The path Marco led them on wound up a gentle slope behind the main village, away from the sounds of life and toward a quiet, hallowed ground. The air grew still, carrying the scent of sun-warmed grass and the distant, briny kiss of the sea. Two simple, well-tended graves stood side by side on a hill overlooking the island their headstones facing the endless horizon—a pirate's final resting place with a view of the freedom they'd fought for.
Marya walked forward alone, the wind tugging at her denim shorts and the ends of her long raven hair. She stopped before the grave marked 'Portgas D. Ace'. For a long moment, she was silent, her stance not quite mournful, but deeply contemplative. Then, she reached out with a bottle of dark red wine. She placed it reverently at the base of the headstone, the glass clinking softly against the stone. It was a simple, tangible gesture in a world of intangible ghosts.
Marco and Aokiji stood back, a dozen paces away, a gulf of history and ideology between them. Aokiji's hands were buried deep in his pockets, his large frame seeming to carry a heavier weight here. His eyes were distant, seeing not the peaceful hilltop, but the frozen, chaotic hell of Marineford—the searing heat of Akainu's magma, the devastating finality of Whitebeard's last stand, and the terrible, silent moment a life of fire was extinguished.
Marco watched Marya, but his question was for the former admiral, his voice low and taut. "Who is she? And how did you end up with them? What are you doing on Sphinx?"
Aokiji's gaze didn't waver from the graves. "Circumstance," he deflected, his voice a low rumble. "They're just passing through."
"Just passing through," Marco repeated, the words laced with simmering disbelief. The friendly, easygoing commander was gone, replaced by the First Division Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates. "You'll have to forgive me if I find that hard to swallow. You have a habit of showing up where the tides of history are shifting." He took a half-step closer, his voice dropping further, becoming dangerously quiet. "Your 'circumstance' at Marineford helped put them in the ground. You stood with the system that orchestrated that execution. You froze the very sea our allies tried to escape on."
Aokiji's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "I followed the code I believed in at the time."
"A code that allowed that?" Marco's gesture toward the graves was sharp, accusing. "And then you just… walked away? You left the Navy after failing to become Fleet Admiral, and now you roam the seas with a mysterious crew? Your motives have never been clear, Kuzan. Accountability doesn't vanish with a resignation."
"This isn't the place for this debate," Aokiji said, a finality in his tone.
"It's the only place," Marco shot back, his blue eyes flashing. "I need to hold you accountable. Someone has to. For Pops. For Ace. For every man we lost that day because the Admirals stood in our way."
Aokiji turned his head, his cool gaze finally meeting Marco's heated one. The air between them grew sharp and cold. "You think I don't hold myself accountable?" he said, his voice so low it was almost a whisper, yet it carried the weight of an avalanche. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, his long strides eating up the path back down the hill. The conversation was not concluded; it was severed.
Marco watched him go, frustration etched into every line of his body.
Galit, who had been observing the tense exchange with silent intensity, moved then. He approached Marya and placed a hand lightly on her shoulder. "We should go," he said softly.
Marya gave a slight nod, her eyes still on Ace's name carved in stone. "Go ahead. I'll catch up with you."
Galit nodded, his gaze flicking warily to Marco before he turned and followed Aokiji's retreating form.
Once they were out of earshot, Marco walked up to stand beside Marya. The wind sighed through the grass. "How did you know him?" he asked, his voice softer now, the anger redirected into a weary curiosity.
Marya's lips curved into a small, wry smirk. "We crashed into my sub. Literally."
A surprised chuckle escaped Marco. "Yeah," he said, a real smile touching his eyes for a second. "That sounds like him."
"We traveled together for a little while," Marya continued, her gaze distant. "He was looking for someone."
Marco nodded, understanding. That was Ace's journey.
She turned her attention to the other grave. "This was his captain."
"Pops," Marco confirmed, his voice thick with a fond, painful loyalty.
He then fixed his full attention on Marya, his head tilting as he studied her profile, the set of her shoulders, the way she held herself with a disciplined, almost familiar poise. "You never told me your name. You kind of remind me of someone."
"Do I?" Marya said, her smirk returning. She muttered under her breath, just loud enough for him to catch, "Wonder who that could be."
Marco's eyes narrowed, a spark of suspicion igniting. The cadence of her speech, the dark hair, the golden, ringed eyes now that he looked closely… "Your name," he pressed, his tone leaving no room for evasion.
"Marya," she said, turning to face him fully for the first time.
Marco's brow furrowed. It was a simple name, but it clicked into place alongside the growing sense of recognition. The association was there, hovering just out of reach. "Marya," he repeated.
"I better get back," she said, and began to walk away.
Marco watched her go, the familiar, confident gate, the way she carried the sword on her back. It was like watching a ghost from a Warlord's meeting. His decision was instant. He wouldn't let this mystery walk away. He fell into step beside her, his course set. He was going with her.
---
The marketplace of Sphinx Island's village was a vibrant tapestry of noise, smells, and color, a stark and wonderful contrast to the silent, cloud-stone halls of Lumenara. For the five crewmates, it was a playground of new experiences.
Chaos, as it often did, began with Jelly.
"Oi! You wobbly little thief! Get back here!" Jannali's voice cut through the market's hum as she sprinted past a stall of woven baskets.
Jelly "Giggles" Squish, a blur of translucent blue, bounced erratically through the crowd, clutching a stolen meat skewer in a wobbly mitten-hand. "Bloop! Yummy-stick!" he chirped, leaving a faint, glittery trail on the dusty ground.
Not far away, Atlas leaned against a post, demolishing a plate of fresh sashimi with single-minded focus. Between bites, he threw darts at a nearby board with lazy, unerring accuracy, a small pile of berries growing beside him as the stall owner looked on in grudging admiration.
The epicenter of their mission, however, was Eliane. The young Lunarian stood proudly before a butcher's stall, pointing at a sizable pile of beef cutlets. The burly vendor scratched his head, his apron stained with the evidence of his trade. "That's a lot of meat, little lady. You feeding a giant?"
Vesta, who had been admiring a rack of colorful scarves at the next stall, overheard. Her eyes lit up. This was her moment. She rushed over, slinging Mikasi from her back with a flourish. The guitar gave a cheerful, anticipatory strum all on its own.
"The question isn't what," Vesta announced, her voice taking on a theatrical ring, "but why!" She dramatically strummed the strings, the chord ringing through the marketplace. "We are hosting a concert! A magnificent, never-before-seen-on-the-Blue-Sea musical debut! Tonight! In the cove!"
She strummed again, this time pouring her will into it. Her voice, powerful and trained, boomed over the stalls, echoing off the surrounding buildings. "ALL ARE WELCOME TO ATTEND MY BLUE SEA MUSIC DEBUT AT THE COVE! TONIGHT! THERE WILL BE FOOD AND BAR-BE-QUE…!"
Eliane giggled with delight, clapping her hands. Jannali and Atlas, however, converged on Vesta with matching expressions of horror.
"Are you mad, mate?!" Jannali hissed, clapping a hand over Vesta's mouth. "We're supposed to be layin' low!"
Atlas groaned, his dart-throwing arm dropping to his side. "This is… not subtle."
"Party Time! Party Time!" Jelly bounced in a wobbly circle, having finally been caught by Jannali's free hand.
Eliane turned back to the wide-eyed vendor, beaming with pride. "See? That is why I need so much! I will be cooking for a ton of people!"
The vendor raised a skeptical, bushy brow, looking from the tiny, serious chef to the rainbow-haired songstress now being muffled by the scarfed woman. "You will?"
Eliane stood as tall as her petite frame would allow, crossing her arms over her miniature chef's jacket. "That's what I said! Now, are you going to give me a good price, or am I going to have to take my business to someone who appreciates a good party?"
Atlas smirked, sauntering over to loom behind her. "She drives a hard bargain," he rumbled, flexing a clawed hand casually. The pile of his winnings on the dartboard table seemed to emphasize the point.
The vendor, thoroughly cowed by the bizarre coalition, quickly began crating up the order.
The moment Jannali removed her hand from Vesta's mouth, the musician took a deep breath and belted out the announcement once more for good measure.
Jannali groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "This is going to be a proper disaster."
Eliane glanced back, her smile radiant. "It will be fun!"
Seizing the moment, Vesta began to play, her fingers flying across Mikasi's strings. The opening notes of Brook's "New World" filled the air, energetic and infectious. For a moment, it worked. A few villagers tapped their feet, smiling. But as Vesta poured more of her soul into it, the music became less a tune and more a force of nature, a little too loud, a little too overwhelming for the cramped marketplace.
The initial amusement turned to annoyance. A fruit seller winced as his apples vibrated off their display. The dart stall owner covered his ears.
"Alright, that's it!" a vendor shouted. "Get 'em!"
A unified grumble rose from the market, and suddenly, the crew found themselves at the center of a very unappreciative mob.
Jannali grabbed Vesta by the arm. "Looks like we've worn out our welcome! We better get movin'!"
Atlas chuckled, hefting the massive crate of meat as if it were filled with feathers. "You heard her, songbird. Time to go." In one smooth motion, he scooped up his winnings.
Jannali, meanwhile, latched onto Vesta's arm, bodily dragging her away as the musician continued to play, stumbling backwards.
"See you all tonight at the cove!" Vesta called out, her voice straining as she was pulled along. "Don't miss out!"
"Would you just come on already!" Jannali snapped, yanking her around a corner.
Vesta, her face flushed with excitement, looked at Jannali as they ran. "Isn't this great?! My first live concert!"
Atlas, loping alongside them with the crate, let out a deep, rumbling laugh. "Oh, I'm sure the boss is going to love this."
Behind them, the market slowly returned to its normal buzz, the name of the cove and the promise of a chaotic, meat-filled concert now planted in the minds of every villager on Sphinx. Disaster or not, it was certainly going to be memorable.
*****
The cramped confines of the Stubborn Mule's main hold felt like the inside of a tin can that had been kicked across a galaxy. The air was a unique cocktail of recycled oxygen, the greasy scent of engine sweat, and the faint, ever-present aroma of Tony Nutter's ambition, which smelled suspiciously like cheap cologne and stale protein gloop. The two brothers were a whirlwind of chaotic energy at the central console, their argument a familiar soundtrack to the groaning of the ship's aging superstructure.
"I'm just saying," Tony declared, gesticulating wildly with a half-eaten nutrient bar, "if we'd rebranded to 'Prestige Galactic Freighting,' we'd be commanding a twenty percent premium! Perception is reality, Pete!"
Peter, his own CUA-issue flight suit so impeccably maintained it seemed to reject the very dust around it, didn't look up from his navigational readouts. He was tapping a complex, irritable rhythm on the console with his stylus. "Reality is our fuel gauge which is flirting with 'E,' and our primary client is a bureaucratic oligarchy that pays in scrip, not compliments. Now, if you'll stop narrating your entrepreneurial daydreams, I need to calculate the mass differential for the tow."
Aurélie stood near the viewport, a statue of poised impatience. Her silver hair seemed to gleaming in the console's frantic lights, and her hand rested on the sheath of Anathema on her hip. Souta observed the brothers with the intense focus of a scholar studying a bizarre, symbiotic species, his dark eyes missing nothing. Emily stood beside him, her storm-grey eyes tracing the silvery stress lines on the bulkheads as if reading their history.
It was Bianca who managed to wedge a word into the verbal maelstrom. "So, like, you guys run the CAU supply lines? What's that even involve?"
Tony puffed out his chest, seizing the audience. "Involves? Sweetheart, it involves guts, glory, and a profound understanding of leveraged logistics! We're the lifeblood! We haul the raw stuff, the unrefined dreams of the empire! Right, Pete?"
"We transport raw and refined Lunar-Titanium Alloys and mineral ore to Fabrication Hub Gamma-Seven," Peter stated flatly, still tapping. "Typically for the CUA. Their requisition forms are, at least, standardized."
Bianca's head snapped up as if she'd been electrocuted. The pencils in her messy bun quivered. "Lunar-Titanium Alloys?" she repeated, her voice losing its habitual "likes" for a moment of pure, unadulterated need.
Emily saw the spark in Bianca's eyes and stepped forward, her voice a gentle counterpoint to the brothers' discord. "That is incredibly fortunate. Would it be possible for us to be allowed to—"
"—keep to a schedule!" Tony interrupted, slapping the console for emphasis. "The CUA doesn't pay for late, they pay for 'on-time or you're fined!' But don't you worry your pretty little heads," he said, winking at a thoroughly unamused Aurélie. "Gamma-Seven's got all the amenities. Supplies, fuel depots, a truly inspiring view of the greyest rock you've ever seen. You can get wherever you're really going from there, no questions asked!"
As the brothers returned to their bickering—this time over the optimal approach vector—the seven guests drew back into a tight, tense huddle near a stack of crated hydromagnetic coils.
Kuro's voice was a low murmur, his cracked glasses making his eyes unreadable. "The first question is the state of our vessel. How extensive is the damage?"
Bianca hugged her multitool holster. "I can, like, fix it. I really can. But I need, like, materials. Good ones. And we need those Lunar-Titanium Alloys to finish the hull patches on the sub. It's, like, the only thing that can handle the pressure where we need to go."
"We also require fuel," Emily added softly, her gaze drifting to the bickering brothers. "A considerable amount."
Charlie cleared his throat. "Ahem. If this Gamma-Seven is a mining and fabrication facility, as the more… verbally disciplined brother implied, it should logically possess both the raw materials and the refined fuel isotopes we require."
Aurélie gave a single, sharp nod. "The problem won't be their existence. It will be gaining access to them."
Souta's fingers absently traced the spiral pattern on his father's pocket watch. "Perhaps we will be able to… work something out. An exchange."
It was then that Ember, who had been quietly listening while fiddling with the ear of her charred rabbit, spoke up. Her voice was small, but clear. "If they have supply lines… then maybe we can work something out where we deliver material for them. In exchange for what we need."
A profound silence fell over the group. All eyes turned to Ember. It wasn't the strategic genius of Kuro or the logical deduction of Charlie; it was a simple, practical, and utterly sane solution. Ember seemed to shrink under the collective stare, her mismatched eyes widening. "Was… was that a bad…?" she stammered, her hand creeping toward her forearm.
Aurélie, moving with a sudden, unexpected gentleness, placed a hand on Ember's shoulder. The touch was brief, but firm. "It was not bad," she said, her steely gaze softening a fraction. "It was really good. It was just… unexpected."
Ember blinked, her face a canvas of bewilderment at the positive reinforcement.
A slow, cunning smirk spread across Kuro's face. He adjusted his glasses. "So. We have something to work with, then. Service in exchange for materials and fuel. A simple contract."
Their impromptu strategy session was shattered by Tony Nutter's voice blaring over the ship's intercom. "Alright, listen up, my glorious passengers! Gamma-Seven is coming up fast and ugly! We're making our final approach in twenty minutes, so I'd strongly recommend you find something sturdy to hug, because Pete's landing this thing and he still thinks a 'soft touchdown' is a type of dance move! Strap in, buttercups!"
The shared look that passed between the seven of them was a masterpiece of unspoken communication—a blend of resolve, anxiety, and the grim acknowledgment that their fate was now hitched to a flying circus piloted by a duo who argued more than they breathed. The safety of the Blue Sea felt a million light-years away, hidden behind the grim, grey facade of an enemy moon.
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