The gangplank creaked under Marya's boots as she stepped onto the deck of the Red Force. The ship smelled of salt and old wood, of rum that had soaked into the planks over decades of voyages. Lanterns swung from the rigging, casting pools of orange light across the deck. The evening sky stretched overhead, deep purple bleeding into black, scattered with stars that had not yet found their full brightness.
Shanks stood near the main mast with his crew gathered around him. Beckman leaned against the rail, a fresh cigarette burning between his fingers, smoke curling into the air like lazy question marks. Rockstar sat on a crate, his long red hair spilling over his shoulders, his boots propped up on a coil of rope. Howling Gab crouched beside him, his massive frame folded into a shape that should have been uncomfortable but looked natural. Building Snake stood with his arms crossed, his scarred face half-hidden in shadow. Yasopp perched on the ship's railing, one leg dangling over the side, his sniper's eyes tracking the horizon.
They were laughing. Not the forced laughter of men performing camaraderie, but the genuine, rolling laughter of old friends recounting the absurdities of the day.
Rockstar held up his hands, miming the shape of a guitar. "She wanted three different font styles for the posters. Three! I said, 'Vesta, people are here for the music, not the typography.' And she looked at me like I had just insulted her grandmother."
Yasopp snorted. "What did she say?"
"She said, 'The font is the first impression. The music is the second. Both must be perfect.'" Rockstar shook his head. "I spent four hours discussing kerning."
Howling Gab let out a deep, rumbling laugh. "You? Discussing kerning?"
"I know more about letter spacing than I ever wanted to know."
Shanks grinned, his hand resting on Griffon's hilt. "She's committed. I'll give her that."
Yasopp leaned back on the railing, his grin turning lazy, satisfied. "At least you were productive. Howling Gab and I—" he gestured between himself and the large man, "—we had a different kind of afternoon."
Howling Gab's shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. "The girls from the tournament. Remember the one with the red hair?"
Yasopp nodded, his eyes half-closing. "She asked if we were pirates. I said, 'Technically, yes.' She said, 'Technically, I don't care.'"
"Then she asked if we wanted to get out of there," Howling Gab said, his voice dropping to a rumble. "We didn't say no."
Beckman blew out a plume of smoke, his voice dry. "And?"
Yasopp shrugged, but his grin stayed. "Let's just say we found a quiet spot. Very quiet. For a few hours."
Howling Gab nodded slowly. "The kind of quiet that doesn't need words."
Building Snake snorted. "You two disappeared. We thought you got lost."
"Lost?" Yasopp laughed. "No. Just... occupied."
Shanks raised a brow, his smirk knowing. "Occupied."
"Thoroughly," Howling Gab said.
The crew chuckled, low and warm. No one asked for details. No one needed to.
Building Snake spoke up, his voice low and rough. "While you two were occupied, I was actually working."
Shanks turned to him. "Oh?"
Building Snake nodded toward the submarine. "Bianca and I spent the day on the Red Force's upgrades and the sub's hull. She's got ideas. Crazy ideas. But they work."
"How crazy?" Rockstar asked.
"She wanted to install a boost system. Said it would cut our travel time across the Calm Belt by half." Building Snake's scarred face cracked into something close to a smile. "I told her to prove it. She built a prototype in three hours."
Shanks whistled. "Three hours?"
"Three hours. And it worked. Mostly." Building Snake shrugged. "There was a small fire. But we fixed it."
"A small fire," Yasopp repeated, his voice flat.
"Small," Building Snake confirmed. "The sub's hull needed reinforcement anyway. Bianca handled that while I readjusted the Red Force."
Beckman flicked ash from his cigarette. "She's good. Annoying, but good."
"You spent the day with her crew," Shanks said, turning to Beckman. "What's your take?"
Beckman took a long drag, exhaled through his nose. "Galit's sharp. Too sharp for his own good. He'll either save them or get them killed." He paused. "Atlas has something to prove. Jannali's hiding something behind that accent. And Marya—" he shook his head, "—she's exactly what you'd expect. Mihawk's daughter. Calm, controlled, watching everything."
Shanks nodded slowly. "And the duel tomorrow?"
Beckman shrugged. "Vista's angry. Marya's cold. Angry loses to cold nine times out of ten."
The crew fell quiet, the weight of the conversation settling over them like the evening dew.
Then Shanks turned his head. His eyes caught movement on the gangplank.
---
Marya stepped onto the deck, her boots landing soft on the wood. Her raven hair like a dark cloak in the night, and her golden eyes swept the crew with the calm, assessing gaze she had inherited from her father. The Heart Pirates insignia on her leather jacket stood out against the Red Force's dark wood. Denim shorts, a casual grey shirt, tall combat boots. The obsidian blade of Nisshoku rode her back, a light-starved edge consuming the amber glow of the evening.
Shanks grinned, raising a hand in welcome. "There she is."
Marya's eyes narrowed. Her arms crossed over her chest. "Why am I here?"
Shanks chuckled, waving her forward. "Come on, kid. Let's chat."
Marya sighed—a long, suffering sound that carried the weight of someone who had learned long ago that arguing with Shanks was like arguing with the tide. She walked across the deck, her boots thudding against the wood.
As she passed the crew, she glared over her shoulder at them.
They watched her with approving expressions. Rockstar raised his cup. Yasopp nodded, his grin still lazy. Beckman's smirk held a warmth he rarely showed. Howling Gab gave her a thumbs up. Building Snake dipped his chin in acknowledgment.
Marya's glare sharpened. They did not flinch.
She turned back around and followed Shanks toward the captain's cabin.
---
The door swung open, revealing a room that smelled of leather, old paper, and the faint trace of Shanks's cologne—something woody and warm, like cedar after rain. Maps covered the walls, pinned in place with daggers and fishing hooks. A large desk sat in the corner, buried under stacks of newspapers, bounty posters, and letters sealed with red wax.
A bottle of wine waited on the table at the room's center. Two glasses stood beside it, one already poured.
Shanks walked to the table, picked up the glass, and held it out to her. "Sit."
Marya pulled out the chair across from him, the legs scraping against the floor. She sat, her posture straight, her golden eyes fixed on his face. Shanks settled into his own chair, pouring sake into a small ceramic cup for himself.
Marya tapped her fingernail against the wine glass, then picked it up. She tilted the bottle with her other hand, examining the label. The script curled in elegant loops she recognized.
"You usually keep a bottle on board for him, right?"
Shanks shrugged, lifting his sake cup. "A few."
Marya smirked. "And you assume I like the same vintage."
Shanks sipped his sake. "You are his daughter."
Marya raised the glass to her lips and drank. The wine rolled across her tongue—rich, dark, with a finish that lingered like a memory. She set the glass down.
"There is no denying that."
Shanks placed his cup on the table. The wood creaked under his elbows as he leaned forward.
Marya met his gaze. "Why have you called me over here?"
Shanks chuckled, spreading his hands. "What can't an uncle just want to spend some time with his niece?"
Marya blinked. Her expression did not change. Flat. Unimpressed. The silence stretched between them like a wire pulled taut.
Shanks's chuckle faded into a genuine laugh. "You have grown a lot since I left you in Elbaph."
Marya picked up her wine glass again, swirling the dark liquid. "A lot has happened since then."
She drank.
Shanks nodded, his smile softening. "There is a lot more about to happen."
Marya placed her glass down on the table. The clink of crystal against wood echoed in the quiet room.
Shanks's posture shifted. His shoulders squared. His easy grin faded into something focused, serious. The air in the cabin grew heavier.
"I am about to make a move," he said, "that will have a ripple effect on the world."
Marya's brow furrowed. Her golden eyes searched his face, looking for the joke, the deflection, the thing he was not saying. She found none.
Shanks continued. "Your crew. Your ship. You have the ability to decipher poneglyphs."
Marya nodded, slow and measured. "We do."
Shanks leaned back in his chair, his hand resting on the table. "There is a set of poneglyphs that are not like the others. I would like for you to decipher them for me."
Marya raised a brow. "Do you have them?"
Shanks shook his head. "Not yet."
The silence returned. Marya tapped her wine glass with one finger—once, twice, three times. Her eyes stayed locked on Shanks's face, reading the lines around his mouth, the set of his jaw, the weight behind his words.
"But since you asked," Shanks said, his grin creeping back, "I assume you agree to decipher them for me."
Marya tapped the glass one more time. Then she nodded.
"Yes. But we are moving in opposite directions." Her voice carried no apology, only fact. "I cannot guarantee—"
Shanks waved a hand, cutting her off. "I will find you." His grin widened. "Bianca has given the Red Force a tune up!"
Marya chuckled, the sound low and warm. "Of course she has."
She picked up her wine glass and took another sip, letting the silence settle around them like a blanket.
"So," she said, "get Uta. Then get your poneglyphs. Then find me."
Shanks lifted his sake cup in a mock toast. "Yeah. Then we have a big concert with Vesta and Uta."
Marya shook her head, a smirk tugging at her lips. "That will be a spectacle. Vesta won't be able to contain herself."
Shanks laughed, the sound filling the cabin, bouncing off the walls covered in maps and memories. "That's the point, kid. That's always the point."
He raised his cup. Marya raised her glass. They did not clink—Shanks's sake was already gone, and Marya was still drinking—but the gesture carried the same weight.
Outside, the stars burned brighter against the black sky. The Red Force rocked gentle against the dock, and somewhere in the distance, a satay vendor called out to the night.
Marya set her glass down. "You could have just asked."
Shanks shrugged. "Where's the fun in that?"
She shook her head again, but the smirk stayed. "You're impossible."
"I prefer uncle."
Marya stood, pushing her chair back. "I'm going back to my ship."
Shanks stood with her, his hand resting on Griffon's hilt. "The duel is tomorrow morning. You ready?"
Marya walked toward the door, her boots steady on the floor. "He's not my father. He's just a man with a grudge."
Shanks watched her go. "That's the most dangerous kind."
Marya paused at the threshold, her hand on the door frame. She glanced over her shoulder, her golden eyes catching the lantern light.
"Good thing I'm not afraid of danger."
She stepped out into the night, and the door closed behind her.
Shanks stood alone in the cabin, the empty wine glass and the half-full sake cup sitting on the table between the maps and the memories. He picked up his sake, poured another measure, and drank.
Outside, the dock waited. The duel waited. The world waited.
But for now, there was only the wine, the sake, and the quiet of a man who had just asked his niece to help him change everything.
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