The Captain's Cabin of the Dreadnought was a quiet pocket in a ship that hummed with the low industry of systems older than most kingdoms. Marya stood with her back to the door, arms crossed, leather jacket creaking as she shifted her weight. Shanks had settled into the chair behind the desk, his one hand resting on the polished wood, his cloak draped over the back like a banner waiting for wind.
She had told him about Elegia. About Uta. About the Demon King and the song that would not end.
He had listened without interruption, his face a mask of calm that she recognized—the same stillness her father wore when the world pressed too close. But his fingers had tightened on the edge of the desk, and when she finished, he had simply said, "Thank you."
They stood in the silence that followed, the weight of it settling between them like a thing with mass. Marya opened her mouth to ask about the Warlords, about Mihawk, about the brother she had never known—
The intercom crackled.
"Approaching Tosu Island." Galit's voice, clipped and professional, cut through the quiet like a blade. "ETA, twenty minutes."
Marya reached for the receiver on the wall, her fingers finding the cool metal. "Copy."
She hung up and turned. Shanks was already rising, his sandals whispering against the deck. He swept his coat from the chair and settled it across his shoulders, the fabric falling into place like it had never left.
"Tosu," he said, the name rolling off his tongue with easy familiarity. "Good people. They build things that last."
"I've heard." Marya moved toward the door. "They also have opinions about strangers."
Shanks grinned, and the weight in the room cracked, letting light through. "Then we'll give them something to talk about."
---
The observation deck was a half-moon of reinforced glass and metal, the submarine's bow curving away beneath them like the shoulder of a great beast. Marya stepped through the hatch and the wind caught her hair, whipping it across her face. She pushed it back and stopped.
The crew was already there.
Vesta stood at the railing, her rainbow hair streaming behind her like a festival banner caught in a gale. She had her hands pressed to the metal, leaning forward as if she could pull the island closer with sheer will. "I can't wait!" she shouted, and clapped her hands together. "Rockstar and I are going to organize a concert!"
Marya's head whipped around.
Before she could form a word, a smaller voice piped up from below the railing. Eliane's silver hair was tied back in its practical braid, but strands had escaped and danced around her face as she peered between the bars. "I'm excited too! Lucky Roux is going to show me where to buy exotic spices!"
Marya's mouth opened. Closed. Her hand rose to pinch the bridge of her nose.
Bianca leaned against the railing, her overalls open over a dress the color of sunset, her goggles pushed up into her tangled black hair. "Yeah, like, Building Snake was telling me about, like, their parts and stuff." She flicked her wrist, the gesture expansive enough to knock Charlie's satchel strap. "We, like, totally need parts and stuff, and like, my tools are totally shot. Like, completely wrecked. Tragic, honestly."
Charlie stepped back from Bianca's gesture, adjusting his pith helmet with a wounded dignity. He cleared his throat—a sound like a door being politely knocked upon. "Ahem. It will be an ideal location to update my library as well. Tosu's archives are rumored to contain texts predating the current cartographic standards."
Marya's fingers pressed harder against her brow.
Shanks appeared at her shoulder, his presence a warm weight beside her. He watched her crew with an expression he couldn't name—something between amusement and wonder, as if he were watching a tide roll in and had forgotten how much he missed the novelty of the sea.
"Sounds like you guys have had some crazy adventures," he said.
Every head on the deck turned.
Bianca's eyes went wide. "Like, you have no idea."
Shanks threw his head back and laughed—a sound that rolled across the deck like thunder in a clear sky, like the breaking of waves against a hull that had seen too many storms and still held. The laugh echoed off the metal and glass, and Marya felt something in her chest loosen, just a fraction.
The hatch swung open with a pneumatic hiss, and Jelly bounced through, his translucent blue body jiggling with each exuberant step. Sanza darted after him, his red hair a wild tangle, his face split by a grin that threatened to crack his cheeks.
"Bloop! Adventure!"
Sanza vaulted toward the railing, his small fingers finding the metal, and in one fluid motion he was up, standing on the bottom rail, his toes curled over the edge. The wind caught his hair, lifted it like a flame. Jelly oozed up beside him, his gelatinous form flowing onto the rail, the breeze pressing his face back into a stretched, gleeful mask.
Sanza leaned forward, his eyes fixed on the horizon where Tosu Island was growing from a smudge into a shape, from a shape into a place.
"Another island!" He glanced back, his gaze finding Marya, then sliding to Shanks. The captain watched him with an intensity that belied his easy posture, his single eye fixed on the boy's face.
"Big Sis," Sanza called, his voice carrying over the wind, "will this island have knife throwing like the other one?"
Marya's expression flattened to glass. "I have no idea," she said, each word a stone dropped into still water, "but I am not throwing any knives for you this time."
Shanks barked a laugh.
Shanks turned to her, one eyebrow climbing toward his hairline. "This time."
Marya rolled her eyes. "Don't ask."
Sanza's face crumpled into a theatrical pout. "Aww… but you won against all those other monks, and—"
The hatch banged open again, and Bō-Zak emerged like a weather system rolling in, his tattered shawl catching the wind, his pipe trailing a ribbon of fragrant smoke. Jannali followed at his shoulder, her headscarf tight, her hoop earrings catching the light. Atlas came behind them, arms crossed, and Ember slipped through last, her mismatched eyes fixed on the island with the stillness of a cat watching a bird.
"What were you saying about monks, runt?" Bō-Zak's voice was silk wrapped around gravel, and his grin had an edge.
Sanza's pout transformed into smugness, his small chest puffing out. "Big Sis was stronger than all those other monks on that island."
Bō-Zak's smirk deepened. "And you think that was all the monks on the island."
Sanza's eyes narrowed to slits. "Yes!" His voice rose, cracking on the word. "You mean they weren't? What were they hiding away while—"
"Bout time we got here." Jannali's accent cut through Sanza's outrage like a blade through rope. She planted her hands on her hips, her third eye hidden beneath the fabric of her headscarf, her brown eyes scanning the approaching land. "We need berries. Plenty of 'em."
She caught Marya's gaze, and something passed between them—a current, a plan, a shared secret. Marya's mouth curved into a smirk.
"That should be fun."
Bō-Zak glanced over, his interest sharpening. "Fun?" He ignored Sanza's continued sputtering, his attention fixed on the two women.
Jannali nodded, her earrings swinging. "Yeah, mate. We got our own little racket for acquiring berries."
Bō-Zak's grin widened, and for a moment he looked like a man who had just found a door he hadn't known existed. "That sounds like something I might be interested in."
Marya's eyes slid to him, cool and measuring. "As long as you don't get in the way."
Shanks shook his head, the motion slow, his smile curling at the corners. "Racket, huh."
Marya shrugged, the motion casual, dismissive. "Just helping people part with what they're willing to give away."
Bō-Zak's attention had already drifted, his gaze tracking the line of the island, the rooftops just visible, the docks where figures moved like ants. "Wonder what the local ladies are like?"
Sanza twisted on the railing, his disgust written across his face in capital letters. "Ladies?" The word was a sneer. "That sounds boring!"
Atlas had settled against the wall, his rust-red fur catching the sun, his arms still crossed, his posture deceptively loose. "Wonder what the food's like?"
Eliane glanced over her shoulder, her braid swinging. "Lucky Roux and I are going to find out. Want to come?"
Atlas pushed off from the wall, his movement fluid, his eyes half-lidded. "Yeah, kid. Sounds good."
Marya's attention moved past him, past the conversation, past the wind and the salt spray and the growing shape of Tosu Island. She found Ember at the edge of the deck, her neon-pink hair bright against the grey of the sky, her good eye fixed on the horizon, her prosthetic gold eye catching light that wasn't there. She stood apart, her hands at her sides, her shoulders set, watching the island grow.
"Atlas."
The Mink turned, his ears swiveling toward her.
Marya did not look away from Ember. Her chin tilted, a fraction of a degree, a direction given without words.
Atlas followed her gaze. His expression did not change, but something in his posture shifted—a recalibration, an acknowledgment. He nodded once. "Sure thing, boss."
Shanks watched the exchange, his eye moving from Marya to Atlas to Ember and back again. His smile had softened, the edges worn smooth.
The Den Den Mushi in his pocket began to ring.
He pulled it out, the snail's face already forming Beckman's features—the half-lidded eyes, the steady mouth. Shanks held it in his palm.
"Chief." Beckman's voice came through, flat and even. "We're clear to dock. Expect a welcoming committee."
Shanks's eye slid to Marya, who stood at the railing now, her hands gripping the metal, her face turned toward the island. The wind caught her hair, pulled it back, and for a moment she looked like a figure on a prow, like a woman who had been sailing toward something her whole life and was only now close enough to see it.
"I expected as much." Shanks's voice was warm, unhurried. "See you in a few."
He hung up.
The submarine cut through the water, the Red Force a crimson shadow at her flank, and Tosu Island rose from the sea like a city built by architects who believed the world was worth making beautiful. The canals of Laksandria glowed orange in the afternoon light, the water turned to amber and copper, and the green of the vertical gardens climbed the sides of concrete towers that caught the sun and held it.
Marya stood at the railing, and she did not move.
Sanza climbed higher on the rail, his toes gripping the metal, his hair a flag of red, his small face turned toward the island with an expression that was not quite wonder and not quite hunger but something in between. Jelly wobbled beside him, his form stretching toward the shore, his grin a permanent fixture.
Vesta hummed under her breath, a tune Marya did not recognize, her fingers tapping the railing in time to a beat only she could hear.
Eliane pointed at a tower wrapped in ivy and flowering vines, her voice rising. "Look at that! Is that a garden on the roof?"
Atlas leaned against the wall, his arms still crossed, but his ears had perked, his eyes tracking the movement on the docks.
Charlie had produced a notebook from his satchel, his pencil scratching, his lips moving silently as he cataloged.
Bianca was talking to no one in particular, her hands tracing shapes in the air. "The alloy they use here is, like, totally unique. The grain structure is—"
Shanks moved to stand beside Marya. He did not speak. He did not need to.
The island grew. The docks resolved into wood and stone, into cranes and pulleys and ships in various states of repair. Figures gathered at the pier, their faces turned toward the approaching vessels, their hands raised in greeting or warning—it was impossible to tell from this distance.
Marya's fingers tightened on the railing.
"You could let them run wild," Shanks said, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "Just this once."
Her jaw tightened. "Someone has to keep them from burning the place down."
"That's what uncles are for." He grinned at her, and for a moment he looked nothing like a Yonko, nothing like a man who could split the sky with his sword. He looked like a man who had been waiting for something, and had finally found it.
Marya's expression did not change. But something in her shoulders released, a tension she had been carrying without naming.
"One day," she said, "someone is going to hold you to that."
Shanks's grin widened. "I'm counting on it."
The submarine slid toward the dock, the water parting around her hull, the Red Force keeping perfect pace. The figures on the pier were resolving into faces now, into hands raised in welcome, into a crowd that was already parting to make room.
Sanza let out a whoop that was swallowed by the wind. Jelly bounced on the rail, his laughter a series of high, clear notes. Vesta was singing, her voice rising over the engines, over the wind, over the slow creak of ropes being readied and moorings being set.
Marya looked at the island, at the orange canals and the green towers and the waiting crowd.
She did not smile.
But she did not frown, either.
And when the submarine bumped against the dock, when the gangplank was lowered, when the chaos of her crew surged forward like a wave that had been gathering speed for a thousand miles, she was the first one off.
Behind her, Shanks laughed again, and the sound rolled across the water like a tide coming in.
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