“We don’t know how to get you home. We don’t know if a return is possible, or if crossing timelines has already changed you in ways that make return unsafe. Right now, we’re collecting data slowly, carefully. I promise we’ll look for answers, but we can’t rush that.” you keep the impossible brief and move on.

  “But before we even begin to work on the question of ‘home’… we need to talk about the world you’ve nded in.”

  “Most of human civilization is gone.”My voice stays level, not because it’s easy to say, but because everyone here deserves the truth without dressing. “Cities are dead zones. Infection blooms in dense poputions. My group survived by staying mobile and staying far away from popution centers.”

  You gnce across the room; a few hands tighten on knees, chairs, sleeves. Good — they’re listening.

  “The military didn’t just fight zombies. Under the CDC’s forged authority, they set up roadblocks. Those roadblocks didn’t check symptoms. They didn’t triage. They identified people with potential resistance to the infection and captured them.” Faces go still.

  “And once captured, many were… ‘harvested.’ Privately. Quietly. Genetic material, tissue samples, whatever Harmon’s science teams could carve out.” My jaw flexes, but I keep my voice steady.

  “At the time, we didn’t know why. We didn’t know who was behind the falsified orders. We only knew soldiers were following them with blind faith.” A moment.

  “Now we know that Harmon wasn’t just power-hungry, he was corrupted. But we didn’t have that confirmed until the battle already started.” Kurumi’s eye glints. Shinobu’s hands fold tightly in her p.

  I continue. “Because my team included dimensional travelers, people who are recognizable, valuable, or symbolically powerful, I took special precautions with every survivor we met.”

  I nod toward Rin, Maria, Mikasa, Asia. “Some of you are very famous. Some are incredibly beautiful. Some have abilities others would kill to control. In a colpsing world, that paints a target on your backs. Humanity is more dangerous than any zombie.”

  The room absorbs that like a quiet shiver.

  “When we raided the Coast Guard station, we found the paperwork. Evacuation logs. Capture protocols. Their bel for dimensional travelers was ‘Dimensional Transition Syndrome.’ Clinical. Sterile. A medical disguise for the fact that they were holding, or expecting to hold, anime characters made real.” Robin’s fingers twitch. Nami swallows. Yoruichi’s brow tightens.

  “The terminology dehumanized you before they even captured you.” I let that sit.

  “And then this morning we broadcast the truth. Everything we had. Across all channels.” I shake my head.

  “No response from the main station. Nothing. Dead air.” I gesture toward Webb and Reeves.

  “Instead, these two reached out to us. They were already investigating the CDC. Already questioning Harmon’s orders. Already seeing the cracks.”

  Webb nods once, confirming without interrupting.Reeves’ posture remains rigid, but he doesn’t look away.

  “They weren’t blind loyalists,” I continue. “They already suspected something was wrong. We just connected the missing pieces.” The room settles into a tense, heavy silence, I let sit for a moment.

  “I'm presuming from what I've seen, on the Navy’s ships. They’ve spent this week trying to maintain order. Documenting infections. Controlling personnel. Clinging to chain of command even though their governments are gone. Not colpsed - gone.” Webb’s jaw works involuntarily. Reeves’ grip tightens on his arms.

  “They still have military strength - for now - but no fuel resupply. No logistical chain. No pay structure. No authority backing their hierarchy. Modern ships run on diesel or gas, both of which are finite and cut off.”

  I shake my head. “At best, they have a few weeks before they’re forced to abandon the rgest vessels. Food will run out. Fuel will run out. Discipline will erode. And when hierarchy fails, the soldiers left behind will choose survival over a rank insignia.”

  Another silence unfolds - heavy, sobering.

  You let the silence linger after the final introduction. Twenty-three dimensional travelers, traumatized, disoriented, and dangerous in a hundred different ways, sit in absolute stillness. Then shift your weight and direct your attention squarely at Webb and Reeves.

  The camera is still recording. Everyone in the room knows it.

  “This morning,” you begin, voice clear and steady, “I made a deal with Captain Webb and Colonel Reeves. I enchant their ship, support the rescue fight with magic… and in return, I take custody of the dimensional travelers.”

  A few of the rescued women flinch - Rin and Maria expected this, but for most, this is the first time hearing the word custody spoken aloud.

  "To crify," you continue, voice firm, "I have no intention of forcing you to stay with us. But I did want to make sure you weren't being passed from one chain of command to another. Militaries are single-minded about control. I’ve never liked that mentality."

  You gesture toward the assembled dimensional travelers.

  "I'll see you all to the mainnd where you can make your choices. Stay with us, go your own way, or try to find passage home if that's even possible. Your decision."

  Then you turn back to Webb and Reeves, and your tone sharpens.

  "We've reached the point where we now have to ask the two of you-" You pause deliberately. "-are you going to keep your side of the deal and let us off? Or are you going to try and bluff your government authority to 'force cooperation'?"

  You make the air quotes obvious, the implication of svery unmistakable.

  Webb's jaw tightens. Reeves' expression remains unreadable, but his posture shifts slightly.

  The room is dead silent.

  Webb exhales slowly, then meets your eyes. "The deal stands," he says ftly. "We're not the CDC. We're not Harmon. You upheld your part of the bargain—the Portnd is now the most advanced vessel on the pnet. We're not going to repay that by imprisoning traumatized civilians."

  Reeves steps forward, arms still crossed. "But let's be clear about something, Collins. We're not idiots. We know what you're doing right now."

  You keep your expression neutral.

  "You're forcing us to commit publicly," Reeves continues. "On camera. So if we renege ter, it's documented proof we're liars. Smart move."

  He doesn't sound angry—he sounds almost approving.

  Reeves gnces at the camera—not turning fully toward it, but acknowledging it.“For the record,” he says, voice steady but subdued, “what remains of the United States Navy has no intention of detaining, coercing, or restricting the freedom of the dimensional travelers. They are not prisoners. They are survivors.”

  Webb nods. "Agreed. We'll transport everyone to Crescent City. After that, they're free to leave, stay, or make their own arrangements."

  Reeves' gaze shifts back to you. "But I'll also say this—some of them might choose to stay with us. Not because we forced them, but because the Navy still has structure, resources, and defensible ships. If someone asks to join our ranks voluntarily, we're not going to turn them away."

  “That’s their choice,” you reply—and then you don’t stop.

  You shift your stance, and your voice cools enough to make several dimensional travelers gnce your way.

  “But unlike them,” you continue, “I know exactly what you’re doing right now.”

  Reeves’ eyebrow twitches—just slightly.

  “You’re framing this as structure. Protection. Community.”You keep your eyes locked on him.“But you’re leaving out the most important part: context.”

  The room goes silent again.

  “So let me be absolutely clear,” you continue.“I’m going to insist on being present for those conversations.Not to forbid anyone from joining you—but to make damn sure they get an informed choice.”

  You gesture vaguely toward the ceiling—toward the whole colpsing world.

  “Because right now? None of them know what it means to join a military whose country no longer exists.And you’re not expining that part.”

  Webb’s jaw tightens. Reeves remains still.

  You don’t let the silence grow stale.

  “And since we’re already talking about choices… let’s move on.”

  Your gaze sweeps both officers.

  “How long do you think your soldiers will stay obedient once they realize the truth?No United States paycheck.No government.No economy for them to spend their savings in.No fuel resupply.No repcement parts for your ships.No authority backing any rank insignia.”

  Your tone stays calm—too calm.

  “What happens when they realize their rations and diesel are finite?When patrols start refusing orders?When the first hungry crew abandons a destroyer because they can’t justify keeping her staffed?”

  Reeves takes a slow breath, his gaze sharpening as the truth finally hits him—not the abstract, not the theoretical, but the practical, terrifying, unavoidable truth.

  “…Collins,” he says quietly, “you’re not talking about our ship running out.”

  Your expression changes.

  Not smug.Not triumphant.

  Relieved.Because finally, they’ve caught up.

  “Good,” you say. “Really good. I’ve been waiting for that.”

  Both officers watch you closely.

  “I’m not gloating,” you continue. “I needed you both to understand. To see what I realized days ago—the actual scope of these enchantments. And the consequences that come with them.”

  You gesture toward the windows, toward the men and women outside.

  “But don’t get the wrong idea. Those sailors aren’t following you. They’re not following me either. They haven’t had time to, feel, the enchantments effects yet.”A beat.“They’re only perceiving the small stuff—the sharpness in their thinking, the easier breathing, the way their gear already looks cleaner than it should. Just the surface effects.”

  You hold up a hand.

  “The real impact comes ter. When the water stays pure, the engines never sputter, the lights never flicker, and the food is a luxury they don't require, when they realize they've stopped aging.”

  And finally—finally—the two officers’ expressions shift.

  Realization.Fear.Respect.All at once.

  “I don’t want command,” you say pinly. “I don’t want a chain of command under me. I don’t want bowing, or rank, or any of the crap you military types love so much.”

  You lean in slightly.

  “But I do want humanity to survive. And I know my value. Better than either of you did this morning.”

  Neither Webb nor Reeves argues.

  How could they?

  “The CDC did one thing right,” you say.“Just one. It hides behind all their atrocities, but it kept the electrical grid running.”

  Webb stiffens. Reeves shuts his eyes briefly.

  “Probably by imprisoning maintenance crews. Probably by threatening them. But guess what?” You shrug. “It kept water pnts running. It kept lights on in homes. It kept the grid alive long enough for people to barricade themselves instead of dying in the dark.”

  You shake your head. “This single ugly act—whatever the CDC did to keep those systems staffed—likely saved more lives than their human hunters killed.Not because they cared.

  Because infrastructure buys time.Time for people to lock doors.Time for neighborhoods to hold out.Time for survivors to survive.”

  You raise a hand and begin counting off fingers. “One: An enchanted fuel tanker becomes a mobile fuel generator. Not from nothing, but through energy conversion, turning sor and engine power into mana, then refuel, which produces proper-grade fuel slowly and continuously.”

  A second finger. “Two: Enchanted structural components under repair keep the tanker functional indefinitely. Scratches, dents, wear—gone, bit by bit.”

  A third finger. “Three: Conversion + repair + refuel + a tanker crew using sustenance? You just built the first self-sustaining mobile refinery on Earth.”

  You gnce at Reeves. “That’s why you agreed to this deal.Not for the travelers.Not for the magic.Not even for the Portnd.”

  Reeves swallows.

  “…yeah,” he says.

  Because now it’s undeniable.

  “I don’t want control,” you repeat. “But I know my value. And now, finally, you know it too.” You straighten. “Good. Now let’s stop pretending this is about authority… and start fixing the world.”

  Nami: Her hands tighten around her own arms, knuckles whitening. Brad’s talk of global navigation, tankers, supply lines, it hits something deep inside her: her identity as a navigator. But deeper than that? Fear. If this world can run ships indefinitely… then maybe there’s no path back to hers. She hides it well, but her gaze fixes on Brad with a new intensity, evaluating him the same way she once evaluated Arlong, Crocodile, and Luffy: Is this a man who can actually change the tides?

  Robin: Robin’s expression is serene, but her eyes are razor-wire sharp. She sees the political implications immediately. A single man, one without a government, now holds the keys to infrastructure, food, fuel, and stability. That makes him: A leader. A threat. A historical inevitability. Her curiosity sharpens. Is Brad building a civilization deliberately… or is this simply him trying to survive responsibly? She studies every word, every inflection. He reminds her, disturbingly, of someone like Rayleigh: someone who refuses power but still shapes the world.

  Rika: Rika’s reaction is immediate, precise, and controlled. Her eyes narrow as Brad talks about infrastructure, fuel, and supply lines. Every word is assessed through the lens of survival, logistics, and military practicality. She doesn’t show awe. She shows calcution. Can this “one man” really provide operational stability? How much of this is illusion, and how much is sustainable? Who will protect these convoys if they’re attacked? Her hand lightly rests near her rifle—instinct, habit, readiness. She’s thinking several steps ahead: personnel, rationing, choke points, the risks of mutiny. A small, almost imperceptible nod: she acknowledges the value of Brad’s abilities—but also the danger. He isn’t just a resource; he is a pivotal node in human survival. Quietly, to herself, she mutters: "If this works, it’s not luck. It’s precision. And if it fails, people will die because of him." She shifts her stance slightly toward the group, protective but vigint, ready to act if necessary. Her respect is earned, not given—her trust must be justified through results.

  Sinon: Sinon’s reaction is yered and complicated. She listens to talk of fuel, logistics, firearms, infrastructure, all things tied to war, tactics, and survival. But two realizations hit her hard: She is the game version. She was created for a world where ammo, guns, and logistics are abstractions. Here, they matter. Brad is not just powerful— he is strategically literate in ways commanders are. That terrifies her. Because if she is just a “character” brought to life… Brad is someone who can shape armies and civilizations. And she wonders, suddenly, quietly, painfully: …what am I supposed to be in a world like that?"

  SnafuSam