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One Piece: As Heavy as a Gale #128
🕑 Added 2025-09-04 13:51:43 +0000 UTCSkipping across the surface of the water in his little skiff, Gale threw one last glance over his shoulder at the battleship.
The memory of those G-5 slackers was still fresh in his head—wide-eyed, sweating bullets, practically ready to dive into the sea at the mere mention of Vergo’s name.
The grin that spread across Gale’s face wasn’t friendly. It was malicious.
Good. Let ‘em sweat. I might die by Vergo’s hand one day, but at least I’ll get the satisfaction of giving those lazy bastards a collective heart attack first.
He leaned back against the skiff’s edge, letting the salt spray slap him in the face, and chuckled.
Vergo probably handpicked that crew. Not because they were skilled—hell no, some of them would probably lose to an angry crab—but because they were the perfect bunch to waste Gale’s time. Babysitters disguised as Marines, professional slackers with rifles.
But the funny part? They didn’t know that.
And Gale? Gale didn’t care.
He had no intention of seeing this mission through anymore.
If Vergo wanted to play dirty, then so would he.
The “plan,” if it could be called that, was simple: pop into Risky Red, find a nice, shady tree to swing his sword around under it, maybe even take a nap once he's bored, then pop back out the next day and say,
“Oh yeah, asked around. Doma already skipped town. Guess we should stop wasting time and head back.”
Flawless. Foolproof. A lie so simple it circled back around into truth.
Sometimes, the solutions to the most complicated problems were the dumbest, simplest ones. And if complications came up later?
Well, that would be future Gale’s problem.
'And frankly, future Gale is kind of an asshole, so let him deal with it.'
For now, his only concern was Vergo—and finding a way to expose him before the man snapped him in half with that damned bamboo stick like he was a glowstick at a New Year’s party.
As for the current “mission”?
If someone eventually figured out he lied about searching for Doma?
What’s the worst that could happen?
A scolding? A demotion? A strongly worded letter?
Gale snorted, flicking water off his sleeve.
“Who cares? What gives?” he muttered aloud, shaking his head.
'Better a slap on the wrist than a bamboo stick to the spine.'
The thought actually cheered him up.
...
The sky above Risky Red Island had already dimmed into a bruised purple, lightning flashing occasionally against the crimson coral cliffs. The forest was alive with noise—but not the peaceful kind. Shouts. Heavy boots pounding earth. The hungry, vicious bark of dogs.
Through the trees, a girl bolted.
Her red bandana was half-soaked with sweat, her breath coming out in desperate gasps. She clutched an eternal pose so tight it looked like she was trying to strangle it, the name on its base scratched off beyond recognition.
Behind her, voices grew louder.
“Don’t let her get away!”
“Bring the mutts in closer—she’s cornered!”
Her heart hammered in her chest. She knew what would happen if she was caught—chains, the slave market, and if she was really lucky, maybe death before it got worse than that.
Panicked, she didn’t see the root sticking out across the path until her foot snagged it.
“Ah—!”
Whump!
Her face met the dirt with an impact that rattled her teeth.
Groaning, she pushed herself up and rubbed at her skinned knees, muttering something about cursed roots and cursed men and cursed everything.
Then she blinked.
Because what she’d tripped over wasn’t a root at all.
It was a person.
A young man, lying on the ground with his hands folded lazily behind his head, like he’d just decided this patch of grass was more comfortable than any bed in the world.
He stared back at her, just as startled as she was, eyes wide.
For a heartbeat, the forest, the dogs, the shouting—all of it seemed to pause.
Her lips parted, hope flooding her face. “Please! You—”
And then the young man’s eyes slid closed. His head tilted to the side. His breathing slowed into the suspiciously exaggerated rhythm of someone pretending to sleep.
Her jaw dropped.
“…are you serious?” she whispered.
She crouched closer, waving a hand near his face. Nothing. He didn’t even twitch.
“Mister,” she hissed, grabbing a fistful of his coat, “there are men after me. With dogs. If they catch me, I’m as good as dead!”
Still nothing. The only sign of life was the tiniest twitch of his eyebrow, so quick she almost missed it. Otherwise, the guy looked like he was waiting for his funeral.
He’s ignoring me, she realized, incredulous. Actually ignoring me. Who does that when someone begs for help?
Behind her, the dogs barked again, closer this time.
Panic made her shake his shoulder harder. “Hey! I don’t care if you’re asleep or dead—help me!”
The man didn’t budge.
It was almost impressive.
Almost.
She stared down at him, lips pressed into a thin line, and muttered, “Of all the useless bastards in this forest, I had to trip over you.”
Somewhere deep in his head, Gale’s inner voice groaned, 'Here comes a walking, talking side quest with dogs included... well, not on my watch...'
The girl had no idea what Gale was thinking. If she had, she probably would’ve punched him already.
'Stay dead. Stay asleep. Maybe she’ll give up and run off, and I can go back to— nope, of course not,' Gale thought as the girl suddenly straddled him and grabbed his collar like a debt collector with zero patience.
“Stop pretending, mister! They’ll be here soon!” she shouted, shaking him so hard his teeth clicked together.
His eyebrow twitched, but otherwise? Nothing.
The girl’s patience, however, was rapidly evaporating.
“Oh, for the love of—” She pinched his nose shut with two fingers.
Gale’s chest rose once, twice, and then he just… switched to breathing through his mouth.
The girl’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Her other hand slapped over his mouth. “Get up, you bastard, or we’re both dead!”
Still no movement. No words. No anything. Just an infuriating, corpse-level commitment to the bit.
A minute passed. Then two.
By the end of the second, his face was already starting to turn suspiciously blue.
Is he seriously—? she thought, half-panicked, half-enraged. Is this idiot trying to martyr himself just to avoid standing up?!
And then it happened.
Her eyes widened. Something wet—slimy, squirmy, unholy—slid across her palm.
Her brain lagged a full two seconds before it caught up to what her skin already knew.
“…Did this son of a bitch just lick me?”
“Y—you disgusting bastard!” she yelped, ripping her hand away and furiously wiping it on her bandana. “What the hell was that!?”
Gale, still motionless, still flat on the ground, thought dryly:
'Countermeasures. Drastic. Highly effective.'
Her fist clenched, trembling with rage. She pulled her arm back, ready to deliver the kind of punch that breaks friendships, relationships, and probably a couple of ribs.
“Why you—!”
Click.
The sound froze her mid-swing. Cold metal pressed against her back.
She turned slowly, her breath catching.
They were surrounded.
Half a dozen men in mismatched coats and filthy boots stood in a loose circle around the cave mouth. Their grins gleamed under the torchlight, weapons drawn, and a pair of snarling dogs strained against their chains.
The pirate with the flintlock at her back leaned close, breath foul. “Now, now, sweetheart. No need to rough up the corpse. He’s already halfway to hell anyway.”
The girl stiffened at the cold press of the flintlock, but her determination didn’t waver. If she was going down, then damn it, she wasn’t going down alone.
“This is no corpse!” she barked, pointing at Gale with the urgency of someone throwing a stranger under the bus to save their own skin. “He’s just pretending to be one! He’s already heard and seen everything! If you leave him, he’ll become a loose end!”
A single vein twitched on Gale’s forehead. Still, he remained motionless. Wordless. Corpse mode: engaged.
One of the pirates snorted, scratching at his beard. “Nice try, girlie. You can’t fool me. That’s a corpse.” He jabbed his pistol toward Gale. “See how he doesn’t move? Dead. As. Shit.”
The girl’s lips curled into a malicious grin. “Oh yeah? Then he wouldn’t mind me doing this!”
Before Gale’s mind could register what was happening, her hand gripped his collar and smack! Her palm connected with his cheek.
“Wake up, you bastard, the jig is up!”
Another smack! followed.
Another vein bulged on Gale’s temple. 'Don’t move, don’t move, don’t move—'
SMACK!
She was working up a rhythm now. “One slap, two slaps, three slaps—hurry up and get up already! Why are you so intent on playing dead anyway!?”
And that was it.
Gale’s eyes shot open. His glare hit her like a blast of Conqueror’s Haki—it wasn’t, but it was close enough to make milk curdle and pirates take an involuntary step back.
Then—crack!
He slammed his forehead against hers in a savage headbutt. Her eyes went wide, then crossed, then rolled back as her body slumped limp against his chest.
Gale, still holding her upright by the collar, jabbed a trembling finger at her unconscious face.
“IT’S BECAUSE I DON’T KNOW YOU,” he roared, voice dripping with exasperation, “AND I DON’T WANT TO GET INVOLVED IN THIS MESS!”
For a moment, silence. Even the dogs stopped barking. The only sound was Gale’s ragged breathing and the faint sizzling of a nearby lightning strike in the forest.
Then one pirate blinked. “…Wait. He wasn’t dead?”
Another scratched his head. “…Guess not.”
The first pirate raised his pistol again. “Well. He’s about to be.”
And there Gale was, fists clenched, glare sharp enough to cut steel.
The pirates, to their credit, hadn’t bolted at the sudden outburst. They just shifted uneasily, pistols and cutlasses still in hand, trying to decide if they’d just watched a corpse resurrect itself out of pure annoyance.
Then, with a stiff inhale, Gale’s shoulders relaxed. His expression smoothed out into something flat, eerily calm.
“…Ahem.” He cleared his throat, pointing a thumb at himself. “Don’t mind me, fellows. That was just gas leaving a corpse.”
The pirates blinked at him.
“Yeah,” Gale went on, nodding sagely, as though he was giving a lecture on medical science. “Sometimes, the body twitches. Sometimes, it even… talks. Y’know. Grandline Gas.” He widened his eyes a little, adding, “That’s what you just saw. Nothing suspicious at all.”
Slowly—very slowly—he shoved the limp girl’s body to the side, sliding her across the dirt like a sack of potatoes. Then, with all the ceremony of a stage actor in a tragic play, he laid himself back down, hands folded neatly over his chest.
And just like that, he was a corpse again.
Eyes closed. Breathing shallow. A picture-perfect example of “definitely not faking it.”
For a beat, silence. The pirates just stared. One scratched his head. Another squinted, tilting his head like a confused dog.
Then, as if remembering they were supposed to be dangerous men with dangerous weapons, the sound of shhk-shhk filled the air—cutlasses being drawn, pistols being cocked.
And now, every single barrel and blade in sight was aimed directly at Gale’s “corpse.”
He lay still.
One eyelid twitched.
'…Yup,' he thought bitterly, listening to the click of a flintlock being pulled back, 'definitely picked the wrong spot to nap.'
