"Haruki!" the ensign called to a passing private. "Give our guest the VIP treatment!"
Makoto's grin widened as the peculiar-looking Marine approached.
Haruki's face looked like it had been drawn by a drunk artist—one eye sat noticeably higher than the other, his nose bent halfway like it had second thoughts, and his ears didn't seem to agree on which direction to face.
"Y-you wanted a tour, s-sir?" Haruki stammered, nervously tugging at his oversized cap.
"Please, call me Makoto!" he said warmly, throwing an arm around Haruki's shoulders. The boy tensed under the touch like a startled deer.
"Wow, these corridors are spotless!" Makoto exclaimed, eyes sweeping across the gleaming halls. "You guys even polish the floor grates?"
Haruki blinked, then beamed. "W-we do! Every Thursday! I... I actually invented a special brush for the corners..." His voice trailed off, bracing for laughter.
"No way!" Makoto leaned in, eyes sparkling with interest. "That's genius. The Marine Corps needs more innovators like you."
As they strolled through the base, Haruki's nervous steps grew lighter. Encouraged by Makoto's unusually sincere praise, he began to open up. The words came in bursts: the bullying as a child, the promotions that were "accidentally" skipped over, the way his squad always gave him the night shift during festival patrols.
"They call me 'Picasso Face' behind my back," Haruki muttered, scuffing his boot against the polished floor.
Makoto suddenly stopped and turned him toward a reflective porthole. "You know what I see?" His voice was low, serious. "A man who outsmarts his enemies before they even draw their swords."
Haruki blinked, stunned into silence.
Makoto smiled, giving the boy a reassuring pat on the back. And in that moment—subtle and practiced—he slipped a red armband into his own pocket, unnoticed.
By the time the tour wrapped up, Haruki looked lighter, almost taller.
"I-I'll head back to duty now," he said, giving a clumsy salute.
Makoto nodded. "Go on ahead. I'll catch up—nature calls."
Once Haruki disappeared around the corner, Makoto's expression flattened into something unreadable.
With smooth, practiced strides, he navigated the Marine base like he belonged there. No hesitation, no wasted movement. He reached the second floor, ducked into a quiet corridor, and slipped into the storage room.
There they were.
Three swords, bound together and resting against a wall.
Zoro's.
"Zoro, might be the only person that i genuily don't want to do that to him" Makoto said to himself as he looked at the sea from the window.
"this might change everything"
Makoto didn't waste a second. He slung them into a sack over his shoulder, his fingers brushing the hilts with a passing glance of respect. In a crackle of electricity, he vanished—reappearing aboard the ship just long enough to retrieve his own katana. Then, with another pulse of lightning, he blinked back into the base.
His red eyes flared briefly.
Something caught his attention.
A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he turned, gliding silently toward another hallway.
The Cartography Room.
Inside, Nami stood alone, her fingers gliding across the surface of scattered maps. Her brow furrowed in focus, eyes darting from chart to chart—searching for something.
Nami's fingers froze mid-theft as the air behind her shifted. A familiar, infuriating voice slithered into her ears like smoke.
"Stealing government property?" Makoto leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his smirk dripping with amusement. "Tsk tsk. What would your mother say?"
Nami's blood turned to ice. How the hell did he get in here without a sound?
She turned slowly, already gripping her staff with white-knuckled irritation.
"You."
"Me," he agreed, pushing off the wall with deliberate slowness. His barefoot made no sound as he stepped closer, his gaze flicking over the maps she'd been rifling through. "Looking for something specific, or just window shopping?"
Nami's eye twitched.
"None of your business. And don't talk like you know anything about my mother."
"Or me."
Makoto tsked softly and leaned over a table, pretending to study a faded nautical map.
"So defensive. But fine. Let's talk about you instead."
He turned toward her, expression as casual as ever—but his crimson eyes clearly took their time roaming.
Nami stepped back a pace, jaw clenched.
"Don't even think about it."
Makoto ignored the warning entirely.
"Can you turn around real quick?" he asked, far too innocently.
"I think I saw a compass rose tattoo, and for the sake of cartography, I need to confirm."
Her staff swung toward his head instantly—
CLANG!
Makoto ducked fluidly, laughing as the staff embedded itself in the wall.
"Easy, Thief-chan. That wall didn't deserve that."
"Neither do I deserve your eyes crawling all over me," she snapped, already yanking the weapon free.
"And for the record, if I had a tattoo, it'd be a map to where I buried your corpse."
Makoto grinned wider.
"See? You do like treasure."
"You're lucky I don't bury you in this room."
"Bury me?" Makoto's tone shifted as he suddenly appeared behind her. Before she could react, his hand gave an experimental squeeze. "Hmm... firm yet yielding. Excellent recoil potential."
Nami froze. The entire room seemed to hold its breath.
Then-
"DOES IT GRIP?" Makoto called out cheerfully as Nami's staff shattered the desk where he'd been standing milliseconds before.
"IT GRIPS YOUR FACE WHEN I SMOTHER YOU IN YOUR SLEEP!" Nami roared, her face burning crimson as she launched into a whirlwind of attacks.
Makoto danced backward, laughing as he barely avoided each strike. "Worth it! Though for scientific accuracy—"
"YOU DISGUSTING PERV! BASTARD DICKHEAD! PIECE OF SHIT!" Nami screamed, hurling an inkwell at his head with murderous precision.
Makoto leaned sideways—flawlessly dodging—only to reappear behind her in the same motion.
SMACK!
A loud, echoing spank rang through the room before he vanished completely, leaving nothing but:
"SCIENCE CONFIRMS: 10/10 WOULD GRIP AGAIN!"
His voice echoed down the hallway as Nami stood completely still, her entire body trembling with incomprehensible rage.