Marineford, Marine Headquarters.
The Fleet Admiral's office was sealed tight; heavy curtains blocked half the afternoon glare, leaving only a slanted, yellow shaft of light across the desk.
The goat that usually filched documents was uncharacteristically quiet, crouched on the carpet and chewing on scraps of paper.
Sengoku sat behind the broad desk, the receiver of the Den Den Mushi still in his hand, unmoving for a full two minutes.
Click.
He finally released it; the Den Den Mushi settled back into place.
That tiny sound cut through the dead silence of the room like a knife.
Sengoku removed his round glasses, pulled a cloth from a drawer, and mechanically wiped the lenses.
His movements were slow, his knuckles whitening with pressure.
Knock, knock, knock.
The raps came steady and strong.
"Come in."
He set his glasses back on; his voice regained its usual calm, and only a faint huskiness betrayed him.
The door opened, and a gaunt, silver-haired old woman stepped inside.
Vice Admiral Tsuru, Great Staff Officer of Headquarters.
She took in the oppressive atmosphere, shut the door behind her, and sat straight down on the sofa.
"Looks like the situation in the North Blue is worse than expected."
Tsuru's tone was level, cutting to the heart of it.
She knew her old comrade too well.
Unless something rocked the very foundation of the Marines, the Resourceful General Sengoku would never wear such an expression.
Sengoku didn't answer at once.
He rose, walked to the window, and peered through a gap in the curtains at the recruits drilling in the square below.
Those young faces brimmed with vigor, their battle cries shaking the air.
"Little Tsuru."
Sengoku kept his back to her, his voice low.
"If you discovered that the Justice we've spent our lives defending—our proud power—is, in some beings' eyes, nothing but children's make-believe..."
"What would you do?"
Tsuru's hand paused while pouring tea.
Hot water spilled over the rim and onto the table.
She set the pot down, took a tissue, and unhurriedly dabbed the puddle away.
"Is Kuzan dead?"
Sengoku blinked.
"Not quite."
"He came within an inch of it."
Tsuru poured herself a fresh cup, her hand steady, not a drop wasted.
"Alive is good."
"So long as a man lives, lost face can be won back."
Sengoku removed his glasses again; his fingers ground against the lenses with a faint squeak that grated in the hush.
"Little Tsuru, you don't understand."
"The monster that pinned Kuzan and beat him senseless was sealed by some Foundation agent with a spherical device—as easy as you please."
"As if... as if stuffing a disobedient pet into a cage."
Tsuru lifted her cup, blew aside the floating tea leaves, and took a sip.
Steam wreathed her weathered face but could not veil those all-seeing eyes.
"Finished?"
She set the cup down and met his gaze, calm as still water.
"To see you, old man, wearing that look—this isn't you, Sengoku."
"Or does age make a man forget his original heart?"
Sengoku froze, the emotion he'd vented doused as if by cold water.
Tsuru rose and stepped before him.
The woman, barely reaching his chest, now radiated a presence to match the Fleet Admiral's.
"Be they higher-dimensional civilizations or gods descending—"
"Does their strength mean we should lose the courage to draw our swords?"
She reached up and straightened his rumpled collar, her movements gentle yet firm.
"We are Marines."
"Our duty isn't to gauge how mighty a god may be."
"It is to stand before the common folk when that god grows wrathful."
"Even if we hold only a wooden stick."
Looking at his old comrade, Sengoku's taut shoulders slowly sagged.
He gave a wry laugh, lifted his seagull cap, scratched his afro, and sighed.
"You're right."
"I lost perspective."
"Letting power beyond comprehension scare me witless—growing more foolish with age."
"Hoo..."
He exhaled, watching the old woman serenely open a senbei wrapper, his gaze complicated.
"Thanks, Little Tsuru."
He regained his usual composure and cracked a joke.
"Without your words, I'd have drafted my resignation to the Gorosei."
Crunch.
Tsuru bit into a senbei, the sound crisp and loud; she never lifted her gaze, her tone as casual as if discussing dinner.
"Resign?"
"Then you'd better take me with you."
"I've no wish to stay and clean this mess, nor watch the Marine ship fall apart once you're gone."
Sengoku smiled wryly and reached for a senbei, but she slapped his hand away.
"Buy your own."
He protested.
"This is my office."
Tsuru shielded the treats.
"It's mine now."
They locked eyes, then burst into laughter, transported back to their carefree days as recruits.
Those had been their happiest, most untroubled times.
"The Foundation, containment objects—those things are too far away."
Tsuru set her cup down.
"Power enough to overturn the world can be left to the World Government; the realm isn't ours alone—we should tend our own garden."
Sengoku rubbed his temples, his expression grave once more.
"True, yet how can one sleep soundly while another snores beside their bed? Such power—if we cannot wield it, we must at least devise a counter."
"Even if only for self-preservation."
He drew a top-secret file from the drawer, stamped with the Science Division seal.
"How is Vegapunk?"
"Any progress on those infected specimens?"
"Until I grasp how it works, I won't sleep soundly."
The thought of a virus that revived the dead while retaining their combat instincts chilled him—if it ever erupted at Marineford...
Tsuru brushed crumbs from her hands, pulled a notebook from her coat, and thumbed through it.
"Not quickly."
"Vegapunk may be five centuries ahead of mankind, but he's still human; the Doctor has too many ongoing projects, and the Blacklight virus's gene sequence is new ground for him."
Sengoku's face darkened further—Vegapunk was at a loss?
"However..."
Tsuru closed the notebook and met his eyes.
"Though there are no direct results, the Doctor asked for someone—he wants us to rescue a man."
Sengoku blinked.
"A rescue? Who—Vegapunk's secret son?"
At a time like this, the genius had the leisure to care about someone else?
"If it were a secret son, it'd be simple."
Tsuru shook her head, her lined face showing a trace of odd amusement.
"It's a fellow named Bruce Banner."