The afternoon light over Port Lak-Sa had softened into the gold of early evening, the shadows stretching long across the dock where the submarine sat low in the water, her hull still bearing the scars of the battle that had brought them here. The Red Force loomed beside her, her crimson sails furled, her rigging swaying with the gentle rhythm of the harbor. The air smelled of salt and tar and the distant sweetness of frying dough from the market stalls that were beginning to close for the day.
On the hull of the submarine, where the curve of the deck met the light, a circle had formed.
Jannali stood at its center, the case in her hands, the lid thrown back, the velvet bed cradling the fruit like a sleeping beast. The others pressed close around her—Yasopp with his arms crossed, Limejuice with his hands in his pockets, Bonk Punch's massive frame blocking the light from the west, Howling Gab leaning against a crate with his arms folded, Beckman with his rifle slung across his back and his eyes fixed on the thing in the case, Galit with his slate in his hand, his neck coiled in that loose S-curve that meant he was thinking.
The fruit was massive, bone-white, its skin marked with jagged swirls the color of a sky before a storm. It was the size of a child's head, heavy enough that the case groaned under its weight, and the stem that curled from its top was thick and notched, shaped like the head of a spear. It sat in its velvet bed like something that had been waiting, and the light that fell on it slid off, refused to cling.
Bonk Punch leaned forward, his brow furrowed, his voice a low rumble. "So which one is it?"
Galit glanced down at his slate, his finger tracing a line of text, then back at the fruit. His voice was flat, clinical, the voice of a man cataloging data. "It appears to be the Ryu Ryu no Mi, Model: Hatzegopteryx."
Yasopp's eyebrow rose. "What is that?"
Beckman took a drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling up past his face, his voice carrying the weight of years spent cataloging threats. "It's a rare Zoan type. One of the Dragon-Dragon fruits."
Limejuice's eyes went wide. "It's a dragon?"
Howling Gab's voice cut in, low and curious. "What are you going to do? Are you going to eat it?"
Jannali's brow furrowed. Her eyes were fixed on the fruit, on the swirls that appeared is if they moved when she looked at them, on the weight of it sitting in the case like a question that had not yet been answered.
Yasopp shook his head, his voice carrying the particular skepticism of a man who had heard things. "I hear they taste terrible."
Howling Gab's grin was sharp. "Yeah, but she could be a dragon. That makes the bad taste worth it."
Galit's voice was measured, careful. "Maybe you should—"
Jannali moved.
Her hand found the spear on her hip, her fingers wrapping around the shaft, and she jerked it upward. The tip extended with a hiss of metal on metal, the blade gleaming in the light, the edge of it pressing against the fruit's skin.
Yasopp, Limejuice, Bonk Punch, Howling Gab, Beckman, and Galit all stepped back, their bodies reacting before their minds caught up, their faces caught between surprise and alarm.
Limejuice's voice cracked. "What are you—"
Bō-Zak's head turned.
His attention drifted to the edge of the dock, his sight fixed on the three women who were walking past with arms full of packages—bolts of fabric, baskets of fruit, the particular treasures of a day spent shopping. His eyes tracked them, his posture shifting, his hand lifting in a wave that was already forming into something warmer.
He clapped Yasopp on the shoulder. Yasopp's head snapped up, his attention torn between the fruit and the women, and a smirk spread across his face.
"I ah think my talents may be of better use elsewhere," Bō-Zak said, and he was already moving, already walking toward the dock, his voice already forming words that would make the women laugh.
Yasopp watched him go, his smirk widening, his attention already drifting back to the fruit.
Galit's voice was sharp. "Jannali, what are you—"
Jannali did not look up. Her eyes were fixed on the fruit, on the place where the tip of her spear pressed against its skin. Her voice was low, steady, the voice of a woman who had made up her mind. "I'm going to cut into it, mate. I want to see what it's like on the inside."
She glanced up. Her grin was deviant, the grin of a woman who knew she was doing something she probably should not be doing and did not care.
Galit's neck coiled tighter. "Are you sure that is—"
The edge of the spear bit into the fruit.
The sound was wrong. It was not the sound of flesh parting or skin breaking. It was the sound of something resisting, of something that did not want to be opened, and the spear began to vibrate.
Yasopp, Limejuice, Bonk Punch, Howling Gab, Beckman, and Galit jumped back, their bodies moving in a single, instinctive motion. Howling Gab's voice was sharp. "What's it doing?"
Jannali shook her head, her grip white on the shaft, the spear shaking in her hands like a thing alive. "Hell if I know."
The fruit was changing. The cut in its skin was widening, not splitting but dissolving, the edges curling back, and something was flowing out of it—something that was not juice, not liquid, not anything she had words for. It was light and shadow, a thing that moved with purpose, and it was flowing up the spear, into the spear, wrapping around the shaft, sinking into the wood.
Yasopp's voice was a yell. "Drop it!"
Jannali's voice was a snarl. "I can't!"
Beckman took a step forward, his hand reaching for her, his face set, his mind already calculating the angle, the force, the way to separate her from the weapon—
The vibration stopped.
The silence that followed was heavy, the kind of silence that settles after a storm, after the thunder has rolled away and the wind has dropped and the only thing left is the waiting.
Jannali stood with the spear in her hands, her chest rising and falling, her eyes fixed on the shaft. Her voice was a whisper. "What the hell?"
The spear changed.
It did not shift. It did not transform. It became something else in the space between one breath and the next. The shaft thickened, swelled, the wood darkening to bone-white, the metal flowing like water, reforming, reshaping, and where a spear had been, there was now a creature.
It stood on legs that were thin for its body, its torso massive, its neck a pillar of muscle and bone, its head the size of a small cart, its beak a blade of keratin that was designed for breaking and stabbing things. Its wings—ten meters across, the span of them blocking the sky—unfolded with a sound like sails catching wind, and the air itself began to push back, a gust that swept across the deck, that lifted hats and sent papers flying, that made the ships in the harbor rock against their moorings.
Its head turned. Its eye, yellow and ancient, found them. Its beak opened, and it snapped.
Bonk Punch threw himself flat. Limejuice rolled, his shoulder hitting the deck, his hand coming up empty. Howling Gab ducked behind a crate, his voice a string of curses that cut through the chaos. Yasopp was already moving, his body low, his eyes tracking the creature's movements, his hands finding the pistol at his hip. Beckman stood his ground, his rifle up, his face calm, his eyes calculating. Galit was in the air, his neck coiled, his whips finding purchase, his body swinging toward the rigging.
The creature snapped again. Its beak sheared through a coil of rope, sent a crate splintering across the deck, and its wings beat once, twice, a wind that pushed them back, that made the submarine groan against her lines.
On the dock, the women Bō-Zak had been charming were screaming, their packages scattered, their faces white. Bō-Zak stood between them and the chaos, his pipe forgotten, his hands raised, his voice calm, his body a wall between the creature and the civilians. "Ladies, please, there is nothing to worry about. This is all perfectly normal. If you would just follow me—"
---
Shanks and Marya rounded the last corner.
The dock opened before them, the submarine and the Red Force at its heart, the light of the setting sun painting the water gold. Marya's face was still set in the scowl she had worn since leaving the palace, her arms crossed, her boots heavy on the stone. Her jacket was open, the Heart Pirates insignia visible, and her jaw was tight with the particular irritation of someone who had been volunteered for something they had not agreed to.
She side-eyed Shanks. "Uncle, why did you tell him to call me if he couldn't get a hold of you? I did not promise or agree to be a part of your fleet."
Shanks smiled, his hand coming down on her shoulder, the weight of it warm, familiar. "Don't worry about it, kid. You're not the main act. You're just the backup, something to make the locals feel safe." His grin widened. "Besides, if people know you are with me, then they will be less likely to pick a fight with you."
Marya's eyebrow rose. "I make it a point to keep my presence concealed. People don't pick fights with me."
Shanks's smirk was sharp. "I don't think you appreciate the extent of your old man's influence. Now that it's gone, you may cross paths with those who would attempt to take advantage—"
She cut him off, her voice low, her words clipped. "I would like to see them try."
He chuckled, the sound warm, genuine, and she rolled her eyes with the particular exasperation of a niece who had heard the same argument a dozen times before.
"I have no intention of flying your flag," she said.
He shrugged, his hands spreading, his grin undimmed. "I'll give you one anyway."
She opened her mouth to respond, her eyes already rolling, her lips already forming the words that would end this particular argument, when something made her stop.
"Uncle," she said, her voice different now, sharper, "who was that man? Donquixote Dunnjona Haigo. What is his interest in the Heart Pirates?"
Shanks took a breath. The smile did not leave his face, but something behind it shifted, a shadow passing behind his eyes. "Do you know who Donquixote Doflamingo is?"
Marya considered. Her brow furrowed. "I think I have heard the name, but I don't know him."
Shanks nodded. His eyes moved to her jacket, to the insignia there, to the heart that marked her as something she had chosen to be. "Donquixote Doflamingo was one of the Warlords. Self-proclaimed king of Dressrosa."
Her face cleared. "Oh yes. That is why the name sounds familiar."
He nodded again. "Well, Donquixote Dunnjona Haigo is his cousin. He works as a broker securing goods and resources for Mary Geoise. And, right now, Donquixote Doflamingo, his cousin, is in Impel Down."
Marya's eyebrow rose.
Shanks's voice was flat, the voice of a man reporting facts he had no stake in. "Because two rookie pirates took him down. Dethroned him. Exposed his crimes."
Marya's lips curved. The smirk that spread across her face was slow, satisfied, the smirk of someone who had just connected dots that had been waiting to be connected. "And one of those pirates was Law."
They rounded the last corner.
The dock opened before them, and Shanks stopped.
Marya looked up. Her mouth opened. Her mouth closed. Her eyes fixed on the thing that was on the hull of the submarine—the thing with the massive body and the wings that blotted out the sky and the beak that was snapping at her crew.
"What the—"
Jannali was on the deck, her spear gone, her hands empty, her body moving in a series of ducks and rolls that carried her under the creature's wings, over its tail, around its snapping beak. Yasopp was behind her, his pistol up, his eyes tracking, his body low. Limejuice was scrambling for cover, his face white, his voice a string of curses. Bonk Punch was flat on his back, his arms over his head, his massive frame somehow small against the deck. Howling Gab was wedged between two crates, his eyes wide, his mouth moving in a prayer. Beckman stood his ground, his rifle up, his face calm, his finger on the trigger. Galit swung from the rigging, his whips lashing out, finding nothing, falling back.
And Bō-Zak was on the dock, his arms spread, his body a wall between the chaos and three women who were clutching each other and staring at the creature with faces that had lost all their color.
Shanks threw his head back and laughed.
Marya stared at the chaos, at her crew dodging and diving and cursing, at the creature that was supposed to be a spear, at her uncle who was doubled over, his hand slapping his knee, his face red. "We only left them for a few hours."
Shanks slapped his knee harder. "I really like your crew."
Marya shook her head. The corner of her lip was twitching. She could not stop it. She did not want to stop it.
Galit's head snapped toward them, his neck extended, his eyes finding hers. "Marya—"
Jannali's head snapped around too, her face caught between the creature and the dock, her body still moving, still rolling, still dodging.
Marya's voice cut across the dock. "What the hell?"
Jannali ducked under a wing, rolled, came up with her hands empty, her face flushed. "Had a good run at the poker table."
Shanks was almost falling over, his laughter rolling across the dock, his hand on Marya's shoulder, his weight pressing her down.
Marya took a step forward, her voice incredulous, her arms spread wide. "You call this a good run?"
Jannali dodged, the beak snapping past her shoulder, her voice rising. "Well, this is kind of a long story, but—"
Beckman's voice cut across the chaos, sharp, commanding. "Kid! This is your weapon! Get it under control."
Jannali paused. Her brow furrowed. "Weapon?"
Marya's voice was incredulous. "WEAPON?"
Limejuice rolled, came up behind a crate, his voice cracking. "Does this thing have a name?"
Jannali stood in the center of the chaos, her chin in her hand, her face the face of a woman considering a question she had not thought to ask. "Name?"
Yasopp snapped, his pistol still up, his eyes still tracking. "Because it's your weapon!"
Jannali's eyes locked onto the creature's. The yellow eye, ancient and alien, looked back at her. And in her mind, a word formed. A word that was not hers. A word that had been waiting, perhaps, for her to find it.
Her face changed. Her shoulders squared. Her hand lifted.
"Gosan."
The creature froze.
Its head turned, its eye finding hers, its beak closing, its wings folding. It looked at her for a long moment, and in that moment, something passed between them—a recognition, an acknowledgment, a thing that did not need words.
She reached out her hand.
The creature flowed back into itself, the bone-white body shrinking, the wings folding, the neck collapsing, and in her hand, the spear was there again, the shaft warm, the tip gleaming, the weight of it familiar and new.
Jannali stared at it. Her eyes were wide. "Bloody hell."
Yasopp straightened, his pistol dropping, his face caught between relief and wonder. Limejuice leaned against the crate, his chest heaving. Bonk Punch sat up, his hand pressed to his forehead. Howling Gab emerged from between the crates, his face split by a grin. Beckman lowered his rifle, his expression unchanged, but something in his shoulders loosened. Galit dropped from the rigging, his whips coiling, his breath coming hard.
Beckman's voice was flat, the flatness of a man who had seen too much to be surprised but was still, somehow, impressed. "That's one hell of a weapon you got there, kid."
Jannali stared at the spear in her hand. Her lips parted. A curse escaped her, low and astonished, and then she grinned.
---
Marya's head turned.
Eliane's voice carried across the dock, high and bright, cutting through the chaos like a ray of light through storm clouds. "Hey everyone!"
She was jumping up and down, her silver braid bouncing, her arms waving, her face lit with the particular joy of someone who had found something wonderful and could not wait to share it. Lucky Roux stood behind her, a leg of lamb in one hand, a crate balanced on his shoulder, his face split by a grin. Ember was beside him, her mismatched eyes fixed on the submarine, her hand on the charred rabbit at her waist. Atlas was behind them, his arms full of crates and bags, his rust-red fur catching the light, his expression the particular patience of a man who had been carrying things for hours.
A wagon trailed them, its bed piled high with sacks and boxes, its wheels groaning under the weight.
Eliane's voice was triumphant. "Lucky Roux and I are doing a bar-be-queue tonight!"
Jannali stood on the hull, the spear in her hand, her face caught between the chaos she had just survived and the new chaos that was rolling toward her. "Bloody hell, little chef. How much did that all cost?"
Eliane paused. Her chin lifted. Her brow furrowed in concentration. She held the pose for a long moment, her finger tapping her chin, her lips moving in silent calculation, and then she shrugged. "I don't know. But we got a good deal."
Vesta came bounding down the deck, her rainbow hair streaming behind her, her arms waving, her voice rising above the noise. "Guys! Guys!"
She stopped, spun on her toes, her arms spreading wide, her face lifted to the sky. "I have so much to tell you! I just saw the venue." She spun again, her voice rising to a squeal. "It is amazing! You are going to love it!"
Eliane clapped her hands. "So cool! You can tell us all about it over bar-be-queue!"
Marya blinked. Her crew was scattered across the dock, across the deck, across the chaos, and they were all talking, all laughing, all telling stories that overlapped and tangled and rose into the evening air like smoke from a fire that was just catching.
Bianca rolled in on a covered truck, the engine coughing, the wheels groaning, Building Snake at the wheel and Herbert-Marx in the passenger seat, his Egg-Arms braced against the dash, his expression the particular resignation of a man who had been talked into something he knew he would regret.
Bianca hopped out of the truck, her overalls blouse, the color of a sunset, her goggles pushed up into her hair, her face bright. "Like, yo."
Marya canted a hip, her eyes moving from the truck to Bianca's face. "How did you pay for all that?"
Bianca's smile did not waver. "So, like, that's like the thing." Her hands spread. "I like need berries and stuff."
From the hull, Jannali's voice carried across the dock. "How the hell did you pay for that?"
Bianca turned, her hands still spread, her expression the particular innocence of a woman who had spent someone else's money and was not sorry. "So, like, that's like the thing. I like need berries and stuff."
Jannali cursed, the sound low and heartfelt. "You lot are going to clear me out!" She turned to Marya, her face caught between exasperation and something that might have been admiration. "Mate, we are going to have to—"
Marya nodded. "Yeah. Tomorrow."
Bianca called out, her voice bright, her question already answered. "So, like, we are cool?"
Jannali shrugged, her hand still wrapped around the spear, her voice resigned. "I might have enough."
The truck door slammed as Building Snake climbed out, his grin wide, his voice carrying across the dock. "You just need to pay them before you go."
Charlie, Hongo, Sanza, Jelly, and Monster came walking down the dock.
Charlie's pith helmet was straight, his satchel was secure, but his face was the face of a man who had spent the afternoon arguing with booksellers and was not entirely recovered. Hongo walked beside him, his arms full of bags, his expression the particular exhaustion of a man who had spent the afternoon herding children. Sanza was between them, his new shirt bright, his new shorts scuffed, his face marked with dirt and a bruise blooming on his cheek and a cut healing on his lip. Jelly bounced beside him, his gelatinous form wobbling with each step, his grin a permanent fixture. Monster bounded ahead, his arms full of streamers and party blowers, his topknot bouncing, his face a mask of pure, uncomplicated joy.
Jannali's voice cut across the dock. "Bloody hell, what happened to you?"
Sanza ignored her. He walked straight to Marya, his steps determined, his face set, his hands at his sides. Hongo raised his voice behind him, flat and tired. "He'll live."
Bonk Punch cocked his head at Monster, who had climbed onto his shoulder, a party blower in each hand, a paper mask balanced on his head, his face the face of a creature who had found paradise and was not going to let it go. Monster blew into a blower, the sound sharp and bright, and Bonk Punch flinched, then laughed.
Jelly bounced, his voice high and clear. "Shopping! Adventure!"
Marya looked down.
Sanza stood in front of her, his chin lifted, his eyes meeting hers, his face a map of the afternoon he had survived. His new sandals gripped the dock. His new shirt was bright against the bruises. His hands were fists at his sides.
"Big Sis." His voice was steady, though something in it was not. "Help me get stronger."
The dock went quiet. The laughter faded. The chatter stopped. Even Monster paused, his blower halfway to his lips, his eyes fixed on the small figure standing before Marya.
Marya looked him up and down. Her eyes moved across the bruise on his cheek, the cut on his lip, the dirt ground into his new clothes, the set of his shoulders that said he had been knocked down and had gotten up again.
The corner of her lip quirked.
She crossed her arms. "Had a rough day?"
Sanza's jaw flexed. His hands tightened. His voice was sharp, too sharp, the voice of a child who had been called a baby too many times and was done with it. "I'm not a little kid."
He stopped. His lips pressed together. Something passed across his face—the memory of fists, of laughter, of being knocked down and not being able to get up fast enough. His voice was quieter when he spoke again. "But—"
Marya walked past him.
Her hand reached out, her fingers finding his hair, ruffling it, pushing it across his face. Her voice was low, warm, the voice of someone who had been knocked down herself and had learned to get up. "Yeah, kid. I'll help you."
Sanza scoffed, his hands coming up to flatten his hair, his face caught between embarrassment and something that might have been relief. "I'm not a kid and—"
He stopped. Shanks walked past him, his face split by a grin, his eye fixed on the chaos that was still settling, on the crew that was still laughing, on the crates and the bags and the truck and the monster of a creature that had become a spear and the boy who had asked to be stronger.
Shanks surveyed the dock. He surveyed the submarine and the Red Force, the crates and the chaos, the crew that was his niece's and the crew that was his own, the food that was being unloaded and the stories that were being told and the evening that was settling over them like a blanket thrown over a fire to keep it burning.
His voice rolled across the dock, warm and loud and full of the particular joy of a man who had learned, long ago, that the best answer to a day like this was the simplest one.
"LET'S HAVE A PARTY!"
The dock erupted. Vesta squealed. Eliane jumped. Jelly bounced so high he almost cleared the mast. Monster blew his blower until his face went red. Bonk Punch's laugh was a roar. Limejuice's was a wheeze. Howling Gab's was a howl. Yasopp's was the laugh of a man who had been holding his breath and had finally let it go. Beckman shook his head, but his mouth was curved, and Galit's neck uncoiled, and Bō-Zak turned from the women he had been charming and raised his pipe in salute, and Jannali lifted her spear, Gosan, and Marya stood in the center of it all, her crew and her uncle's crew, her hands in her pockets, her face caught between the scowl she had worn all day and the smile that was fighting to break free.
She shook her head. Her shoulders dropped. The smile won.
Shanks clapped her on the shoulder, his hand warm, his grin wide, and together they walked into the chaos that was already becoming something else—a feast, a story, a night that would be remembered long after the food was gone and the crates were empty and the crew had scattered to their ships.
Behind them, Sanza stood for a moment, his hair still ruffled, his face still bruised, his hands still at his sides. Then he ran to catch up, his sandals slapping the dock, his voice rising above the noise. "Wait! I want to help!"
Jelly bounced beside him, his laughter a string of notes that rose into the evening air. Monster swung from a line, his streamers trailing, his blower sounding, his joy a thing that needed no translation.
And on the hull of the submarine, where the light of the setting sun caught the blade of a spear that was something more than a spear, Jannali stood for a moment, her hand wrapped around the shaft, her eyes on the fruit that had become a weapon that had become something she did not yet understand.
"Gosan," she said again, to herself, to the spear, to the thing that waited inside it.
The spear warmed in her hand. The blade caught the light. And she grinned.
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