A single lance of sunlight pierced the retreating storm clouds, illuminating a Loguetown still scarred by the previous day's upheaval. It was a pale, flickering light, shining on the wreckage of the plaza as if trying to coax life out of the debris.
Inside the Marine Base, the air was cool and smelled faintly of disinfectant.
Atlas lay on a narrow cot, his eyes snapped open. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his fingers dug into the thin mattress, his knuckles white. He didn't move, his bloodshot eyes darting around the room, scanning for threats. Every muscle was coiled, ready to spring or flee.
His chest heaved as he stared at the ceiling. The ceiling didn't change. It wasn't a dream.
"So this is it," he whispered, his voice a dry rasp. "The Grand Line... the Pirate King. It's all real."
He closed his eyes for a moment, a wave of resignation washing over him. There was no path back to the quiet, orderly world of his past. Here, the law was written by the strong and enforced by the brutal. To live—to truly live and not just hide in the shadows—he needed power.
He didn't want to be a pirate. The romanticized version from the stories didn't mask the reality: they were thieves, killers, and agents of chaos. He was a creature of order, raised under the "red flag" of a modern society. The Revolutionary Army was a whisper of an idea, too immature and dangerous.
The Marines were his only option. They weren't perfect—he knew about the corrupt officers like Mouse and the shadow of the Celestial Dragons—but they were the only wall standing between the common folk and total anarchy.
A sharp, rhythmic rapping at the door broke his focus. Knock, knock-knock-knock.
"Come in..." Atlas said, coughing as the dryness in his throat caught.
The door creaked open, admitting a flood of hallway light and a towering figure. The man wore the white "Justice" coat draped over his broad shoulders, the fabric swaying with authority. Atlas's gaze locked onto the epaulets. An officer. At least an Ensign, likely higher.
Atlas grunted, trying to shove himself upright to show respect.
"Easy there, brat," the man said, a rough chuckle vibrating in his chest. He waved a hand dismissively. "You're still half-dead. Stay down."
He stepped closer, his face weathered and resolute, but his eyes held a flicker of genuine curiosity. "I'm Marcus Wright. Lieutenant at this base. You can just call me Lieutenant Wright."
Atlas forced himself to sit on the edge of the bed, his spine straight despite the tremor in his limbs. He looked Wright in the eye, pitching his voice as loud as his battered lungs would allow.
"Lieutenant Wright! My name is Atlas. I'm an orphan... and I want to join the Marines. I want to fight for justice."
Wright's eyebrows climbed his forehead. He let out a slow breath. In a world where Roger had just set the seas on fire with a single sentence, hearing a boy ask for a uniform was a rare thing.
"Justice, eh?" Wright's expression turned solemn. He leaned in, his shadow looming over the boy. "That's a big word for a small brat. Tell me, Atlas... what does justice mean to you?"
Atlas didn't hesitate. He knew the answer he needed to give. He let a flush of heat rise to his cheeks, making his eyes bright with a feigned, youthful fervor.
"Justice is... it's striking down evil! It's making sure the people who can't fight for themselves are protected from the ones who would hurt them!"
It was the perfect answer—simple, passionate, and malleable. It was exactly what a veteran officer would want to hear from a recruit he could shape.
Wright studied him for a long beat, then a meaningful smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He saw his younger self in that fire.
"A good start," Wright said. "But look, Atlas, we don't recruit twelve-year-olds. The Marines aren't a daycare. However..." He paused, letting the weight of the moment sink in. "We don't keep useless people either. I can take you on as a chore boy. You'll work, you'll sweat, and if you slack off, I'll throw you out on your ear. Understood?"
Atlas snapped a sharp, crisp salute from his seated position. "Chore boy Atlas! Yes, sir!"
Gurgle—
His stomach betrayed the moment with a loud, cavernous growl. Atlas's face turned a genuine shade of crimson as he rubbed the back of his neck.
Wright burst into a loud, boisterous laugh. "Right. Justice can wait until after breakfast. Get yourself to the mess hall and fill that hole in your gut. You can't uphold the law on an empty stomach."
"Yes, sir!"
Marine Base, Colonel's Office
The room was thick with the scent of high-grade tobacco. Lieutenant Wright stood at attention before a heavy mahogany desk. Behind it, a middle-aged man was nearly invisible behind a cloud of cigar smoke. Only his eyes—sharp, cold, and tempered by decades of conflict—pierced through the haze.
He tapped a file on his desk with a blunt finger.
"Kanos Atlas," the Colonel's voice was like grinding stones. "Born in Shells Town, Branch 153 jurisdiction. Parents lost in a pirate raid a year ago. Drifted to Loguetown six months back."
He took a long drag of the cigar, the cherry glowing bright.
"Another life chewed up by pirates," the Colonel muttered, the smoke swirling around him like a shroud. "It's a damn messy world we're living in, Wright."