Chapter 56:"An Immortal Needs Snacks Too"
In which Enel gets hungry, misses home, and decides to move an island into space.
Enel:
Far above the blue marble of the Earth, in a place where gravity whispered instead of growled and the stars blinked like polite but distant professors, Enel—self-proclaimed immortal of Skypiea—descended upon the silver desert of the moon with all the grandeur of a divine thunderclap.
Or at least, that was how he imagined it.
In truth, his arrival was slightly less awe-inspiring and slightly more... accidental. His enormous flying ship, Maxim, rumbled into a crater with the grace of a very large golden teacup being dropped from a considerable height. Smoke puffed. Dust swirled. The drums on Enel's back rattled ominously.
He stood atop the wreckage with his arms crossed, looking thoroughly pleased with himself, eyes half-lidded in that eternal expression of "Yes, I just conquered this rock, thank you very much."
"Ah," he breathed, drawing in a deep breath of absolutely nonexistent air, "the moon. My divine kingdom at last."
Then something moved.
It wasn't large, nor did it roar in challenge or explode with celestial fury (Enel would have respected that). No, it was... well, it was a squat, roundish being with a bushy moustache and the posture of someone who drank six cups of black tea and saluted the sun for fun.
"HALT, INTRUDER!" barked the tiny android, leaping onto a moon rock with all the flair of a seasoned actor announcing the third act of a particularly patriotic play. "You have trespassed upon territory held by the noble forces of Space Patrol Division 42!"
Enel blinked. Slowly. "...You're a tin teapot with a gun."
"I am First Lieutenant Spacey!" the little android corrected, puffing his metallic chest. "And I am currently engaged in warfare against the infamous and tyrannical Space Pirates. You, sir, are not wearing a badge. Therefore: suspect."
There was a long pause in which the word "suspect" hovered in the air like a drunken sparrow.
Then Enel laughed.
It wasn't a polite laugh. It was more of a "lightning bolts for breakfast" laugh. A laugh that echoed through the hollow moon crater like a thunderstorm had just discovered stand-up comedy.
"You mean to question me?" he said at last, golden rings clinking as he descended the slope with lazy grace. "I am Enel. immortal of Skypiea. The Moon belongs to me."
Spacey didn't blink. Mostly because he didn't have eyelids.
"You're under arrest for unauthorized occupation of Space Sector 8," Spacey said firmly, pulling out a rifle that looked like it had been assembled from leftover lunch trays and Christmas lights. "Prepare to be shocked."
Enel, who had been literally made of electricity for quite some time, found this deeply offensive.
So, naturally, he zapped the android.
A great crackling bolt of gold-blue lightning surged from his hand and struck Spacey full on. The crater flashed like a disco ball possessed by a storm immortal. Dust exploded. Moon rocks trembled.
And when it cleared...
Spacey was still standing.
He coughed. A bit of smoke curled from his mustache. His helmet was slightly tilted to the left.
"Rude," Spacey said sternly. "Very rude."
Enel stared.
There were few moments in the history of the universe when Enel—thunderous, arrogant, borderline unhinged—was actually stunned. This was one of them.
"You survived?" he asked, squinting.
"Of course I did," Spacey huffed. "I'm military-grade. Also, I've been shot by a space cannon. Twice."
And for the first time in a long, long time... Enel found himself intrigued.
Not threatened, of course. He was still a immortal, after all. But curious. He tilted his head like a cat about to prod something it wasn't supposed to.
"So… you fight pirates?" he asked.
"Yes."
"With those arms?"
Spacey narrowed his eyes. "Yes."
Enel scratched his chin. "Interesting."
-------------------------
At first, Enel thought Spacey was malfunctioning.
The little android had gone deathly quiet, his small digital eyes blinking once, then twice, as he knelt beside a shallow crater near the edge of the lunar ridge. Inside it were scorched pieces of metal, a cracked badge, and a tiny flag—burnt at the edges—bearing the emblem of the Space Patrol: a smiling asteroid holding a peace sign.
"They were good," Spacey murmured, barely louder than the windless silence around them. "Sergeant Bolt… Private Cranko… even Lieutenant Twinklemitts... they didn't stand a chance."
Enel, floating slightly above the ground like an annoyed specter of royalty, raised an eyebrow. "These were your... comrades?"
Spacey nodded. "The Space Pirates overwhelmed them. Vile scavengers—miners who strip planets, moons, even asteroids of their essence. They don't care what they destroy."
For a moment, Enel said nothing. He wasn't exactly a sympathetic type. Emotional stories usually rolled off him like water off a particularly smug duck. But when he turned and saw what the pirates had done—craters torn open, machinery scattered like broken toys, Vearth bleeding into the void like a silent scream—something shifted.
This was his moon now.
And someone had the audacity to scar it.
"How unfortunate," Enel said, voice low. "I was just starting to enjoy the view."
And that was when the fox attacked.
With a yipping cry that could only be described as aggressively smug, a long-bearded, top-hatted blur of red and white came leaping from behind a rock. He wore a suit festooned with glowing manometers and what looked like mining gear stolen from three different steampunk festivals.
He flipped midair with perfect piratical flair, wielding a bizarre-looking lance that buzzed with electric energy.
"Spacey!" the fox-like creature snarled. "Your scrap pile days are over!"
And then he turned to Enel. "And you—get off my property!"
Enel blinked.
Then the fox tried to impale him.
Bad idea.
There was a soft crackle of static, a flash of white, and suddenly the fox was skidding across the lunar surface, having been kicked squarely in the chest by the Thunder immortal himself.
"Touching a immortal," Enel muttered, "without permission. You're either very brave or very stupid."
The answer, as it turned out, was very stupid.
A second later, the horizon lit up with a massive explosion. A mine shaft, buried deep in the moon's crust, erupted in a plume of fire and debris—sending pieces of Vearth flying into the sky.
Enel stared.
A single grain of rich, dark Vearth landed at his feet.
He bent down slowly, picking it up between two fingers. His calm smile cracked. His eye twitched.
"…They. Are. Digging. My. Moon."
A heartbeat passed.
Then the sky exploded with thunder.
He didn't shout. He didn't monologue. He just moved—a streak of lightning arcing across the surface of the moon with blistering speed.
By the time Seamars recovered, Enel was already a storm in motion.
The Space Pirates were caught completely off-guard. They'd dealt with lunar patrols, weak androids, even a very angry moon worm. But they had never—never—faced a being who could turn himself into lightning incarnate.
One by one, pirate ships exploded as arcs of divine judgment lanced from Enel's fingertips.
Their drilling rigs fried into molten puddles.
Their energy cannons overloaded and detonated.
Seamars tried to rally them—"You fools, aim for the shiny earrings!"—but it was no use. They were not fighting a man. They were fighting a force of nature with a immortal complex and a grudge the size of Skypiea.
Enel hovered in the center of it all, arms outstretched, eyes glowing.
"Thou hast touched the land of the immortals," he said, voice rumbling with the weight of an ancient storm. "Now thou shalt taste divine punishment."
Spacey watched from a rocky ledge, adjusting his helmet with a whir of admiration.
"That's the weirdest divine smiting I've ever seen," he said, awestruck. "But... effective."
---------------------------------
If you thought Enel had a stop button, let me assure you—he didn't.
The thunder immortal of Skypiea, now self-declared celestial overlord of the moon, was still humming with righteous fury as he stood among the shattered remains of what used to be a pirate mining colony. The crater was still smoking. The air—if you could call the thin lunar atmosphere that—crackled with leftover static.
First Lieutenant Spacey, bless his robotic little heart, finally rebooted with a heroic chime and pulled himself to his feet. His army helmet was askew, his mustache slightly singed, but he managed a respectable salute.
"On behalf of the fallen lunar defense force and our professor," he said, straightening his dented badge, "thank you, noble deity, for your divine assistance."
Enel turned his head slowly. His face was unreadable. His eye twitched once.
Then he electrocuted them all.
A blinding bolt of electricity shot from his fingertips and zapped Spacey and his surviving robot buddies with the kind of casual cruelty you'd expect from someone who thinks "thank you" is a personal insult.
Smoke wafted off the robots as they lay twitching, static squeaking from their speakers.
"…Ow," Spacey muttered, his legs sparking slightly.
Enel, meanwhile, had already lost interest.
He floated down into the smoldering crater, his body crackling with residual voltage. The opening in the ground revealed something far more intriguing than metal thieves and robotic sidekicks.
It was a city.
No, not just a city—a forgotten metropolis, hidden deep beneath the moon's surface, carved into the rock with ancient architecture that looked like a mix between alien temples and sky island ruins. There were statues of beings with long ears and mechanical wings. Towers rose and fell like silent echoes of a civilization that had once dared to exist without him.
Naturally, Enel did the only reasonable thing.
He attacked it.
With a smirk, he raised his hand, and with a sound like the universe taking a deep breath through a bass speaker, unleashed a divine lightning strike that ripped through the cavern.
The bolt snaked across the walls, lighting up carvings and metalwork like Christmas decorations on caffeine. Sparks danced across the stone streets, running deep into the ruins, humming through copper veins buried beneath the ground.
Enel waited for the boom.
What he got… was a "bing."
Then another. And another.
Mechanical joints clicked to life. Stone creaked. Dust fell in clouds as deep within the city, eyes began to glow.
From the shadows, tall figures began to emerge.
They were winged automata—strange, regal machines with serene expressions carved into their metal faces. Their wings folded like origami, each one humming softly with fresh energy.
They walked forward as if in a dream, their feet making no sound against the ancient floor.
And then—because the universe loves irony—they all bowed.
"Thank you, divine being," said the one at the front in a voice like a harp being tuned underwater. "Your lightning has brought us back from the sleep of centuries. As did the four who came before."
Enel blinked.
"…You're welcome?"
The leader rose. "We serve the will of the one who brings light."
Enel straightened his shoulders, eyes glinting.
"Well," he said, "you're in excellent luck."
----------------------------------------
It wasn't every day you watched a thunder immortal squint at ancient cave paintings like he was judging a preschool art contest.
Enel stood—gold gleaming, drums humming faintly behind his shoulders—as the moon automata pointed at the mural-lined walls of the great lunar cavern. Around him stood his four new lieutenants, each with their own brand of robotic flair.
First Lieutenant Spacey, mustache twitching with academic excitement.
Sergeant Cosmo, a sphere-headed android with holographic eyes that kept trying to zoom in on every speck of dust.
General Galaxy, whose voice always echoed like a stereo in a metal trash can.
Colonel Macro, a squat, gruff bot who kept muttering things like "Back in my day, moon paint meant something."
The murals, surprisingly vibrant despite being carved who-knew-how-many eons ago, showed a breathtaking civilization—towering cities, elaborate machinery, all beneath the glowing dome of the moon. The people had wings, delicate and radiant, and a grace in their depictions that made Enel's lips twitch in something suspiciously like reverence.
"This…" Spacey said softly, tracing a line of etched stardust with a sparking finger, "is our history."
They moved to the next panel. The story darkened.
The moon civilization—Birka, the same name as Enel's birthplace—had once thrived with technology and beauty, but the moon had betrayed them. Resources dried up. Their paradise turned hollow. So they built balloons. Yes, balloons. Not rocket ships or warp gates—balloons big enough to carry cities.
The mural showed the winged ones floating away from the moon, toward a blue-and-green world far below. Some of them cried. Even the automata left behind looked… well, sad.
"They left us behind," Cosmo murmured. "They didn't mean to. But they did."
General Galaxy hummed in his tinny way. "They flew to the blue planet… where they might still live."
Enel said nothing for a long while.
He stared at the image of the final balloon rising. The emotion in the carving was undeniable. Loss. Hope. Farewell.
Then—slowly—Enel smiled.
It wasn't his usual smug immortal-king smirk. It was something deeper, more rooted. A decision blooming like thunderclouds.
"So they abandoned you," he said softly, eyes gleaming. "Their machines. Their legacy."
Spacey blinked. "We… stayed to guard what they left behind."
"And now," Enel declared, spreading his arms, "you have me."
The drums on his back rumbled faintly as lightning licked the stones around them.
"I was born on Birka," he said, voice echoing through the hall. "I left it behind like they did. And I came here seeking Vearth, seeking truth. I found ruin. But now… I see inheritance."
The automata looked at each other.
"I will build a new Birka," Enel said, electricity sparking from his palms to the high, domed ceiling. "Here. With land beneath our feet. And sky above our heads. And no immortals above me."
Colonel Macro tilted his helmet. "But… you are a immortal."
Enel beamed. "Exactly."
And so, under moonlight and memory, amidst ruins recharged with power, the new empire of Birka began.
Automata whirred into action, cleaning, repairing, restoring. The walls shone brighter. The air thrummed with promise. Enel stood at the heart of it all, arms crossed, lightning dancing across his skin like loyal fireflies.
"This time," he murmured, gazing into the stars beyond, "we won't need balloons."
And the moon, silent and ancient, bore witness to a new chapter—one painted not in sorrow, but in electricity and the laughter of a immortal reborn.
-------------------------------
One Month Later:
It was a strange realization for a self-declared immortal.
Not the part where his empire was rising from ancient moon ruins.
Not even the part where he now had four shiny robot lieutenants and an entire army of polite, programmable minions bowing every five seconds like overzealous wind-up toys.
No.
The strange part was… he was hungry.
Enel sat atop a silver spire jutting out of the moon dust, arms folded, lightning crackling softly beneath him as his drums emitted a lazy boom-boom-boom.
Below, the automata bustled about like clockwork ants: polishing craters, repairing towers, occasionally rearranging rocks for optimal "immortal-pleasing" symmetry. They didn't question him. They didn't sass him. They didn't even make bad puns.
And worst of all—they didn't cook.
"Lieutenant Spacey," Enel called, voice echoing across the hollow expanse. "Where is the feast I requested?"
Spacey rolled up in a military salute, mustache twitching. "Sir, as robots, we are nutritionally self-sufficient through low-voltage trickle charging. There is no need to—"
"I. Am. Not. A. Robot."
Enel's voice cracked like thunder. The moon trembled just a little.
"Oh," said Spacey, blinking. "Well, in that case… we do not possess biological food-processing systems or organic cultivation chambers."
Enel stared at him.
Then he slowly stood, bones crackling like thunderclouds. "So let me get this straight," he said, smiling with far too many teeth, "you're saying there is no pizza on the moon."
"No," Spacey said helpfully. "But we do have spare titanium bolts!"
Five minutes later, Spacey was recharging upside-down in a crater.
The thing was, being a immortal wasn't supposed to be boring. Or lonely. Or snackless.
And yet here Enel was, ruler of a barren rock with nothing to eat, no one to argue with, and not even a decent karaoke night.
Sure, his kingdom was shiny. Sure, the automata were loyal. But loyalty didn't make jokes. Or start fights. Or challenge him in ridiculous, infuriating ways.
Like that blasted Rubberman.
Just the memory made Enel's brow twitch.
That infuriating, stretchy, laughing boy had not only punched him in the face—the face of a immortal!—but had done it with so much enthusiasm Enel still had spiritual whiplash.
The worst part?
He missed it.
He missed Skypiea—with its floating isles, thunderous storms, and infuriating humans who screamed and ran and tasted delicious when pan-fried.
He missed being feared. And occasionally laughed at.
He missed fun.
Lightning crackled at his fingertips as he rose to his full height, gazing across the moon's pale horizon. His drums rumbled with anticipation.
"If Skypiea won't return to its immortal," he said softly, "then its immortal shall bring it home."
Spacey, now only slightly singed, poked his head out of the crater. "Sir?"
Enel grinned. "We're going to bring Skypiea to the moon."
There was a long pause.
"Sir, that sounds… logistically challenging."
"Silence, bolt-face," Enel snapped. "I have thunder, ambition, and no appetite for titanium."
And so it was decided.
Operation Moonpeia—as Enel later, proudly, called it—would begin. He would gather what he needed. Power, transportation, Skypieans. He would return to Earth, not as a defeated immortal, but as a conqueror with a mission:
Bring the party to the moon.
And maybe—just maybe—punch the rubberman back. Just once. For old times' sake.
He smiled.
Yes. That would be divine.
-------------------------------