Spandine, as CP9's director, wasn't exactly a big fish in the World Government pond—more like a medium-sized carp flopping around the bureaucracy.
Dimon lounged behind the man's desk, quietly sifting his memories. Sadly, the title didn't come with premium intel; Spandine's clearance ended before the real playbook began.
Even so, one thread gleamed: the World Economic Journal headline about "Shakky's arrest" was, in fact, a Navy stratagem executed via CP9 assets. When CP9 knocked, the Journal opened its doors, cooperated, and—crucially—throttled the distribution. The hoax was seeded where it mattered, making sure the Roger Pirates saw it without kicking off a planet-wide frenzy.
"Just as I guessed," Dimon twirled the quill between his fingers. "They're exploiting the era's slow comms—one paper rules the tide, and you steer the tide."
Unless, of course, Shakky herself made contact and shouted, "It's fake!"… but the Navy had set an urgent trial window. Odds of a clean warning landing in time? Slim.
And what if Roger and Shakky had each other's Den Den Mushi numbers?
"They don't," Dimon snorted. "If Roger had Shakky's line, he'd be ringing morning, noon, and night." Licking dogs lick; they don't collect phone numbers.
A crisp knock cut his thoughts.
"Enter," he called—perfectly mimicking Spandine's nasal tone. With the man's memories slotted, wearing his mannerisms was easy.
The door opened on a striking woman. "Vice Admiral (Brigadier) Gion, codename 'Momousagi'." She stood with a squad at her back, then waved them to guard the hall before stepping inside.
"Director Spandine, we're requisitioning your office as the command room for this operation," she said with a polite, steel-backed smile. "I'll have to ask you to vacate."
Kick "me" out of "my" office? Dimon almost laughed. Should've climbed higher, Spandine—this is what a middling grade buys you.
"May I participate?" he asked, pushing the man's peevishness into his voice.
"That would require Admiral Sengoku's approval," Gion replied smoothly. "This is a Navy operation. CP9 will assist."
Translation: no.
Dimon rose, gave a theatrical huff worthy of Spandine, then paused at her shoulder. "One question—how long?"
She didn't hide it; as the nominal chief here, the schedule was no secret. "Five days. But Roger could appear anytime, so we remain at high alert."
"Understood," Dimon said, and ceded the room.
He strolled along the tower's corridor, gazing toward the Bridge of Hesitation. Marines swarmed like ants—rank upon rank of steel and cloth.
"So many bodies… one blast of Conqueror's and out they go. Hm?"
He narrowed his eyes. Three familiar silhouettes marched across the bridge.
Admirals. Well—future Admirals. Aokiji, Kizaru, Akainu: younger uniforms, smaller insignia.
"So early already? Kuzan's a Major… Sakazuki and Borsalino, both Commanders?"
Each led a detachment off their warships and crossed the bridge toward the main island muster. Had they eaten their fruits yet? Dimon settled on the sill to watch the parade.
The first true heavyweight to arrive was 'Black Arm' Zephyr. Soon after, a warship disgorged Sengoku. Thirty minutes later: Tsuru and her women's corps, then a cluster of giant Vice Admirals whose faces Dimon half-remembered from a war that hadn't happened yet.
A prison hulk came next. A stern man disembarked, heavy with pressure—Admiral-class, or nearly.
Dimon crooked a finger at a nearby sentry. "Who is that?"
"Director Spandine, sir!" The sailor snapped a salute, followed Dimon's gaze, and replied, "That's Director Columbus of Impel Down! He rarely appears topside—no surprise you haven't met."
"Strong?"
The soldier nodded fervently. "Superhuman Blood-Blood Fruit. People say it's a Paramecia that behaves almost like a Logia. If he'd joined the fleet instead of the prison, he'd be an Admiral by now!"
So—before Magellan, the warden's name was Columbus. Dimon's mouth twitched. Columbus then Magellan? Someone upstairs had a sense of humor.
"Dismissed," he waved the sailor off, eyes lingering on Columbus. A Paramecia that acts like a Logia… close to Mochi territory, then? To catch Roger, they'd even pulled the Warden from hell's gate.
"Right. The blank century is the Government's real taboo. Before 'Pirate King,' Roger was just one of the Five Peaks, and nobody moved like this."
Now he'd reached Laugh Tale—and suddenly the velvet gloves were off.
Another ship nosed through the Gates of Justice, but not a Marine hull—World Government, white-suited passengers under strange masks.
"CP0, too?" Dimon lifted a brow. "For what?"
The three agents disembarked, ghosted through the muster, and came straight to him.
"Spandine, come with us."
"Bring us to a chamber that no one enters. Government black-box."
"Follow me," Dimon said, Spandine-smooth.
He led them, memory-true, to a sealed room beneath the tower—a torture chamber, honestly—peopled by rusted iron, leather straps, and a smell that crawled into your lungs and refused to leave.
"Here you are. What now?"
"Not your concern," said the tallest—over five meters—producing a giant brush from inside his robe. He knelt and began to ink a sigil across the stone.
A black array bloomed under the bristles.
Dimon's eyes cooled. A transport sigil. They were about to summon.
"Calling the Holy Knights, are we?" he thought.
That was that, then.
The Roger Pirates were finished.
If they came, they were done. No path out, no fog to hide in—only a noose of Marines, Warden, Admirals, CP0, and the swords behind the throne descending through a drawn circle.
And Dimon—smiling with Spandine's face—settled in to watch the curtain rise.
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