, the way it always seemed to be now, with activity at every berth. Finn walked down the gangway and onto the dock.
Momonga was waiting for him.
He was standing at attention in full dress, shoulders square, the very picture of a man who had rehearsed this moment and intended to do it correctly. When Finn came close enough, he stepped forward and snapped a precise salute.
"Admiral. Welcome to G-7."
Finn stopped, looked at him, and raised an eyebrow. "Why are you being so formal."
Momonga let the salute drop and the corner of his mouth came up. "Because you're the Admiral, and I'm expressing appropriate respect. There's a concept."
"Ha." Finn fell into step beside him as Momonga turned to lead him inside. "How are things? G-7 and the Calm Belt both holding up?"
Momonga's expression shifted into something that was approximately a grimace wearing a smile as a disguise. "You know, it would be wonderful if the people at Headquarters occasionally considered what their decisions meant for the people actually stationed here. Moving the Science Unit into the Calm Belt is, just to be clear, genuinely dangerous, and I'd like whoever approved that to—"
"That was Sengoku," Finn said immediately. "Save it for him. I'll be on leave."
Momonga did not look like a man who believed this, but he let it go. After a few steps, he lowered his voice slightly. "Speaking of which. The World Conference. Are we actually going to—"
"If nothing unexpected comes up, there will be significant changes during this conference," Finn said, and put a hand on Momonga's shoulder for a moment. "Be ready for it."
Momonga had been part of the Calm Belt development project long enough to know which direction the winds were blowing. He didn't need it spelled out. Something flickered in his eyes, anticipation held carefully in check, and he gave a small nod.
After a moment, he asked, "So what brings you to G-7 this time?"
Finn glanced back over his shoulder. The Sphinx was looking around the port with her head on a swivel, taking in everything with the open curiosity of someone who had expected to find it impressive and was not being disappointed. Issho walked beside her at an amble, hands in his sleeves, apparently content.
"Bringing someone to visit a grave," Finn said. "Shiki's."
Momonga stopped walking.
He looked at Finn.
He looked at the two people behind Finn.
He looked back at Finn.
"...I'm sorry," he said. "Whose grave?"