-Real World - Marine Headquarters, Marineford-
Fleet Admiral Sengoku's shift toward conservative strategy was deliberate, calculated, and—for certain factions within the Marine—absolutely infuriating.
The Admiral had begun actively consolidating forces. Elite personnel from distant branches were recalled to central locations. Resources were concentrated at strategic nodes rather than dispersed across the globe. The organizational philosophy had transformed from "maintain presence everywhere" to "defend what matters most."
The logic was sound from Sengoku's perspective: don't put all eggs in one basket, but also don't spread eggs so thin they become individually vulnerable. Abandon peripheral positions to create multiple powerful concentrations of force capable of surviving whatever disasters the Sky Screen had revealed.
For radicals within the Marine—particularly Admiral Akainu—this defensive posture felt like cowardice disguised as strategy.
Admiral Sakazuki paced his office like a caged predator, volcanic frustration bubbling beneath his normally controlled exterior. Every muscle was tense. His jaw clenched hard enough that teeth ground audibly. The magma that constituted his transformed body wanted to erupt, melt something, destroy the sources of his irritation.
But discipline held. Barely.
Conservatism, he thought with contempt. Retreat masquerading as prudence. Defensive thinking that guarantees eventual defeat.
The pattern had become unmistakable over recent weeks. Every time intelligence reported Buggy the Clown's location, every time an opportunity arose to deploy and eliminate the threat, authorization was mysteriously delayed or denied outright.
Warships remained docked. Admirals stayed grounded. Requests to pursue high-value targets disappeared into bureaucratic black holes.
Sakazuki knew exactly what was happening: Sengoku was deliberately preventing him from leaving headquarters. Keeping the most aggressive, action-oriented Admiral leashed while the enemy grew stronger outside.
Cowardice. Pure cowardice dressed up as strategic caution.
"What is Sengoku thinking?" Sakazuki finally voiced his frustration aloud. "If we don't hunt down Buggy the Clown NOW—while he's still building power—do we wait for him to come to us in six years? Wait until he's strong enough to actually threaten Mary Geoise?"
He slammed his fist against the desk. The wood charred instantly, smoke rising from the impact point.
"Avoiding conflict isn't strategy. It's surrendering the initiative. Letting the enemy choose the time and place of battle. That's how wars are LOST."
Vice Admiral Onigumo—one of several radical officers crowding Sakazuki's office—nodded agreement. The scarred veteran had heard similar complaints daily for weeks. But unlike most subordinates who'd grow tired of superior officers' venting, Onigumo recognized these sessions for what they were: signs of trust.
Sakazuki only spoke this freely around people he considered genuine allies. The fact that he didn't moderate his language or hide his contempt for Sengoku's leadership indicated that Onigumo had been accepted into the Admiral's inner circle.
And more importantly, Onigumo thought with grim satisfaction, I'm already dead in the future. That frees me from personal concerns. I can think strategically about the organization's survival rather than my own.
The Sky Screen's revelation of his death had been strangely liberating. No point worrying about career advancement or political maneuvering when you knew exactly when and how you'd die. Instead, Onigumo could focus entirely on positioning the Marine—particularly its radical faction—for success beyond his lifespan.
"Admiral Akainu," Onigumo began carefully, choosing his words with precision. "I've been analyzing the Sky Screen's information extensively. Particularly regarding your relationship with Admiral Candidate Artoria Pendragon. I believe you should strengthen that connection now—lay groundwork for future cooperation."
Sakazuki's pacing stopped. He turned to face his subordinate, expression skeptical. "Explain."
This was the moment Onigumo had been preparing for. Time to unveil the elaborate theory he'd constructed from fragmentary Sky Screen evidence. Time to convince Sakazuki that the future held opportunities alongside its disasters.
"Consider the Mary Geoise Incident footage," Onigumo said, warming to his subject. "Specifically, the interaction between you and Acting Fleet Admiral Artoria during what appeared to be a strategic dispute."
He pulled out notes he'd compiled—pages of observations, screenshots from Sky Screen broadcasts, timelines cross-referenced with visible evidence.
"Artoria reprimanded you publicly for ordering collective punishment. Over three thousand people executed simultaneously based on your command. She called the action 'excessively cruel' and 'against human ethics.' Unprecedented severity in Marine history."
Sakazuki's expression darkened. "I remember that segment. And?"
"Your reaction was... unusual." Onigumo met his superior's eyes directly. "You didn't argue. Didn't defend the decision. Didn't challenge her authority despite being senior in both age and experience. You just—according to the footage—slammed the door and left."
"So?"
"So that's not how you typically respond to criticism, Admiral." Onigumo's voice carried quiet intensity. "When Fleet Admiral Sengoku questions your methods, you argue passionately. When political officers second-guess your combat decisions, you provide detailed justifications backed by results. You don't just accept rebuke silently and walk away."
He paused, letting that sink in.
"Which suggests the relationship between you and Artoria in the future is fundamentally different from your current relationship with Sengoku. You respect her authority in ways you don't respect his. You accept her judgment even when it contradicts your instincts."
Sakazuki was quiet, processing this interpretation. Onigumo pressed his advantage.
"Second piece of evidence: the formation during the Mary Geoise battle preview. Look at the positioning."
He produced a printed image—the twelve Admirals arranged around Acting Fleet Admiral Artoria. He'd annotated it extensively, measuring distances, drawing lines, adding notes.
"Artoria stands at the center, Sword held before her chest. Classic command posture. And the Admiral standing closest to her—within arm's reach, positioned at her right hand—is you. Not Kuzan. Not Borsalino. Not any of the new Admirals we don't recognize. You."
Onigumo traced the distances with his finger.
"Kuzan stands three meters to her left. Borsalino four meters at an angle. The others are even further away. But you? Less than two meters, positioned protectively at her right side. That's the placement of a trusted lieutenant. A right-hand man."
"Or coincidence," Sakazuki countered, though his tone suggested he was considering the theory seriously.
"Perhaps. But consider the parallel on the opposing side." Onigumo flipped to another annotated image—the Pirate Alliance formation. "Buggy the Clown stands at the center of his forces. And the person closest to him is Ann. We know from previous broadcasts that she's become his adopted daughter. Their relationship justifies the proximity."
He set both images side by side.
"If positioning in these formations reflects relationships and trust, then your proximity to Artoria suggests similar closeness. Not familial, obviously, but professional intimacy. The kind of bond between a commander and her most trusted subordinate."
The logic was elegant, Onigumo had to admit. Probably complete fabrication built on minimal evidence, but elegant nonetheless.
That's the beautiful thing about Sky Screen analysis, he thought. Enough ambiguity that any interpretation can be supported if you're creative enough.
"Two data points," Onigumo continued, building momentum. "The reprimand that you accepted without argument. The battlefield positioning that places you at her right hand. Individually, either could be coincidence. Together, they suggest a pattern."
He met Sakazuki's eyes with complete sincerity.
"In the future, you work closely with Acting Fleet Admiral Artoria. She trusts you enough to give you significant autonomy. You respect her enough to accept her judgment even when it conflicts with your instincts. This relationship benefits both of you—and more importantly, it benefits the radical faction within the Marine."
That was the real hook. Not personal advancement for Sakazuki, but factional advantage.
"Consider our current situation," Onigumo said, shifting to broader strategic concerns. "Under Fleet Admiral Sengoku, radicals do the hardest work, face the most dangerous assignments, suffer the highest casualties. But when it comes to promotions, resources, influence? We're systematically disadvantaged compared to the moderate faction."
Several other officers in the room murmured agreement. This was a long-standing grievance.
"Sengoku deliberately suppresses radical advancement because he fears we'll push the Marine toward total war with pirates. He wants balance, compromise, measured responses. That means keeping us under tight control."
Onigumo's voice hardened.
"But Artoria? She's not Sengoku. She doesn't have decades of ingrained bureaucratic caution. She's a warrior first, politician second. The fact that she becomes Acting Fleet Admiral suggests she prioritizes combat effectiveness over political considerations. And her willingness to publicly criticize you—to demand ethical standards even from trusted subordinates—suggests she's not interested in factional games."
He leaned forward.
"If you establish a working relationship with her now, before she assumes command, you position yourself as her primary military advisor when she inevitably needs strategic counsel. And through you, the radical faction gains influence we've never had under conservative leadership."
It was a compelling pitch. Probably eighty percent speculation and twenty percent wishful thinking, but compelling nonetheless.
Sakazuki was silent for a long moment, weighing Onigumo's arguments against his own observations and instincts.
"Artoria Pendragon," he finally said, voice thoughtful. "Can she actually lead the Marine onto the right path? Or is this just another iteration of the same problems under a different face?"
"I don't know," Onigumo admitted honestly. "But the Sky Screen shows her in that position five years from now. Which means either she succeeds enough to survive, or the Marine's situation becomes so desperate that experience becomes less important than raw combat power."
He spread his hands.
"Either way, aligning with the future leadership seems wiser than remaining loyal to the current administration that's already showing signs of paralysis."
Sakazuki nodded slowly, mind clearly working through implications and possibilities.
This could be opportunity, he thought. Or it could be disaster. But staying the current course guarantees stagnation. At least this offers potential for change.
"I'll consider it," he said finally. Non-committal but not dismissive. "Continue your analysis. If you find additional supporting evidence, bring it to me."
Onigumo bowed slightly. "Of course, Admiral."
-Real World - Female Officers' Dormitory, Marineford-
Across the base, in considerably less strategically important quarters, Artoria Pendragon sneezed violently.
"Bless you," Gion said absently, not looking up from the notes she was scribbling. "That's the fifth time today. Are you getting sick?"
"I don't think so." Artoria rubbed her nose, confused. "Just feels like... I don't know. Like people are talking about me constantly. Thinking about me. It's strange."
If only she knew, the narrative voice observed with amusement. Half the Marine's radical faction is currently constructing elaborate theories about her future leadership based on fragmentary evidence and wishful thinking.
Artoria had been trying to sleep for the past hour. Unfortunately, her roommate and best friend Gion was far too excited about recent Sky Screen revelations to allow rest.
"Okay, but seriously," Gion said, launching into yet another topic without acknowledging that the previous conversation had barely concluded. "Why didn't you choose me as one of the female Admirals? I need to understand the reasoning here."
The question was half-serious, half-playful, but carried genuine competitive frustration underneath.
"First," Gion counted on her fingers, "the Sky Screen didn't show me dying in any future conflict. So presumably I'm alive five years from now. Second, I'm currently an Admiral candidate—literally one promotion away from the position. Third, we're best friends! Shouldn't that count for something?"
She threw her hands up dramatically.
"It would have been so impressive! Two female Admirals serving simultaneously! Breaking centuries of male-dominated leadership! Making history together! But instead, you picked two women I don't even recognize!"
Vice Admiral Momousagi—though Gion preferred using just her name in casual settings—was genuinely upset about this. Her competitive nature couldn't accept being passed over for mysterious strangers.
"Could it be..." she continued, voice dropping to worried speculation, "...that those two are already so powerful I couldn't possibly compete? Are we talking about strength gaps comparable to the original three Admirals? Are they actual monsters and I'm just... normal?"
Artoria wanted to answer honestly. Wanted to explain that the "female Admirals" probably didn't exist yet, that the Sky Screen appeared to be extrapolating futures from minimal current data, that this entire scenario might be fabricated.
But she couldn't say that. Not without revealing that she understood the Sky Screen's mechanics better than she should. Not without exposing... whatever the truth was about her connection to these broadcasts.
How do I explain that the person supposedly making these decisions—future me—might not even exist? That we're all watching fiction presented as prophecy?
"I'm sure there's a good explanation," Artoria said weakly, offering the most non-committal response possible.
"That's not an answer!" Gion protested. "Come on, give me something! Even speculation! Do you think I'm not strong enough? Not politically connected enough? Is there some strategic reason for choosing different officers?"
The other two women in the room—Hina and Tashigi—watched this exchange with sympathetic silence. Both had confirmed they wouldn't survive to see the Mary Geoise Incident, having died during the Marineford war. They were already ghosts of the future, observing conflicts that wouldn't matter to them personally.
Lucky them, Artoria thought. They get to just watch without being questioned about decisions they haven't made for events that might not happen.
"Gion," she tried again, "I genuinely don't know why those specific officers were chosen. Maybe they have specialized abilities needed for that particular conflict. Maybe political considerations required diversity beyond our current friendship circle. Maybe—"
"Maybe you're overthinking this," Hina interjected quietly. "The Sky Screen shows possible futures, not certainties. Gion-san might become an Admiral through different circumstances than what the broadcast showed."
It was a diplomatic deflection that didn't actually answer anything. But it successfully shifted the conversation's direction.
"I suppose that's true," Gion conceded reluctantly. "Still frustrating though. I trained my entire career for this. Worked harder than most male officers just to be taken seriously. And then the future shows me being passed over for Admiral while two complete unknowns get promoted."
She flopped back on her bed dramatically.
"It's just... disappointing, you know? I wanted to believe I'd achieved something significant. That my effort mattered."
Artoria felt genuine sympathy. Gion had worked incredibly hard to reach her current position. Being overlooked in potential futures would sting regardless of whether those futures actually manifested.
"Your effort does matter," Artoria said with complete sincerity. "Regardless of what the Sky Screen shows, you're one of the most capable officers in the entire Marine. That doesn't change based on future predictions."
"Thanks," Gion smiled weakly. "I know you're right. Just... hard to remember that when watching possible futures where I'm apparently irrelevant."
What none of these characters fully understood—what they couldn't understand without breaking the fourth wall completely—was the mechanism underlying their beliefs.
The Sky Screen worked because audiences were predisposed to believe it. Not through magical compulsion or mind control, but through simple narrative expectation.
The One Piece world was weird. Devil Fruits granted impossible powers. Islands floated in the sky. Fishmen and merfolk and minks and giants all existed alongside humans. Technology ranged from wooden ships to cyborg bodies. The Grand Line defied physics as a matter of course.
In a world that bizarre, what was one more impossibility?
When the Sky Screen showed mysterious future Admirals, viewers didn't question whether those people existed. They just assumed they'd be revealed eventually. After all, the world was big. Plenty of powerful individuals remained undiscovered.
When positioning in formation images suggested specific relationships, audiences constructed elaborate theories to explain those positions. Not because the evidence was strong, but because human brains were pattern-recognition engines that created narratives from minimal data.
Everyone is a brain-filling monster, the chapter title declared. And it was absolutely accurate.
Onigumo had built an entire strategic recommendation from two ambiguous data points. Gion had constructed a personal crisis from absence of information. Sakazuki was reconsidering his entire political alignment based on screenshot analysis.
And none of them recognized they were doing it.
The Sky Screen provided fragments. Audiences provided context, interpretation, emotional investment, and conviction that their theories must be correct because they'd thought them through so carefully.
The beautiful thing about fortune telling, some ancient philosopher had observed, is that people do the hard work themselves. Give them vague predictions and they'll construct detailed narratives to justify whatever happens.
The Sky Screen operated on the same principle. Show possible futures with just enough detail to seem credible, then let audiences fill in gaps with their imagination.
Some people constructed conservative interpretations. Others built radical theories. A few developed genuinely insightful analysis. Most just accepted whatever they were shown and moved on.
But everyone—without exception—engaged in some level of gap-filling. Adding context that wasn't shown. Inferring relationships that weren't stated. Building narratives that made the fragmentary information feel complete.
Because that's what brains do. Create stories. Find patterns. Make sense of chaos even when chaos is all that exists.
The Sky Screen had tapped into that fundamental cognitive bias. And the result was a world full of people who believed they understood the future despite having only the vaguest fragments of unreliable information.
Everyone was a brain-filling monster.
And the monsters were absolutely convinced they were seeing clearly.
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