-Real World - Various Locations-
The name "MADS" appeared repeatedly throughout the Sky Screen broadcasts. For most viewers, it was simultaneously familiar and mysterious—a scientific organization whose members kept appearing in critical moments, yet whose full scope remained obscure.
Everything advanced seems connected to MADS, observers noted. Every technological breakthrough. Every revolutionary weapon. Every scientist who matters.
The pattern was undeniable:
Caesar Clown: Official MADS member. Currently developing the Giant God Soldier bioweapon. In the future, apparently working for the New Marine, creating griffins and other advanced combat organisms. A madman, yes, but an extraordinarily productive madman.
Dr. Vegapunk: MADS founder. Created the Pacifist program, Seraph project, and technology that wouldn't be matched for centuries. Single-handedly advanced human civilization by decades through his research.
Vinsmoke Judge: MADS member focused on genetic modification. Created the Germa 66 transformation technology and cloning capabilities that produced enhanced soldiers.
Queen the Plague: MADS member who became All-Star of the Beast Pirates. Integrated plague weapons with cybernetic enhancement, creating hybrid combat capabilities.
And now: Victor—identified as "former MADS non-member." Someone who'd been affiliated with the organization but apparently not granted official membership status. Someone who'd achieved mechanical ascension and built a robot army capable of threatening Egghead Island itself.
Non-member, audiences processed. If a NON-MEMBER can achieve that level of technological sophistication, what about the actual official members we haven't seen yet?
The implications were staggering.
-Real World - World Government Headquarters-
Emergency meetings erupted across multiple departments simultaneously. Intelligence divisions scrambled to compile comprehensive lists. Personnel departments drafted recruitment offers. The Five Elders issued direct orders: Find every MADS member. Current location, status, political alignment. We need them ALL.
"How many were there?" one official demanded, rifling through incomplete archives. "Official members? Non-members? Associates? Anyone who ever set foot in a MADS laboratory?"
"Records are fragmented," another admitted. "The organization was technically illegal. Most members used aliases. Collaboration was secretive. We have confirmed identities for maybe a dozen individuals. Could be fifty more we don't know about."
"Then FIND THEM!" The order came from higher authority. "Victor was a non-member—essentially an intern or lab assistant—and look what he became. Imagine what the actual senior researchers could accomplish if they turned against us."
The scramble was desperate. Undignified. But necessary.
We've been treating MADS as criminal organization to be suppressed, officials realized. When we should have been recruiting them. Offering them resources and legitimacy in exchange for loyalty.
Now they're scattered. Some working for pirates. Some independent. Some—like Victor—apparently hostile. And we have no idea which ones might become threats.
The lesson was being learned too late: genius couldn't be controlled through suppression. Only through incentive. And the World Government had wasted decades trying to contain rather than cultivate scientific talent.
-Real World - Various Viewing Locations-
For most people across the world, the robot army's appearance triggered different reaction than strategic concern: alienation.
The concept of mechanical life was simply too foreign for populations that barely understood steam engines. Technology existed, yes, but as rare luxury rather than common tool. Most people lived and died without ever seeing a robot or advanced machinery.
Cyborgs were familiar—fighters who replaced damaged limbs with mechanical alternatives, gaining enhanced strength or built-in weapons. That made sense. Pragmatic augmentation of human body.
But mechanical ascension? Transferring human consciousness into pure machine form? That was the domain of mad philosophy rather than practical reality.
"Why would anyone WANT to become a robot?" someone asked in a bar, watching Victor's third arm deploy weapons systems. "You'd lose everything that makes you human. Sensation. Taste. The feeling of sun on your skin."
"Maybe that's the point," another countered. "No pain. No aging. No death. Just eternal existence without biological weakness."
"That's not life. That's just... continuing."
The debate continued across countless locations. But the core sentiment remained consistent: this technology is alien. These mechanical beings are other. Not human. Not understandable.
Which makes them terrifying, audiences concluded. Because we can't predict their motivations. Can't relate to their perspective. Can't negotiate using normal human incentives.
How do you threaten someone who doesn't fear death? How do you bargain with intelligence that doesn't desire wealth or pleasure?
The questions had no comfortable answers.
-Real World - Marine Headquarters-
Admiral Borsalino stared at Ultron's image, memory stirring.
"I fought him," he said suddenly, drawing attention from nearby officers. "On Drum Island. Didn't recognize him at the time—thought he was just advanced combat robot. But that intelligence..."
He gestured at the Sky Screen showing Ultron coordinating thousands of units simultaneously. "That level of tactical sophistication doesn't come from simple programming. He was THINKING. Adapting. Learning from my attacks in real-time."
"You fought Ultron?" Sengoku leaned forward. "What happened?"
"He killed King Wapol right in front of me. Consumed his body—literally ATE him using some kind of molecular disassembly process. Acquired the Baku Baku no Mi (Munch-Munch Fruit) in the process."
Borsalino's usual lazy drawl had sharpened into something approaching concern. "The fruit lets users consume anything and either store it or integrate it into their body. For a mechanical intelligence? That's terrifying. He can EAT technology and incorporate it. Consume weapons and understand how they work. Devour entire research facilities and absorb their knowledge."
The implications settled heavily. "And years later, he's commanding ten thousand robots. Building Sentinels specifically designed to counter Admiral-class fighters. That's not just growth—that's exponential development."
Sengoku studied the frozen image. "The Munch-Munch Fruit would let him consume and analyze Vegapunk's technology. That's probably how he built the Sentinels—ate some Pacifists, reverse-engineered them, improved the design."
"And if he's doing that with technology," Tsuru added, "what happens when he starts consuming Devil Fruit users? Can he acquire multiple fruits by eating the users rather than the fruits themselves?"
Nobody wanted to answer that question.
Vice Admiral Doll's performance had been analyzed extensively by Marine tactical divisions. The conclusions were uncomfortable.
"She barely held against TWO robots," one analyst summarized. "Standard combat units, not even Sentinels. And she's a Vice Admiral—supposedly one of our stronger officers."
The recording replayed: Doll using Busoshoku Haki, dodging laser fire, fighting desperately. Competent. Professional. But clearly outmatched once robot numbers exceeded her capacity to engage.
"Against ten units, she'd be overwhelmed within minutes. Against fifty? Seconds. The math is brutal—even skilled fighters have limits when facing numerical superiority with technological advantages."
"Which explains why the New Marine invested so heavily in scientific weapons," someone concluded. "The middle tier is too weak. Vice Admirals can't hold critical positions against modern threats. So they had to develop technological force multipliers—Pacifists, Seraphim, griffin cavalry—to compensate for human limitations."
"And the Twelve Admirals become even more precious," another added. "If your entire officer corps below Admiral rank can be overwhelmed by sufficient numbers of advanced robots, you NEED multiple Admiral-class fighters to cover critical positions simultaneously."
The strategic logic was sound. Depressing, but sound.
We built a military force around human potential, Marines understood. But human potential has limits. Technology doesn't.
The question is whether we can adapt fast enough. Whether we can develop our OWN technology before our enemies' technology makes us obsolete.
-Real World - Mary Geoise, Celestial Dragon Safe Zone-
The Celestial Dragons—gods in their own minds, masters of the world government—had gathered in unusual concentration. Not by choice but by fear.
The Mary Geoise Incident preview had shown their holy land burning. Shown pirate armies invading their supposedly impregnable fortress. Shown Celestial Dragons dying alongside everyone else despite their divine status.
We're targets, even the most delusional among them had realized. When the attack comes, pirates won't spare us because we're special. They'll TARGET us BECAUSE we're special.
Some had tried fleeing. Abandoning Mary Geoise for safer locations before the prophesied battle.
The Five Elders had shut that down immediately. Called them back. Issued direct orders: Everyone stays. The holy land is defensible. Scattering just makes you easier to pick off individually.
So now they sat in centralized location—a grand hall converted into a defensive position, surrounded by CP0 agents and Knights of God, watching Sky Screen broadcasts like everyone else.
The atmosphere was toxic. Fear mixing with arrogance. Desperation mixing with contempt. Nobles who normally avoided each other forced into proximity by shared vulnerability.
And currently, they were watching Admiral Wendy—the Celestial Dragon who'd apparently joined the Marine.
"I thought the traitor branch had found some impressive backer," Saint Shalria of the Rosward family sneered, her voice dripping with disdain. "But this? Admiral 'Seiryū' is a CHILD. A little girl with blue hair. This is what passes for Admiral material in the future?"
Her disgust was palpable. "Is the Marine so desperate they're using half-blood Celestial Dragons as decoration? Marketing gimmick to claim divine backing?"
Several other Celestial Dragons laughed. Nervous laughter, but laughter nonetheless. Mockery felt safer than acknowledging their own fear.
"The Donquixote family was always weak," someone added. "Abandoned their divine status. Lived among commoners. This is what happens when you dilute the bloodline—you produce mediocre offspring who join the MILITARY like common soldiers."
More laughter. Crueler this time.
Saint Donquixote Mjosgard rigid in his seat, hands clenched on the armrests.
He'd reformed. Abandoned the casual cruelty that characterized most Celestial Dragons. Learned to see non-Celestials as human rather than livestock. But old instincts died hard, and Shalria's mockery was testing his patience severely.
"Be careful with your words," he said quietly, voice tight with controlled anger. "Oh, wait—I just remembered. According to the Sky Screen, you die in Dressrosa. Some untrained slave apparently beats you to death. Ironic, isn't it? All that divine superiority, and you can't even defend yourself against livestock."
Silence fell. Several Celestial Dragons turned to stare.
Shalria's face flushed. "How DARE—"
"How dare I speak truth?" Mjosgard's voice grew harder. "You mock my sister for serving in the Marine. For earning Admiral rank. Meanwhile, YOU can't survive without CP0 protection. You're sitting here because you're SCARED. Because you know that without servants to fight for you, any random pirate could end your life."
He stood, looming over her despite social protocols that normally prevented such confrontations.
"Wendy has a Mythical Zoan Devil Fruit. She's trained with actual fighters. She's earned respect through capability rather than demanding it through bloodline. And you—YOU mock her while hiding behind guards, hoping the Marines you despise will save you when pirates come calling."
"She's a traitor!" Shalria shot back. "The Donquixote family abandoned their status! They're not TRUE Celestial Dragons anymore!"
"We're more Celestial Dragon than you'll ever be," Mjosgard countered. "Because we understand what nobility is SUPPOSED to mean. Not just power without responsibility. Not just taking without giving. But DUTY. SERVICE. Protecting those who can't protect themselves."
He gestured at the gathered Celestial Dragons. "Look at us. Dozens of 'divine beings' huddled together because we're too weak to defend ourselves. Dependent on the very Marines and agents we treat like servants. Praying that the slaves we've abused won't remember our faces when the holy land burns."
"That's TREASON," someone hissed.
"That's REALITY," Mjosgard shot back. "The Sky Screen showed our future. And in that future, we're targets. Not because we're evil—though many of us are—but because we're WEAK. We have power through structure and position, but no actual strength. The moment that structure fails, we're just privileged livestock waiting for slaughter."
The uncomfortable truth hung in the air.
An older Celestial Dragon—Saint Marcus, head of one of the founding families—cleared his throat. "While Mjosgard's tone is... inappropriate... his analysis isn't entirely wrong."
Several gasps. Elders rarely sided with reformist perspectives.
"The Mary Geoise preview showed our vulnerability," Marcus continued. "We've become dependent on others for protection. Most of us couldn't survive a day without servants. That's not divine superiority—that's cultivated helplessness."
He gestured at the Sky Screen. "This Wendy girl—regardless of her bloodline purity—has done what we've failed to do: become genuinely capable. She doesn't NEED protection because she's become protector herself."
"But she serves the MILITARY," someone protested. "She takes orders from commoners!"
"She LEADS the military," Marcus corrected. "Admiral rank means she commands thousands. Makes strategic decisions. Fights at the highest level. That's not servitude—that's power. Real power. Not the borrowed power we wield through others."
The distinction was subtle but important.
"Our ancestors conquered the world," Marcus continued. "They were WARRIORS. Fighters who earned their position through strength. We've forgotten that. Become soft. Relied on inherited status rather than cultivated ability."
He looked around the room. "And now, when crisis approaches, we huddle together hoping someone else will save us. That's pathetic. That's everything our ancestors would despise."
The shame was visible on several faces. Not all—many remained defiantly arrogant—but enough to matter.
"So maybe," Marcus concluded, "we should spend less time mocking the Celestial Dragon who became strong enough to protect herself, and more time learning from her example. Before we learn the hard way that divine status means nothing against enemies who don't recognize our authority."
The gathering fell into uncomfortable silence. The Sky Screen continued playing—showing Egghead Island's battle, Homelander fighting Sentinels, Victor pursuing Vegapunk.
But the Celestial Dragons watched with different perspective now. Less as divine observers viewing mortal struggles, more as vulnerable creatures watching the predators who would eventually hunt them.
We're not special, some thought for the first time. We're just... lucky. And luck runs out.
Outside the hall, CP0 agents and Knights of God maintained their vigil. Professional. Capable. Ready to die protecting their charges.
But even they wondered privately: How many of these gods would survive if we weren't here? How long would their divine status protect them against pirates who've spent lifetimes being oppressed by that very status?
The answer was obvious. Uncomfortable. Terrifying.
Not long. Not long at all.