"Thatch!"
"Wha—? Fuck, Namur, what was that for?!"
The seventeen-year-old jerked upright from his half-collapsed position at the tavern table, clutching his head. It was pounding so badly that he couldn't tell whether the pain came from the alcohol or from the solid blow Namur had just delivered.
"You trying to knock my head off, bastard?"
He glared at the towering fish-man standing beside him and, with a miserable groan, knocked his empty mug onto the floor.
Namur snapped his shark-like teeth irritably.
"It's useless anyway. Get moving. Pops wants to sail."
Thatch squinted at him.
"So go sail."
"We can't," Namur replied flatly. "Marco hasn't come back."
Thatch blinked.
"Then go look for him." He slumped forward again, clearly ready to fall asleep where he sat.
The entire tavern smelled like smoke, stale beer, urine, and old lamp oil. It made Namur wrinkle his nose in disgust.
Thatch, however, didn't seem bothered at all.
A barmaid approached their table carrying two mugs of beer. Her white shirt barely deserved to be called a shirt at all. She placed the drinks down with a cheerful smile, completely ignoring the warning look Namur gave her.
"Have fun tonight, boys. Don't fall asleep!"
At once Thatch straightened like a puppet pulled by invisible strings. His expression brightened instantly as he grabbed the mug.
With a dazzling grin he winked at the black-haired girl with warm, amber eyes.
Namur sighed heavily.
"Pops will kill you if you don't show up at the harbor with Marco. You both went to that tavern yesterday, and now he's gone."
The girl giggled and wandered off. Thatch took a long drink before answering.
"That's his problem, not mine." He slammed the mug down on the table. "Yesterday he stole the prettiest girl in the whole port right in front of me. Right under my nose! I was thinking about killing him!"
The mug slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor.
The bartender growled something under his breath, but Thatch didn't even bother to apologize.
Namur clicked his teeth again—less aggressively this time—and tilted his head, clearly struggling to follow Thatch's logic.
It was the same in every port.
First the drinking.
Then the fight over women.
Then the hangover.
The entire crew mocked each other for it the next day.
But this time the situation was different.
Marco—Edward Newgate's first division commander—had disappeared.
And that was a problem.
The tavern was beginning to fill up.
Girls in long skirts moved between the tables, their sleeves rolled up, their arms bare. Thatch's mood improved instantly. His eyes wandered around the room, searching for someone prettier.
Namur's patience was nearly gone.
Finally, deciding that the younger pirate would not cooperate voluntarily, the fish-man grabbed him by the back of the neck with one large, webbed hand and lifted him out of his chair.
Thatch protested loudly, but Namur ignored him completely and dragged him outside.
Marco woke up with a splitting headache.
He wasn't wearing a shirt.
The bitter taste of beer filled his mouth.
At least it was evening.
The ocean breeze was cool, and he seemed to be lying on soft sand.
Wait.
Sand?
"What the hell…?"
Marco sat up quickly and looked around.
"Thatch!"
He scanned the dark beach.
In the distance he could see the faint lights of the port. But around him there was nothing.
Just the empty shoreline.
He groaned and collapsed back onto the sand.
"I'm going to kill that idiot."
He rubbed his temples.
"Where the hell did he dump me? And where's my shirt? Fucking—" Marco searched his pockets. "…I don't even have cigarettes?"
He checked again with very little hope.
Thatch had been stealing his cigarettes for months, but Marco had never said anything. He had been waiting patiently for the right moment to take revenge.
Then his fingers touched something.
Another pocket.
A miracle.
The last cigarette from the night before.
"Jesus Christ." He stared at it for a moment. "Wait… last night?"
Marco frowned.
No.
That couldn't be right.
"…Did I sleep the whole day?" He groaned again. "Great. I'm dead." He fumbled with his lighter. "The old man's going to kill me. I'll be stuck on the ship for the next million ports, yoi."
After a minute of struggling the lighter finally worked. Marco took a long drag and leaned back.
"Let's see…"
He started counting on his fingers.
"Yesterday I drank seven rounds… then we played Scythe… then four more…" He paused. "That's eleven. Then the dice game…"Another pause. "Then four more drinks…"He frowned harder. "That's fifteen." He scratched his short blond hair. "No, wait. First there was that girl…"
Marco stared at the dark ocean, completely forgetting his calculations.
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
He listened carefully. And finally realized what had been bothering him.
A sound.
Soft. High-pitched. Crying.
Marco frowned.
"What the hell…?"
He stood up slowly and focused.
He still didn't fully control the power of the Devil Fruit he had recently eaten, but it was good enough for something simple.
Blue flames ignited along his arm.
The strange fire illuminated the beach around him in a circle of pale light.
There was nothing there.
Just sand.
Marco sighed and turned toward the harbor. The Moby Dick was probably already waiting for him, and he could easily imagine the beating Thatch would receive once they got back.
But the crying didn't stop. It echoed faintly in the night air.
And now Marco was almost certain. It sounded like a baby.
He sighed.
"Of course it does."
Turning away from the harbor, Marco walked slowly along the beach, already imagining the beating Thatch would receive later. He had taken only a few steps when something caught his eye.
In the blue glow of his flames…
he saw it.
Something small.
Lying in the sand.