The Dreadnought Thalassa slid toward the dock like a leviathan returning to harbor, her hull cutting the orange-amber water of the canal with the ease of a blade through silk. Beside her, the Red Force glided into position, her crimson sails furling with the practiced rhythm of a crew who had made this approach a hundred times before. The morning sun caught the gilding on her figurehead, threw sparks across the water, and lit the faces of the crowd that had gathered on the pier.
They were everywhere.
Dockworkers in oil-stained overalls, their hands still holding tools they had abandoned mid-repair. Fishwives in bright headscarves, their baskets forgotten at their feet. Children perched on the shoulders of parents, small hands waving, small voices already hoarse from shouting. Old men who had seen a dozen pirate crews come and go, who had watched the Blackbeard flag fly from their palace and thought the world was ending—those old men were grinning, their weathered faces split wide, their caps held high as they cheered.
The sound of it rolled across the water like thunder before rain, like the first crash of a wave you knew would sweep you away.
Marya stood at the railing of the submarine, her hands wrapped around the cool metal, her leather jacket open to the breeze. The Heart Pirates yellow insignia on her back like a promise she hadn't asked to keep. Her eyes slid sideways.
Shanks stood beside her, his cloak billowing, his eyes fixed on the shore. He was grinning. Not the sharp grin he wore when he drew Gryphon, not the lazy smile he offered over a cup of sake. This was something else—something that reached the corners of his eyes, something that softened the hard lines of a face that had seen too much.
He looked like a man coming home.
"Look at all the people!" Vesta had both hands on the railing, her rainbow hair streaming behind her like a banner caught in a gale. She bounced on the balls of her feet, her whole body vibrating with a joy that had no off switch. "This is so great! This is—this is—look at them!"
Marya's jaw tightened. She could feel the crowd's energy like a wave pressing against her chest, demanding she feel something, demanding she participate. She did not want to participate. She wanted to find a quiet bar, drink wine that was too sweet, and steal money from men who underestimated her at the gambling table.
She growled under her breath. "Uncle…"
Shanks did not look at her. His grin widened. He was enjoying this. He was absolutely enjoying this.
Sanza leaned over the railing, his small fingers wrapped around the metal, his red hair whipping across his face. He did not push it away. He let it fly. "They are so excited." He looked over his shoulder at Shanks, his brow furrowed, his confusion genuine. "Why are they so happy? I have never seen them act like this before."
Shanks stepped up beside him, his sandals whispering against the deck. He reached out and ruffled the boy's hair—a gesture so casual, so warm, that Sanza's scowl softened into something close to wonder. "Yeah, kid. I know." He gestured toward the dock with his chin, that easy movement that had launched a thousand ships and ended a thousand fights. "Come on. Don't want to keep them waiting."
"Adventure!" Jelly bounced up from somewhere behind them, his translucent blue body diffusing the light, his toothy grin a permanent fixture. "New friends!"
The submarine bumped against the dock. Ropes were thrown, knots tied, planks lowered. The Red Hair Pirates were already moving, already ashore—Lucky Roux's bulk disappearing into the crowd, Yasopp's long stride eating up the dock, Bonk Punch already reaching for something that might be a drink. The crowd surged toward them, hands reaching, voices calling, and the pirates moved through it like fish through water, like they had been born to this, like this was what it meant to be welcome.
Marya's crew began to disembark behind her, a slow trickle that became a flood. She stayed where she was, watching, waiting.
The hatch opened behind her and Galit stepped out, his dark teal cloak settling around his shoulders, his emerald eyes already scanning the crowd, the buildings, the exits. He moved to stand beside her, his neck held in that loose S-curve, his hands clasped behind his back.
"They're happy to see him," he said, not a question.
Marya watched a dockworker clasp Shanks' arm, watched the Emperor of the Sea laugh at something the man said, watched the man's wife step forward to embrace a pirate she had probably never met. "They are."
Galit was quiet for a moment. Then: "This is not what you had in mind, is it?"
Marya's expression did not change. Her jaw tightened. "No."
Galit's lips twitched. It was not quite a smile. It was the closest thing she had seen on his face since they left the battle behind.
---
The dock was chaos. The good kind. The kind that came from too many people, too much noise, and the particular energy of a crowd that had been waiting for something and had finally gotten it.
Don Leonard-o-Milk stood at the center of it, his burgundy coat flapping in the breeze, his hand already buried in one of its thirty-two pockets. He was watching the submarine, watching the Red Force, watching the crowd, watching everything—his dark eyes moving with the speed of a card dealer's hands.
Beside him, Par-Cheese Dolly adjusted her hair, her Cheese-Arms gleaming, her dress sparkling and reflecting in a thousand directions. She had a basket of cornbread balanced on one hip, a smile on her face, and her eyes fixed on the gangplank where Shanks was about to appear.
Herbert-Marx stood a few feet away, his tuxedo-overalls immaculate, his Egg-Arms folded across his chest, his soldering-cigar glowing softly at the corner of his mouth. He was watching the submarine's hull with an engineer's eye, cataloging every weld, every seam, every place where there was a mark.
And Gummo-Butter—Iron-Leg himself—stood at the front of the greeting party, his peanut helmet gleaming, his posture perfect, his face a mask of stoic duty. He was scanning the crowd, scanning the rooftops, scanning the water. He was always scanning. It was what he did.
---
Eliane spotted Lucky Roux before he spotted her. He was standing near a stack of cargo crates, a leg of lamb already in his hand, his laugh rolling across the dock as he talked to a small, round man in a stained apron. She jumped up and down, her silver braid bouncing, her hand waving so hard her whole arm moved.
"Lucky! Lucky Roux! Over here!"
He looked up, and his face split into a grin that could have lit the harbor. He waved her forward, the lamb leg swinging like a baton. "Come on, then! Don't just stand there!"
Eliane looked over her shoulder, her eyes bright. "Atlas! Come on! Let's go!"
Atlas pushed off from the crate he'd been leaning against, his rust-red fur ruffled, his movements fluid. "Right behind you, kid." He scanned the crowd, his blue eyes finding Ember before anyone else could. She was drifting toward the edge of the dock, her mismatched eyes fixed on something only she could see. Atlas moved without thinking, his hand closing around her arm.
Her head snapped around, her neon-pink hair swinging.
"Come on," he said, his voice flat. "You're with us."
Ember cocked her head, her prosthetic eye whirring softly. "I am?"
Atlas did not give her time to argue. "Yeah. Let's go."
He pulled her forward, and she came—not resisting, not cooperating, just… coming. Her hand drifted toward the charred rabbit at her waist, her fingers finding the plush fur, her steps falling into rhythm beside Atlas like she had been walking with him her whole life.
They caught up to Eliane at the edge of the dock. Lucky Roux was already introducing them to the round man in the apron, whose face had gone from suspicious to delighted in the space of three sentences.
"This is Marv," Lucky Roux said, clapping the man on the shoulder hard enough to make him stagger. "Best spice merchant on the island. Been supplying my galley for years. Marv, this is Eliane—she's been asking about your saffron."
Marv's eyes lit up. "Saffron? You want saffron? Come, come, I have things to show you." He was already moving, already gesturing, already pulling Eliane toward a stall draped in colorful fabrics.
Eliane looked over her shoulder, her face alight. "Atlas! Come on!"
Atlas raised a hand. "Go. I'll catch up."
She disappeared into the crowd, Marv's voice trailing behind her: "You want the good saffron, the stuff from the Spice Hills, not that watered-down—"
Atlas turned to Lucky Roux. "She's in good hands?"
Lucky Roux bit into his lamb leg, chewing thoughtfully. "Marv's honest. As honest as spice merchants get, anyway." He glanced at Ember, who was watching the crowd with the stillness of a cat. "She okay?"
Atlas did not answer. He did not know the answer.
---
Bianca found Building Snake at the edge of the dock. He was standing with Herbert-Marx, the two of them examining something on the submarine's hull—some weld, some seam, some detail Bianca had already cataloged in her head and dismissed as "fine, like, totally fine, but fine."
She walked up to them, her overalls open over a blowse the color of sunset, her goggles pushed up into her tangled black hair. She flicked her wrist, a gesture that took in both men, the submarine, the dock, the entire situation. "Like, yo."
Building Snake's face split into a grin. Herbert-Marx raised one eyebrow—a single, expressive movement that said more than most people's entire vocabulary.
"Something we can do for you, young lady?" Herbert-Marx's voice was flat, uninflected, the voice of a man who had been asked for directions, for help, for miracles, and had delivered all three without changing his tone.
Bianca did not wait for Building Snake to speak. She never waited. "Like, yeah, you can like show me where I can like get tools and stuff, and while you are at it you can, like, show me where I can like order parts and whatever." She flicked her wrist again, then turned her attention to her nails, picking at a chip in the polish as if the conversation was already over.
Herbert-Marx blinked. It was the only sign of surprise he ever showed—a single, slow blink, like a machine processing unexpected input.
Building Snake laughed, the sound rolling across the dock. He clapped Herbert-Marx on the shoulder hard enough to make the Egg-Arms jiggle. "Come on, Herbert, you gotta love a woman who knows what she wants."
Herbert-Marx's eyebrow twitched. It was not quite a smile. It was close. "I don't know that I'd use the word 'love.'"
Bianca looked up from her nails, her eyes sharp. "Like, you got a problem with the way I talk?"
Herbert-Marx considered the question for a long moment. "No," he said finally. "I have a problem with the way you make requests without listening for the answer."
Bianca's mouth opened. Closed. She looked at Building Snake, who was grinning like a man watching a firework he had lit himself. She looked back at Herbert-Marx. "Like, okay. That's, like, fair."
Herbert-Marx's eyebrow twitched again. "Tools are this way." He turned and began walking, his Egg-Arms swinging at his sides, his soldering-cigar leaving a trail of smoke that smelled like honey and hot metal.
Building Snake jerked his head, still grinning. "Come on. Tools are easy. We can talk about the rest on the way."
Bianca fell into step beside him, her frown already forgotten, her hands already reaching for the notebook in her pocket. "Like, cool."
---
Vesta bounded off the gangplank like a wave breaking on the shore, her rainbow hair streaming, her hands already reaching for Rockstar, who was standing near a stack of crates talking to two of the most colorful people she had ever seen.
"Rockstar! Rockstar, this is so great!" She was waving, skipping, her whole body a celebration. "Look at all these people! They're here for us!"
Rockstar's face softened into something close to pride. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, they are."
The man beside him—a wiry figure in a burgundy coat that had seen better days and somehow looked better for them—threw a handful of glitter into the air. It caught the light, spun, drifted down like slow-motion stars. "I LOVE THE ENERGY!" His voice was fast, nasal, impossible to interrupt. "This is-a what I'm telling you! This is-a the energy we need!"
The woman beside him—a vision of blonde curls and sparkle and curves that defied both anatomy and decency—smiled at Rockstar, her eyes warm. "This is the main act, then?"
Rockstar stood a little straighter. "Yeah. You're gonna love her."
Vesta was already bouncing, already vibrating, already unable to contain herself. "Are you fans? Are you—do you know my music? Have you heard—"
The woman laughed, a sound like honey poured over warm bread. "Honey, we're not just fans." She gestured to the man in the burgundy coat, who was already reaching for another handful of glitter. "We're here to orchestrate your concert debut."
The man—Don Leonard-o-Milk, though Vesta did not know that yet—made a sweeping gesture that took in the dock, the crowd, the ships, the whole island. "Don Leonard-o-Milk," he said, pressing a hand to his chest. "Party-Starter, Event Coordinator Extraordinaire, Minister of Merriment, Professional—" He threw more glitter. "—everything. And this—" he gestured to the woman, "—is Par-Cheese Dolly. The Sparkly Melt. The Imagination Librarian. The woman who makes everything I plan actually work."
Dolly canted a hip, her Cheese-Arms gleaming. "He plans. I sparkle. Together, we throw parties people talk about for a millennium."
Vesta's eyes turned to stars. Her hands came together in a clap that echoed across the dock. "You're going to plan the concert?"
Dolly's smile widened. "Honey, we are going to throw a party like you have never seen."
Vesta squealed. She spun. Her hair fanned out, catching the light, throwing rainbows across the dock. "Really!"
Across the dock, Shanks looked up from his conversation with Beckman. He had been discussing something important—supply lines, maybe, or the shifting politics of the New World—but the sound of that squeal cut through everything. His mouth curved into a grin.
Dolly noticed him looking. Of course she noticed. She noticed everything.
She sauntered across the dock, her hips swinging, her hair bouncing, her Cheese-Arms catching the light. "Long time no see, boys."
Beckman blew out a plume of smoke, his expression unchanging. "Good to see you, Dolly."
She stopped in front of them, close enough to be familiar, far enough to be proper. "You boys planning on sticking around for a little while?"
Shanks' grin softened. "Only a few days. Then we have to get back on the water."
Dolly put a hand on her hip, her expression falling into a theatrical pout. "Aw, that's too bad. There's so much I could show you. The new kopitiam in Briyani-Ganj makes the best kaya toast you've ever—" She stopped. Her head whipped around.
Don was calling her name, his voice carrying across the dock like a foghorn. He was gesturing at Vesta, who was bouncing so hard her hair was blurring.
Dolly looked back at Shanks and Beckman. All three of them were watching the rainbow-haired girl, whose enthusiasm had reached levels that might require professional intervention.
Dolly laughed. "Your friend looks like she's ready to have a good time."
Shanks nodded toward the chaos. "Take good care of her for us, Dolly."
Dolly's smile turned warm. She winked. "Anything for you, Shanks." She nodded at Beckman. "See you around, Beckman."
She sauntered back to the group, her steps unhurried, her presence a gravitational force that pulled everyone toward her. Vesta was already talking, already gesturing, already planning. Don was throwing glitter in response to every suggestion. Rockstar was laughing, his head thrown back, his guard down for the first time in weeks.
Dolly stepped into the circle and the planning became real.
---
Jannali and Bō-Zak walked past Marya and Galit at the edge of the dock. Jannali's headscarf was bright against her dark skin, her hoop earrings swinging with each step. Bō-Zak moved beside her, his tattered shawl flapping, his pipe trailing smoke that smelled like something grown in soil that had never seen sunlight.
Marya looked up as they passed. "I'll be right there," she said. It was not a question. It was a statement of fact.
Jannali nodded once, her eyes already scanning the dock. "Yeah, mate. Take your time."
They walked on, leaving Marya and Galit to their conversation.
Yasopp was tying off a line at the bow of the Red Force, his movements sure, his eyes fixed on the knot. Limejuice was beside him, his hands working the rigging, his attention divided between the rope and the crowd. Bonk Punch was securing a cargo net, Monster perched on his shoulder, the monkey's brown fur a stark contrast against the pirate's red jacket. Howling Gab was coiling a line, his movements slow, deliberate, the rhythm of a man who had done this a thousand times.
Jannali stopped beside them. "You blokes know any casinos around here? Or, like, popular bars? Somewhere we can make some fast cash?"
Limejuice and Yasopp exchanged a look. It was the look of men who had been asked this question before, who knew exactly what the answer was, who were already enjoying the thought of what would come next.
"Yeah," Limejuice said, his grin slow. "Think we can help you out with that."
Bō-Zak leaned against a crate, his pipe sending up a curl of smoke. "Preferably some place with some female company."
Howling Gab chuckled, the sound low and warm. "Think we know just the place."
Jannali rolled her eyes, but the smirk on her face said she was not objecting. "We just gotta wait for Marya."
Bonk Punch raised an eyebrow, Monster mimicking the expression from his shoulder. "Marya's coming?"
Jannali nodded. "Yeah, mate. What of it?"
Yasopp, Limejuice, Bonk Punch, and Howling Gab all exchanged another look. This one was sharper, more pointed, more knowing. Jannali's eyes narrowed.
Yasopp finished his knot, his hands moving with the ease of long practice. "We can wait." He gestured to the remaining lines. "You two want to help us finish up?"
Bō-Zak shrugged, pushing off from the crate. "Okay."
---
Shanks and Beckman stood at the edge of the dock, watching the chaos unfold. The crowd was thinning now, people dispersing to their tasks, their errands, their lives. The Red Hair Pirates were scattered across the dock, some already heading into the city, some lingering to talk with old friends.
Gummo-Butter approached, his peanut helmet gleaming, his steps measured, his presence a wall that the crowd parted around without thinking. "It's good to see you, Shanks, Beckman."
Beckman blew out a plume of smoke. "Appreciate you helping us out with such short notice."
Gummo-Butter nodded, his expression unchanged. "Of course. We are forever in your debt, and always appreciate a visit from the Emperor of the Sea."
Shanks smiled. "How's Marx-Mallow? Still keeping you busy?"
"He is looking forward to your visit," Gummo-Butter said. It was as close to affection as he ever came.
Shanks nodded, his gaze drifting across the dock. It landed on Marya and Galit, who were just stepping off the gangplank, their heads close together, their conversation too quiet to hear. "Perfect timing." He called out across the dock. "Marya!"
Her head snapped up. Her expression, already guarded, turned to something harder. She said something to Galit—something short, something final—and walked toward Shanks, her boots heavy on the dock, her jaw set.
Shanks waited until she was close, until she was standing in front of him, her arms crossed, her eyes narrowed.
"Come on, kid." He was already moving, already turning, already walking. "We have a date."
Marya blinked. "I am not interested in whatever this is. I have to—"
Shanks did not stop walking. He did not turn around. He reached out, his hand closing on the collar of her leather jacket, and pulled her forward. "I wasn't asking, kid."
Marya tried to dig in her heels. It did not work. She tried to twist away. It did not work. She tried to summon the words that had always served her, the sharp replies that made men twice her size reconsider their choices.
Shanks kept walking, dragging her behind him like a captain hauling a misbehaving crewman, his stride easy, his grip unbreakable.
Beckman watched them go, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. The peanut-helmeted guard fell into step behind them, his presence a silent escort.
Galit stood beside Beckman, his arms crossed, his eyes following the trio as they disappeared into the crowd. "I assume this will take some time."
Beckman glanced at him, the smirk widening. "Yeah. Gotta go pay respects. All that."
Galit's lips twitched. It was not quite a smile. It was close enough. "I understand."
They stood in silence for a moment, two men who understood what it meant to follow someone larger than themselves, what it cost, what it gave.
Beckman nodded toward the dock. "Need help with anything?"
---
Jannali and Bō-Zak were coiling lines beside Yasopp when they saw Shanks drag Marya past. Her feet were leaving skid marks on the dock. Her expression was murder. Her uncle's expression was serene.
Yasopp stepped up beside Jannali, his eyes on the retreating figures. "Don't think she's going to make it."
Jannali shook her head, a grin breaking through her smirk. "Doesn't look like she's too happy about it either."
Limejuice laughed, the sound sharp and bright. "Sucks to be her."
The whole group laughed, the sound rolling across the dock like the tide coming in.
---
Charlie stepped off the gangplank with the careful deliberation of a man who believed that walking was a science, not an art. His pith helmet was straight, his khaki shirt was tucked, his satchel was secure. He was ready.
Sanza rushed past him, Jelly bouncing at his heels, Monster—who had appeared from nowhere—swinging from a rope and landing on the dock with a thump that made Charlie jump.
Charlie cleared his throat. "Ahem."
No one stopped.
He cleared his throat again, louder, more pointed. "Ahem."
Galit and Beckman looked up from their conversation. Sanza skidded to a halt, Jelly bouncing into his back, Monster landing on his haunches and watching with intelligent, judgmental eyes.
Charlie walked up to the two men, his stride measured, his expression serious. "Ahem." He stopped, adjusted his glasses, and fixed them both with a look that was meant to convey authority. "Would either of you be able to show me the way to a bookstore?"
Beckman's eyebrow rose. He looked down. Sanza was standing at Charlie's elbow, his red hair a wild tangle, his face split by a grin. Jelly was beside him, his gelatinous form wobbling, his grin a perfect match. Monster sat at Sanza's feet, his topknot bobbing as he tilted his head.
"You taking the kid, too?" Beckman asked.
Charlie looked down. He blinked. "Ah." He had not realized. He had not noticed. He had been thinking about the archives, about the texts he might find, about the possibility of rare manuscripts. He had not noticed the small, grinning child who had attached himself to Charlie's shadow.
Sanza beamed. "If you're shopping for books, then maybe I can shop for stuff too."
Galit's voice came from behind them, dry as old bone. "You could use some different clothing."
Sanza looked down at himself. His clothes were fine. They were the clothes he had worn since Mary Geoise, the clothes his father had chosen, the clothes that marked him as something he was not sure he wanted to be anymore. "What is wrong with my clothes?"
Charlie opened his mouth to answer, to explain, to—
Beckman called out across the dock. "Hongo!"
Hongo looked up from the medical kit he was securing. His face, already set in its usual lines of mild irritation, settled into something deeper when he saw the group Beckman was pointing at.
He walked over, his stride slow, his expression resigned. "What's up?"
Beckman nodded at Charlie, at Sanza, at Jelly, at Monster. "Take them with you."
Hongo's eyes narrowed. He looked at Charlie, with his pith helmet and his satchel and his air of scholarly importance. He looked at Sanza, who was grinning like a boy who had just been given permission to run. He looked at Jelly, who was bouncing. He looked at Monster, who was scratching his ear with the focus of a creature who had learned long ago that humans would sort themselves out.
"Take them where?" Hongo asked.
Charlie cleared his throat. "It would be greatly appreciated if you could direct me in the direction of a bookstore."
Sanza's voice cut through the air. "And I am getting clothes!"
Jelly bounced higher. "Shopping adventure! New stuff!"
Monster jumped up and down, his enthusiasm infectious, his topknot bouncing.
Hongo looked at Beckman. Beckman looked back. There was no help there.
"Take Monster with you, too," Beckman said.
Hongo sighed. It was the sigh of a man who had learned long ago that arguing was pointless, that resistance was futile, that sometimes the best you could do was accept your fate and move forward.
He turned. He walked. He did not look back. "Come on."
They followed.
Charlie fell into step beside him, already reaching for his notebook. "I understand Tosu's archives contain texts predating the current cartographic standards. Do you know if they have any complete copies of—"
Sanza darted ahead, his voice rising. "Do they have clothes in my size? Do they have—do they have—do they have—"
Jelly bounced past them both, his laughter a series of high, clear notes. "Bloop! Shopping! New stuff!"
Monster swung onto a crate, then a lamppost, then the awning of a stall, his path a chaotic parabola of fur and enthusiasm.
Hongo walked in the center of the chaos, his shoulders slumped, his expression resigned, his pace unchanging.
Behind them, trailing through the crowd like a ghost, Dr. Zip H. Scatyl stepped off the gangplank. His white coat was immaculate, his black gloves were pristine, his belt of vials and syringes clinked softly with each step. He did not look at the crowd. He did not look at the ships. He looked at the city, at the rooftops, at the spaces between buildings where a man might disappear if he wanted to.
Galit's head turned.
He felt it before he saw it—a shift in the air, a weight that had not been there a moment before. His eyes found Dr. Zip, moving through the crowd with the unhurried grace of a man who had nowhere to be and no one to answer to.
Galit's neck coiled tighter, his hands curling at his sides.
Beckman noticed. He noticed everything. "What is it, kid?"
Galit took a step forward. His hand lifted, reaching toward something he could not name.
Aurélie stepped off the gangplank behind Dr. Zip, her silver hair loose, her black attire stark against the color of the dock, her hand resting on the hilt of Anathema. She moved at a distance, her steps measured, her eyes fixed on the pale figure ahead of her.
Galit's hand dropped. His shoulders loosened. "It's nothing."
Beckman looked at him for a long moment. He did not push. He did not ask. He just waited, patient, steady, a wall against whatever was coming.
Galit shook his head. "It's nothing."
He turned away from the doctor, from the woman who followed him, from whatever thread of fate had just pulled taut between them.
The dock was chaos behind him—laughter and shouting, the clatter of crates, the hiss of ropes, the endless rhythm of a port that never really slept. His crew was scattered across it, some already gone, some waiting, some standing exactly where he had left them.
He took a breath. He let it go.
The day was just beginning.
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