"It's not possible," Thunder Soldier said, staring grimly at the letter. "He wants us to kidnap all these people?"
"It's practically ninety-five percent of Dressrosa's population," Gacho muttered, exasperated. He ran a hand through his tangled hair, pacing. "Even with those cursed ghosts on our side—how in the world are we supposed to manage that? Herd a whole island like cattle?"
"Not to mention how fast word will spread," Thunder Soldier added, his voice edged with frustration. "People will panic, soldiers will swarm the streets—there'll be chaos before we've even made it through a tenth of that list. No… scratch that. There's already chaos. This whole island's a wreck! I doubt there's a single house still standing untouched in all of Dressrosa."
Riku Doldo remained quiet, eyes narrowed in thought. Then he said, slowly, "We can do it the way I handled things once before… during my reign."
Gatz turned sharply. "What's that supposed to mean?" He raised an eyebrow. "I know your reputation was bad for a while, but don't tell me you actually kidnapped people when you were king."
"Of course not!" Doldo said, defensive. "But listen—this letter doesn't specify where we have to bring the people. It just says we need them all together."
He reached beneath his cloak and pulled out a faded map. Unfolding it across the table, he pointed to a spot near the center of the island. "Here. The central marketplace. It was built for massive royal announcements. At full capacity, it could hold nearly all of Dressrosa."
Gatz leaned in, eyes glinting with sudden excitement. "Oh-ho, mobilizing a crowd, huh? You're speaking my language now. That's my stage! I can get every ear on the island tuned in if you give me ten seconds and a working mic."
Gacho frowned. "But the Colosseum's out of range for a mass callout. We'd need something island-wide."
"We hijack the speaker system," he said. "Doflamingo installed that network of loudspeakers so he could blast his propaganda into every home. If we tap into that, we can call everyone to the square without lifting a finger."
"And the toys?" Thunder Soldier asked.
"We bring them too," Gacho said. "They're part of the deal—actually, they are the mission. Everyone on that list, and all the toys, gathered in one place at the same time. We sneak them in, blend them with the crowd, and trigger the reunion at just the right moment."
Thunder Soldier cracked a grin. "So we're not kidnapping—we're organizing a heartfelt reunion. Technically." He chuckled. "That sits a lot better with my conscience.
Riku nodded. "Exactly. We use the system they built to control the people—against them."
Rebecca, who had been standing quietly near the doorway, stepped forward. "Oh, there was another letter. This one's for you, Gatz."
She handed over the envelope, barely bigger than her hand. Gatz took it, peeled it open, and began reading. His expression shifted almost immediately. The smug showman's smirk fell away, replaced by something colder—calculated.
He looked up slowly, eyes scanning the room. "We're going ahead with the plan."
"What did it say?" Gacho asked.
Gatz folded the letter and tucked it into his coat. "It said that this isn't just about gathering people—it's about triggering something. A shift. A moment that changes the game."
Thunder Soldier crossed his arms, brow furrowed. "So this 'Bad Luck Redistribution Program'... it's more than just a band of criminal lunatics? They actually have some kind of plan?"
Gatz gave a short, dry laugh. "Oh, it's more than a plan. Whoever's pulling the strings isn't just relocating people—they're aiming to hit Doflamingo where it hurts. This isn't chaos for the sake of it. It's payback, and it's strategic."
Rebecca blinked. "They're trying to… take him down?"
Doldo leaned over the map, eyes scanning the streets and squares as if they might offer answers. "Then we'll need more than bodies in a plaza. We'll need coordination. Conviction. The people need to believe in something again."
"And a damn good speech," Gatz said, the corner of his mouth lifting into a grin. His usual showmanship was back—but there was steel behind it now. "Good thing this island still has its loudest voice."
A pause settled over the room, tension thick in the air.
Then, from somewhere in the back, a voice rang out—bold, ridiculous, and completely on cue:
"It's Plot Armor United!"
Everyone turned, startled. A few exchanged looks. Thunder Soldier sighed.
…
Gatz stood atop the tallest building overlooking the marketplace, a microphone clenched in his left hand.
His brow was furrowed as he gazed down at the shattered remains of his beloved island.
"What the hell did I do?" he whispered.
Words barely sufficed to describe the devastation below. The city—no, the entire island—lay in ruins, its once-proud streets reduced to rubble and ash.
But what struck him most wasn't the wreckage.
It was the people.
The sheer weight of their misfortune—visible in every slumped shoulder, every vacant stare—was more overwhelming than any fallen tower or crumbling wall.
From his perch atop the tallest building, Gatz watched the city descend into a spectacle of utter mayhem—like the universe itself had gone haywire, and Dressrosa was ground zero.
In the main plaza, dozens of carts overloaded with goods were careening wildly in every direction. A fruit cart smashed into a bread cart, sending baguettes flying like missiles. One baguette bonked a man on the head, who then tripped and landed face-first in a vat of sticky honey. The honey spilled over the edge and formed a slippery river that sent dozens of bystanders slipping and sliding like they'd wandered onto an ice rink—only stickier.
Nearby, a troupe of street performers attempted a coordinated juggling act. But thanks to the island-wide curse, every single ball, club, and torch flew off in random directions. One flaming torch sailed through the air and ignited a patch of dry straw, which quickly turned into a roaring bonfire. The performers fled screaming, running straight into a parade of marching soldiers—who promptly tripped over each other in a domino effect that ended with the entire platoon piled in a heap, their helmets rolling down the street like runaway bowling balls.
In the marketplace, vendors shouted over the chaos, trying desperately to keep their stalls intact. One merchant's banner snapped loose and caught the wind, turning into a flying carpet that carried his angry goose over a crowd of terrified shoppers—until the goose decided to take a dive, splattering the whole bunch with... well, goose droppings.
A group of kids were playing tag, but every time one touched another, something absurd happened. One boy tagged a friend and immediately got a pie smashed in his face—from nowhere. Another tried to run, only to step on a rake that smacked him square in the forehead, sending him sprawling backward into a giant stack of empty crates, which collapsed like dominoes, trapping everyone underneath in a comical pile.
Meanwhile, the island's horses were running loose, seemingly possessed by the misfortune too. One horse charged through a group of nobles, knocking over expensive carriages. The nobles scrambled to save their hats and wigs, only to slip on banana peels (because, of course, banana peels were everywhere now) and crash spectacularly into a giant inflatable statue of Doflamingo—who promptly deflated with a mournful wheeze.
Even the weather seemed to mock the island's plight. As Gatz watched, a sudden downpour began—but instead of water, it rained giant, soggy dumplings. They splattered everywhere, squashing goods, drenching people, and causing an enormous traffic jam as citizens tried to dodge the falling food.
Gatz buried his face in his hands. "I wanted a crowd, not a circus… or a disaster movie."
His muttering was cut short as a sudden earthquake ripped through the island, cracking the city almost in two.
"Motherfucker!" Gatz bellowed, stumbling backward and barely catching himself from tumbling off the rooftop. "What the hell is wrong with the Flaming-No Crew? Since when do they know how to cause earthquakes?"
He shook his head, eyes blazing. If only Whitebeard could see this...
...
Out of nowhere, a ghostly figure hurtled through the sky like a missile—right at him. She slammed onto the rooftop a mere meter away, wincing and glaring.
"That bitch!" Perona snarled, clutching her side. "I will get my revenge for this!"
Before Gatz could catch his breath, a massive lightning bolt cracked to his left, scorching the last decent piece of rooftop. The bolt shimmered and twisted—then transformed into a girl.
Gatz wiped sweat from his brow.
The Storm Goddess.
Human weather disaster incarnate.
The innocent-looking angel who could level a city with a sneeze.
The reason everyone worked for this madness out of pure, unfiltered terror.
"Hey, Perona," Conis greeted cheerfully.
"Oh, great," Perona groaned. "Just what I needed—the shiny, lovey-dovey cloud baby."
A few seconds later, another person appeared on the rooftop—no dramatic entrance this time, just a casual hop onto the edge like she owned the place.
Hina's eyes snapped open wide, and she pointed at Perona like a thunderbolt herself. "WHAT?! You need healing too?!" Her voice thundered. "You expect me to patch up the 'brave fighters' while I stood on the sidelines twiddling my thumbs?!"
Perona blinked. "What's wrong with you?"
Before anyone could answer, another woman landed with the elegance of a queen. "Where's Ezio?" she demanded, shooting Gatz a look sharp enough to cut steel.
"Princess Viola," Gatz muttered.
"He's fighting Sugar," Perona said, like it was no big deal.
Conis blinked, worry etched deeply across her face. Hina let out a long sigh, silently mourning where her carefully crafted strategy had gone wrong against the harshness of reality.
Viola raised an eyebrow. "What's with that strange reaction?"
"Ezio's a great boss," Conis offered, "but fighting? Not so much."
"That's putting it mildly," Hina smirked. "To be blunt: he's just a regular Four Blues human. Honestly, probably weaker than most people from the Blues."
"So… he's terrible?" Viola asked, clearly trying to keep up.
The three women exchanged knowing looks and nodded in unison.
"Then why is he captain?" Viola pressed.
They glanced at each other, then Perona shrugged.
"Weak as he is... he's still the one you really don't want to mess with."