The late afternoon sun draped Tosu's harbor in gold and rust, the air thick with the smell of salt, grilled meat from the market stalls, and the sweet, clinging aroma of condensed milk coffee from the kopitiams. Cries of gulls mixed with the low rumble of cargo lifts and the rhythmic clank of loading ramps.
Shanks stood on the deck of the Red Force, looking down from the deck, his hand resting on the railing. Below, the Dreadnought Thalassa was a hive of controlled chaos. He watched Marya's crew hauling crates, their movements tired but efficient, their banter carrying on the breeze. They were still riding the high from the morning's duel, their voices a blend of laughter and sharp, competitive retellings.
Ben Beckman appeared at his side, leaning against the railing as he lit a cigarette. The flame flared, casting his sharp features in brief relief. "Her little demonstration was something," he said, nodding toward the dock where Marya stood speaking with Galit. "The way she read Vista's timing… that wasn't luck."
Shanks's mouth curved into a slow smirk. "No," he agreed, his voice low and carrying a hint of approval. "It wasn't." He glanced over his shoulder, past the masts of his own fleet, toward the distant cluster of ships disbanded Whitebeard ships. Vista's vessel was still there, a silent reminder of the morning's outcome.
Beckman exhaled a stream of smoke. "You aren't going to let this go, are you?"
Shanks's smirk widened into a mischievous grin. He turned his back on the harbor, rocking back on his heels. "Is it done, Beck?"
Beckman didn't move, his dark eyes unreadable. "Yeah, it's done. But she isn't going to be happy about it."
Shanks laughed, a low, devious sound that rolled across the deck. "That's why I didn't ask." He jerked his head toward the gangplank, his captain's cloak flaring behind him. "Come on. We have a concert to go to."
Beckman took a long drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around his face, and shook his head as he pushed off the railing and followed.
Below, Marya stood on the dock, her leather jacket hanging open over a faded shirt, the Heart Pirates' insignia catching the light. Her raven hair was pulled back, revealing the sharp line of her jaw and her father's gold-ringed eyes. She listened to Galit's tactical analysis of the next leg of their journey—his neck already beginning to knot in frustration, but her attention was elsewhere.
Bō-Zak walked past, a crate balanced on one shoulder, a woman's name on his lips and a nostalgic look in his eye. "You should've seen her, Atlas," he said, his voice carrying a theatrical sigh. "Her hair smelled like sea spray and incense…"
Atlas, his rust-red fur dusted with salt, snorted. "You say that about all of them."
Bō-Zak's smirk was unrepentant. "And I mean it every time."
They moved toward the Dreadnought Thalassa's cargo hatch, their crates marked with the Red Hair Pirates' emblem—a detail Marya's crew, caught up in their own tasks, failed to notice.
A group of women swept past Marya and Galit, their arms loaded with folded canvas and boxes. Jannali's accent cut through the din, warm and dry. "Right, we're off to set up the merch tent. Don't wait up unless you plan on buying something."
Bianca, grease-stained and grinning, adjusted a stack of boxes. "Like, I still say we should've, like, printed more of the, like, glow-in-the-dark ones."
Ember twirled a strand of neon-pink hair around her finger, her mismatched eyes scanning the crowd. "The glow-in-the-dark ones will sell out first. I'm calling it now."
Eliane, her silver ponytail bouncing, waved toward the Red Force. "See you at the concert, Mr. Red Hair!"
Shanks grinned down at her. "Wouldn't miss it."
They disappeared into the flow of dockworkers and pirates, leaving Marya and Galit alone with the weight of the afternoon.
Then Marya felt it—a shift in the air, a cold thread of awareness that crawled up her spine.
Dr. Zip H. Scatyl stepped out from the shadow of a warehouse, his white coat immaculate, his small white horns gleaming. He moved with the careful, deliberate steps of a man who knew he was walking into a cage. Another silhouette lingered behind him, a figure that did not follow.
Marya looked up.
On a distant rooftop, two figures sat motionless: Aurélie, her silver hair loose, and Wahid-Ahmed, his presence so still he might have been carved from the stone.
Shanks and Beckman descended the gangplank, their boots hitting the dock with a solid thud. They flanked Marya and Galit, a wall of quiet power. Beckman's hand rested near his pistol. Shanks's fingers curled around Griffon's hilt. Their gazes, like Marya's, locked on the approaching doctor.
Four auras pressed against the air, heavy as a coming storm. Dr. Zip H. Scatyl felt the weight of them, each one a different flavor of warning. Shanks's was a warm, lazy threat, like a hearth fire that might suddenly roar. Beckman's was a cold, calculated stillness. Galit's was a coiled spring, his long neck curved in an S that spoke of readiness. And Marya's—Marya's was a void, an absence of warmth that promised nothing and allowed everything.
Dr. Zip H. Scatyl swallowed. His step faltered for just a heartbeat. But he did not stop. This was the validation he needed. This was the proof that his decision was correct.
He stopped before Marya, his hands clasped behind his back. "May I have a word?"
Marya's expression did not change. Her gold-ringed eyes held his. "Yes."
She turned and walked a few paces away, out of earshot of the others. Dr. Zip H. Scatyl followed.
"I will be stepping off here," he said, his voice low and careful. "I have come to retrieve my belongings."
Marya nodded once, a slow, deliberate dip of her chin. "Consider the obligation fulfilled. The terms are met."
She glanced toward the rooftop where Aurélie sat. The silver-haired woman dipped her head once in acknowledgment. A message sent. A message received.
Marya turned back to the doctor. "That is acceptable."
Without another word, she walked away, rejoining Shanks, Beckman, and Galit. She did not look back.
Galit watched Dr. Zip H. Scatyl make his way toward the Dreadnought Thalassa's hatch, his white coat a stark slash of white against the weathered wood. "He finally found his port of call?"
Marya nodded. "Yes."
Aurélie descended from the rooftop, her movements silent, and followed the doctor into the shadows of the ship. She disappeared through the hatch behind him.
Galit's neck relaxed. "That is good. For a moment, I thought other options were going to have to be considered."
Marya's gaze lifted to the other silhouette still watching from the rooftop—Wahid-Ahmed, his face unreadable. "So did I," she said. "But I don't think there will be any need for concern here."
Shanks, his hand still resting on Griffon's hilt, nodded his approval. "What do you say, kid? Ready for the big show?"
Marya sighed, the sound carrying a note of reluctant amusement. "Knowing Vesta, I am confident that 'big' is an understatement."
Galit nodded. Beckman smirked, the cigarette in his mouth tilting upward. He blew out a plume of smoke and turned toward the inland road that led to the concert venue.
The group began to walk, their crews falling in behind them like a tide following the moon. The Red Hair Pirates and Marya's crew mingled, their voices rising in a cheerful, competitive chatter about the upcoming performance.
Behind them, a crash echoed from the Dreadnought Thalassa's hatch. Sanza tumbled out, his red hair disheveled, a string of curses in his affected accent trailing behind him. Jelly followed, his gelatinous form wobbling with laughter, his massive starry eyes squeezed shut.
"Vile child!" Dr. Zip H. Scatyl's voice rang from inside the ship, sharp and exasperated. "You'll pay for that! And you, you translucent menace—that was my last inkwell!"
Sanza scrambled to his feet, brushing dust from his cargo shorts. "You heard the man," he said, grabbing Jelly's gooey hand. "Run, you gelatinous fool!"
They tore off down the dock, their laughter echoing behind them, leaving a trail of wobbling jelly and indignant sputtering in their wake.
Shanks watched them go, a genuine smile softening his scarred face. "Good kids."
Marya shook her head, a small smirk playing at the corner of her lips. "Trouble."
"Same thing," Beckman said, and for once, there was a hint of warmth in his dry tone.
The sun dipped lower, painting the harbor in shades of amber and rose. The concert awaited, and for one night, the weight of the world could wait.
Marya walked with her crew, with her uncle, with the strange, unlikely family she had gathered around her. Behind her, on the distant rooftop, Wahid-Ahmed watched them go. He did not move. He did not need to. He was patient. He was always watching.
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