-Real World - Mary Geoise, Conference Room-
While Marineford's attention fixated on the two female Admirals, the Shichibukai gathered in Mary Geoise experienced very different priorities.
The Seraph revelation wasn't news to Marine leadership—they'd known about the project for years, participated in its development, understood its strategic purpose. Seeing it confirmed by Sky Screen merely validated existing knowledge.
But for the Shichibukai whose genetics had been stolen to create those weapons? This was the first time learning their bodies had been violated. Their bloodlines weaponized. Their identities stolen and repurposed as tools for the very government they'd made uneasy alliances with.
They made children wearing our faces, was the universal realization. Made slaves branded with our identities.
The reactions varied by temperament. But they all shared common core: fury.
Boa Hancock stared at the Sky Screen showing S-Boa—the child clone fighting with her techniques, wearing her face, serving the Celestial Dragons who'd once enslaved her.
The Empress's legendary beauty had transformed into something terrible. Her face, normally the most beautiful in the world, twisted with expression that made observers instinctively step back. Rage and horror and violation mixing into cocktail of emotion too intense for single word to describe.
They took my genetics, her mind kept repeating. Stole pieces of my body. Created a CHILD who looks like I did when the Celestial Dragons owned me. When they branded me. When they—
She couldn't complete the thought. Couldn't process the full implications without her sanity fracturing.
The clone wore her childhood appearance. The age she'd been when slavery ended. When she'd finally escaped the nightmare.
And they recreated it. Made a version of me trapped at that age forever. Fighting for them. Serving them. A permanent reminder that even my freedom isn't real because they still own PART of me.
Her hands clenched. The Mero Mero no Mi (Love-Love Fruit) activated involuntarily, pink energy crackling around her body as her emotional control disintegrated.
I want to petrify everyone. Every Celestial Dragon. Every Marine. Every person who knew about this and said NOTHING.
The conference room doors opened. Two CP0 agents entered—white-suited, masked, moving with the arrogant confidence of men who'd never faced real consequences.
Hancock didn't think. Didn't calculate. Just acted.
"Pistol Kiss!"
Her fingers formed a gun shape. Pink heart-shaped projectiles erupted from her fingertips, crossing the distance in microseconds.
The first CP0 agent turned to stone instantly. One moment human, the next a marble statue frozen mid-step, expression of surprise permanent immortalized.
The second agent barely had time to process what happened before cold stone that used to be his partner crashed to the floor, shattering into fragments.
"YOU!" Hancock's voice was raw, stripped of the usual imperious control. "You LACKEYS of the Celestial Dragons! Tell me RIGHT NOW—how did you steal my genetics? How many spies are planted in Amazon Lily? How DARE you violate me like this!"
Each word was punctuated by more pink energy. The room's temperature seemed to drop as pure killing intent radiated from the Empress.
"You're BEASTS," she continued, voice breaking slightly. "Animals who think you can take whatever you want from anyone. Who think consent doesn't matter. Who think I'm still PROPERTY you can harvest and use!"
The surviving CP0 agent backed toward the exit, suddenly aware that his authority meant nothing to someone experiencing psychological breakdown.
She's going to kill me, he realized. This woman is going to petrify me and nobody in this room will stop her.
He wasn't wrong.
Crocodile watched the replay of S-Crocodile dying. Watched the child-version of himself sacrifice his life to save a Marine officer.
A pirate dying for a Marine.
The concept was so fundamentally wrong that his mind initially refused to process it. Then the implications settled in, and rage replaced confusion.
"That's not me," he said quietly, voice carrying deadly undertones. "That thing wearing my face—that's not ME. I would never, NEVER sacrifice myself for a Marine. They programmed that clone WRONG."
But the deeper violation wasn't the behavioral programming. It was the theft itself.
His eyes shifted to Doflamingo—former Celestial Dragon, current Shichibukai, too-convenient ally who always seemed to know more than he shared.
"Don't tell me," Crocodile's voice dropped to a growl, "that this is your first time seeing Seraphim. That you—a CELESTIAL DRAGON—knew nothing about this project. That you're just as surprised as the rest of us."
The accusation hung heavy. Every Shichibukai in the room turned toward Doflamingo, expressions ranging from suspicious to openly hostile.
"These are YOUR people's creations," Crocodile continued. "The Five Elders. The World Government. YOUR former family. And you expect us to believe you weren't involved? That you didn't help them steal our blood?"
Doflamingo removed his sunglasses—a gesture he only made when being completely serious. His eyes, usually hidden behind rose-tinted lenses, were cold and calculating.
"I had no knowledge of the Seraph Project," he said flatly. "None. I may have been born Celestial Dragon, but I was cast out decades ago. They don't trust me with their deepest secrets. Never have."
"Convenient," someone muttered.
"It's TRUE," Doflamingo's voice sharpened. "You think if I'd known about this, I wouldn't have monetized it? Wouldn't have sold the information to the highest bidder? I'm a businessman, not a loyalist. If the World Government was stealing Shichibukai genetics, I'd have wanted my CUT."
The mercenary honesty was almost convincing. Almost.
"Besides," he continued, "look at what they created. First-generation Seraphim based on us. Second-generation that rivals GODS. This level of technological advancement? I didn't even know it was possible. Vegapunk's been hiding capabilities far beyond what the underground intelligence networks reported."
He gestured at the Sky Screen showing Homelander. "That's what the second generation looks like. Solar-core heat vision. Flight. Strength that tears through steel like paper. They went from 'copies of Shichibukai' to 'artificial deities' in one development cycle. That's not normal progress—that's breakthrough that took YEARS of secret research."
Crocodile wasn't finished being angry. Another detail had caught his attention—one that hurt on personal level.
"The Supa Supa no Mi," he said, voice tight. "S-Hawk has the Dice-Dice Fruit. My subordinate Daz Bones's power. That fruit's user is still ALIVE. Still working for me. So either..."
He didn't finish the sentence. The implications were too dark.
Either they steal Devil Fruits from living users somehow. Or Daz dies in the future and they harvested his fruit afterward. Or they've found way to replicate Devil Fruits entirely without killing the original user.
All three possibilities were horrifying for different reasons.
"Mr. 1 is my most loyal subordinate," Crocodile continued quietly. "If something happens to him... if the World Government is responsible..."
The threat remained unspoken but clear. Crocodile valued loyalty above almost everything. Losing Daz Bones—especially to government conspiracy—would push him past the point of maintaining even pretense of cooperation.
Jinbei, alone among the Shichibukai, maintained his composure. Watched the revelations with calm that came from decades of political experience and natural inclination toward measured response.
They took my genetics too, he acknowledged. S-Shark exists. But how? When?
Fish-Men didn't visit Marine facilities casually. Didn't give blood samples to World Government doctors. The opportunities for genetic theft were limited compared to human Shichibukai who interacted with government officials regularly.
They must have collected genetic material covertly. Hair samples. Skin cells. Blood from bandages after battles. Anything I left behind that could be harvested.
The violation was real. But Jinbei's response was analytical rather than emotional.
S-Shark has the Sui Sui no Mi, he observed. Swim-Swim Fruit that Senor Pink uses. Paramecia-type allowing swimming through solid surfaces. Combined with Fish-Man strength and Lunarian defensive traits.
That's actually brilliant tactical design. Take Fish-Man aquatic advantages, add universal swimming through ANY surface, enhance with near-invulnerability. Creates combatant who's mobile in ANY environment.
He studied the child-clone objectively. "The abilities they gave him are well-chosen. Whoever designed the Seraph program understands strategic optimization."
The compliment felt strange. Like praising the craftsmanship of chains designed to enslave you.
But Jinbei prided himself on intellectual honesty. "The technology is impressive. The ethics are abhorrent. Both things can be true."
Nobody else in the room shared his balanced perspective. They were too angry for nuance.
Dracule Mihawk watched S-Hawk's combat performance with critical eye of someone evaluating potential opponent.
The child-clone launched a massive slash without verbal technique declaration. Good—wasted words meant wasted time in real combat. The attack carried substantial force, enough to split mountains.
But then Victor's gravity field crushes him effortlessly, Mihawk observed. No resistance. No adaptation. Just immediate suppression.
Disappointment settled in his chest. Not anger like the others felt, but something almost worse: contempt.
"Fakes," he said quietly, voice cutting through the room's chaos. "They're just fakes. Sophisticated fakes, yes. Dangerous fakes, certainly. But ultimately just copies with locked potential."
He gestured at the frozen Sky Screen image. "That clone can replicate my techniques. Can wield a sword with decent proficiency. Might even defeat mid-tier opponents. But it will NEVER surpass me. Will never develop new techniques. Will never achieve mastery beyond what was programmed."
His yellow eyes—predator's eyes—scanned the room. "They've created tools wearing our faces. Not successors. Not rivals. Just... tools."
The assessment was cold. Clinical. But truthful.
Which doesn't excuse the theft, Mihawk acknowledged privately. Just means the theft was ultimately pointless. They stole our genetics to create inferior products.
His hand moved to Yoru—the black blade on his back. The motion was subtle. Casual. But every person in the room with combat experience recognized it immediately.
He's preparing to draw.
The remaining CP0 agent—the one Hancock hadn't petrified—noticed too. Tried to back toward the exit. Maintain neutral stance. Not provoke the World's Greatest Swordsman.
"The leakage of bloodline factors," Mihawk said conversationally, "is something that cannot be forgiven. Even normally patient people have limits."
Yoru left its sheath faster than most observers could track. The blade cut through air, through flesh, through bone, through air again.
The CP0 agent fell in two pieces. Clean bisection. Instantaneous death.
Blood painted the conference room floor. Stained the pristine marble. Created visceral reminder that these weren't politicians having academic debate—these were some of the world's most dangerous fighters deciding whether to remain allies with government that had violated them.
"Oops," Mihawk said without inflection. "My hand slipped."
The conference room descended into tense silence. Two CP0 agents dead. One petrified, one bisected. The Shichibukai radiating collective hostility that made the air feel thick.
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