-Real World - Marine Headquarters, Marineford-
The twelve Admirals shown in the Sky Screen's preview generated more concern within Marine Headquarters than among any pirate organization or World Government agency. This was natural—those future warriors would theoretically be their people. Marine assets. The organization's future strength.
Fleet Admiral Sengoku's immediate priority was clear: identify these individuals before other forces could recruit them. Every unidentified Admiral represented a potential asset that rival organizations might claim first. The thought of losing future combat power to pirates or revolutionaries was intolerable.
We need their names. Their locations. Any identifying information. We need it NOW.
Within hours of the preview's release, Sengoku had mobilized the entire Intelligence Department. Every available analyst, every field agent with access to information networks, every clerk who could search through databases—all tasked with a single objective.
Find out who these people are.
Twenty-four hours later, the results were... nonexistent.
The lights in Marine Headquarters burned through the night. Nearly every staff member on duty worked overtime, searching through vast databases for any trace of the mysterious Admirals. Personnel files. Bounty records. Incident reports. Surveillance logs from across the Grand Line and Four Blues.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Fleet Admiral Sengoku sat in his office surrounded by chaos. His eyes were bloodshot, the whites crisscrossed with angry red veins. Dark circles hung beneath them like bruises. His normally impeccable uniform was wrinkled, stained with coffee and covered in ash from the cigar he'd forgotten he was holding.
He hadn't slept in three days. Hadn't left his office except for brief bathroom breaks. Food was delivered and consumed without tasting. His entire existence had narrowed to a single question:
Who are they?
The door opened without knocking—a breach of protocol that would normally earn immediate rebuke. The Marine Intelligence Division Chief entered looking like a man approaching his own execution.
"Fleet Admiral," he began, voice carefully neutral. "I have the updated report from—"
"What did you say?" Sengoku's voice was dangerously quiet. "You... can't find anything? STILL?"
The Intelligence Chief flinched. "Sir, we've searched every database. Cross-referenced with known Devil Fruit users, examined enlistment records from the past twenty years, investigated rumors of exceptional combatants across all Marine branches—"
"I DON'T WANT EXCUSES!" Sengoku's fist slammed against his desk hard enough to crack the wood. "What's the point of having an Intelligence Department if you can't find even a single word? What's the point of your entire division existing if you produce NOTHING?"
His voice had risen to a roar by the end. Completely inappropriate for addressing a subordinate. Sengoku the Buddha—known for his calm, strategic mind—was screaming like a common thug.
The Intelligence Chief stood rigid, taking the abuse without defending himself. What could he say? The truth—that these people probably didn't exist yet, that searching current records for future warriors was futile—would only provoke more fury.
He'd tried hinting at that possibility yesterday. Suggested tactfully that perhaps the Sky Screen was showing a different timeline, that these Admirals might not manifest exactly as shown.
Sengoku had rebuked him viciously for that "defeatist nonsense."
The Fleet Admiral doesn't want to hear about impossibilities, the Chief thought bitterly. He wants results. And when results are impossible, he blames the messenger.
"Sir," he tried again, keeping his voice level through effort of will. "I understand your frustration. But we've exhausted every conventional intelligence source. If these individuals exist currently, they're either operating under deep cover or haven't entered the Marine system yet. We can't find what isn't there to be found."
Sengoku's expression darkened further. "Then look HARDER! Expand your search parameters! Contact our informants in the Revolutionary Army, in pirate organizations, in the kingdoms—someone, somewhere must know SOMETHING about at least ONE of these people!"
"Yes sir." The Chief bowed stiffly. "We'll continue the investigation."
"See that you do." Sengoku waved dismissively. "And don't come back until you have actual intelligence to report. I don't want excuses. I don't want theories. I want NAMES."
The Intelligence Chief retreated from the office, closing the door with careful precision. Once in the hallway, his shoulders slumped. The professional mask he'd maintained during the meeting cracked.
This is impossible. We're being asked to find people who might not exist yet. How do you investigate the future?
He'd climbed to this position after his predecessor was removed for different failures. For a brief, optimistic moment, he'd thought leading Intelligence would mean respect, authority, the ability to shape Marine strategy through information.
Instead, it meant bearing responsibility for tasks that defied logic. Facing blame for circumstances beyond anyone's control. Taking abuse from superiors who demanded miracles.
Maybe my predecessor had the right idea getting dismissed. At least he doesn't have to deal with this nightmare anymore.
The Intelligence Chief walked toward his department's offices like a zombie—slow, mechanical movements driven by duty rather than enthusiasm. His mind had already composed a resignation letter. He just hadn't decided whether to submit it yet.
Vice Admiral Tsuru watched the Intelligence Chief's dejected departure from her position down the hallway. The woman felt genuine sympathy for the man. Intelligence work had always been thankless, but the Sky Screen had transformed it into something approaching torture.
How do you gather intelligence on people who haven't been born yet? Or who exist but haven't been recruited? Or who the Sky Screen invented entirely?
She'd served long enough to recognize impossible situations when she saw them. This was one.
Tsuru walked to Sengoku's office door and pushed it open without knocking. Their friendship spanned decades—they'd earned the right to skip formalities in private.
The state of the office shocked her despite expecting chaos. Newspapers covered the floor in scattered piles. Waste paper filled with frantic calculations and notes overflowed from the trash bin. Empty coffee cups occupied every surface. The air smelled stale, heavy with stress and unwashed human.
Sengoku himself looked like he'd aged ten years in three days. His normally neat hair stood in disheveled spikes where he'd been grabbing it. His hands trembled slightly with exhaustion. And there—visible even in the dim light—were dozens of white hairs that definitely hadn't been there yesterday.
"If you can't figure something out, stop trying," Tsuru said bluntly, closing the door behind her. "You're only torturing yourself. Look what this has done to you—white hair appearing overnight? That's your body screaming for rest."
Sengoku waved dismissively. "I'm fine. Just need to push through this problem and—"
"You're not fine." Tsuru crossed the office and grabbed his chin, forcing him to meet her eyes. "Look at me. When was the last time you slept? Actually slept, not just closed your eyes while your mind kept racing?"
"I... don't remember. Two days ago? Three?" He pulled away from her grip, uncomfortable with the concern. "It doesn't matter. There's too much to do."
"There will always be too much to do." Tsuru began gathering the scattered papers, organizing chaos through habit. "That's what being Fleet Admiral means. But working yourself to death won't solve the problems. It just creates new ones when your subordinates have to carry your corpse out of this office."
Sengoku sank back into his chair, releasing a breath that seemed to deflate him completely. "Close the door completely. Lock it."
Tsuru raised an eyebrow but complied. Whatever he wanted to say required absolute privacy.
Once the door was secured, Sengoku gestured tiredly toward a chair. Tsuru sat, waiting for him to organize his thoughts.
"I won't hide it from you, Tsuru." His voice had lost the manic energy from earlier, replaced by exhaustion so profound it bordered on despair. "The burden of leading the Marine is suffocating me. I've never felt this... lost about controlling this organization. The Sky Screen brought too many variables. Too much knowledge that I don't know how to act on."
He stared at the ceiling, avoiding her eyes.
"People really do have to admit when they're getting old. When the problems outgrow their capacity to solve them."
Tsuru's expression sharpened. "You're considering retirement."
It wasn't a question. She knew him too well.
"I'm considering... stepping aside for someone with more energy. More adaptability. Someone not paralyzed by seeing the future and understanding how inadequate our current capabilities are." Sengoku's laugh was bitter, self-deprecating. "I used to pride myself on strategic thinking. Planning moves in advance. Now? I have perfect information about the future and I'm terrified to act on any of it."
He finally looked at her directly.
"What if we make things worse? What if trying to change the future creates a timeline even more catastrophic? Artoria explained the problems with temporal interference. What if every action I take pushes us toward disasters we could have avoided through inaction?"
"That's called analysis paralysis," Tsuru said quietly. "It's what happens when smart people have too much information and too little power to act on it effectively."
"Exactly!" Sengoku grabbed that phrase desperately. "Too much information, too little power. We see twelve future Admirals but can't find even one. We know Marineford will be attacked but don't know how to prevent it without potentially triggering worse outcomes. We see pirates conquering Mary Geoise but can't determine whether interfering helps or hurts."
He ran both hands through his hair—the gesture that had created those new white strands.
"The burden isn't just administrative anymore. It's existential. Every decision carries the weight of possibly dooming the future. How am I supposed to lead effectively under those conditions?"
Tsuru was quiet for a long moment, processing his confession. Finally: "You're overthinking this. Yes, the Sky Screen complicates things. But our job hasn't fundamentally changed—we protect civilians, fight pirates, maintain order. Those core objectives remain regardless of future knowledge."
"Do they?" Sengoku challenged. "What about Fire Fist Ace? If Blackbeard captures him and offers him to the Marine—should we accept? Should we hold the public execution knowing it triggers Marineford? Or do we refuse, which might create different disasters the Sky Screen never showed us?"
He leaned forward, intensity returning.
"That's the kind of decision I'm facing. And I genuinely don't know the right answer anymore. Before the Sky Screen, I would have accepted Ace without hesitation. Captured Pirate King's son? Perfect propaganda victory. But now?"
"Now you know the cost," Tsuru finished. "And you're paralyzed by that knowledge."
"Yes." The admission seemed to cost him something. "I'm paralyzed. And a paralyzed leader is worse than no leader at all."
The conversation continued for another hour. Tsuru tried various approaches—reassurance, tough love, practical problem-solving—but nothing fully penetrated Sengoku's crisis of confidence.
Finally, she resorted to the simplest possible advice: "Go to sleep. You can't make good decisions in your current state. Twelve hours of unconsciousness, then we'll revisit this conversation."
"Can't sleep," Sengoku muttered, already halfway to unconsciousness from sheer exhaustion. "Need to find... the twelve... need to..."
His words slurred into incoherence. Within minutes, he'd collapsed face-first onto his desk, finally surrendering to the sleep his body desperately required.
Tsuru sighed, covering him with his justice coat like a blanket. She'd seen many leaders crack under pressure over her long career. Sengoku was handling it better than most—at least he'd admitted the problem instead of pretending everything was fine while making progressively worse decisions.
But that didn't change the fundamental issue: the Fleet Admiral was approaching his breaking point. The Marine's leadership structure was fragile in ways that weren't obvious from outside.
And in ten days, the Sky Screen would broadcast the Mary Geoise Incident. More revelations. More impossible knowledge. More pressure on an organization already straining under the weight of futures it couldn't prevent.
How do we prepare for battles we know we'll fight? How do we recruit people who don't exist yet? How do we maintain morale when everyone knows the disasters coming?
These weren't questions with easy answers. Maybe not questions with any answers.
Tsuru left Sengoku sleeping in his office and walked into the hallway where the same impossible questions waited. The Intelligence Chief was probably still searching futilely for people who might not exist. Field agents were probably chasing leads that went nowhere. The entire organization grinding forward through momentum rather than effective direction.
This is what institutional paralysis looks like, she thought grimly. Knowledge without the power to act. Information without wisdom to apply it. Seeing the future but being unable to change it.
The Marine Headquarters' lights continued burning through the night. Overworked personnel searched databases that held no answers. Exhausted leaders wrestled with impossible decisions.
And somewhere, a countdown continued: nine days until the Mary Geoise Incident broadcast. Nine days until more revelations that would probably make everything worse.
Being a Fleet Admiral isn't easy, Tsuru thought, echoing the chapter's title. But at this rate, being a Fleet Admiral might be impossible.
She walked back to her own office, her own impossible problems, her own futile search for solutions that made sense in a world where the future arrived before the present was ready.
Behind her, Sengoku slept fitfully, his dreams probably filled with twelve faces he couldn't identify and decisions he didn't know how to make.
The burden of command had never felt heavier.