The afternoon sun of Amigo Island pours through the limestone canyons of King's Basin like honey through a sieve—thick, golden, and impossibly warm against the skin. The market district sprawls across the lower terraces of the port city, a labyrinth of cobblestone alleys and open-air stalls that climb the hillside in chaotic tiers. Every surface vibrates with sound: merchants hawking their wares in a dozen dialects, the low thrum of Tone Dials pumping bass lines through hollowed dial-wood speakers, the distant crash of waves against the harbor walls.
Uni moves through the crowd with the practiced ease of a veteran cargo hauler accustomed to hostile waters. His arms are piled high with wooden crates—the kind that hold dried goods, preserved meats, and the blend of spices that Eliane has been hunting for since they docked. The crates wobble precariously, but his grip never falters. Behind him, Clione staggers under a mountain of burlap sacks, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts.
"Why," Clione wheezes, adjusting his grip on a sack that threatens to topple, "did we buy this much?"
"The captain said we'll be at sea for a while," Uni replies with the patience of someone explaining it for the fifth time. "And because Eliane said—"
"I said we needed proper provisions," Eliane interrupts, skipping ahead of the group with an energy that belies the weight of the shopping bags dangling from her arms. Her silver ponytail bounces with each step, and there's a smudge of something orange—paprika, perhaps, or turmeric—smeared across her cheek. "You can't expect me to cook proper meals with the sad, sad pantry we've got on the ship. Do you know how long it's been since anyone restocked the spice rack? Three months. Three months of nothing but salt and pepper and that sad little jar of dried oregano that Sanza probably brought from Mary Geoise."
Sanza Kaplan Figarland—walking beside her with his hands clasped behind his back in a posture that suggests he's imagining himself as a general surveying conquered territory—sniffs indignantly. "That oregano is imported. It's from the Vearth fields of Upper Yard. It's probably worth more than this entire market."
"It tastes like dust," Eliane shoots back.
"Exquisite dust."
Behind them, Hakugan brings up the rear, his massive cargo parting the crowd like a ship's prow cutting through waves. He carries a single crate—the heaviest one, judging by the way his muscles strain against his coat—and his expression is one of profound, patient suffering.
"I hate shopping," he mutters.
Jannali Bandler walks at the center of the group, her afro bouncing with each step, her headscarf—a vibrant pattern of gold and crimson—wrapped securely around her forehead. Sunlight glints off her golden hoop earrings, scattering bright flecks across the cobblestones. She's listening to Eliane's story with an expression of amused disbelief, her brown eyes crinkling at the corners.
"—and then," Eliane continues, her arms waving so wildly that a passing merchant has to duck to avoid being struck, "he just—he just kept eating. Five feet of meat! Five! I measured it! It was taller than me! And he ate it in, like, three minutes. I couldn't believe it. I have never seen anything like it."
Clione nods, shifting the weight of the burlap sacks. "That sounds like him."
"Right?!" Eliane spins to face him, her eyes wide with the delight of someone who has just found a kindred spirit. "That's what I said! Marya didn't believe me at first, but I measured it."
Jannali tilts her head, her expression shifting to something thoughtful. "Bloody hell. He's got a hollow leg, that one."
Sanza's brow furrows. His heavy Gallagher eyebrows draw together in a look of genuine confusion that makes him appear, for a moment, exactly like the eight-year-old he actually is.
"How," he asks, "is a leg hollow? That doesn't make anatomical sense. The femur is one of the strongest bones in the human body. If it were hollow, it would—"
"It's an expression, Sanza," Eliane says, patting his head with the kind of condescending affection usually reserved for slow puppies.
"It's a stupid expression."
Vesta Lavana walks slightly apart from the group, her rainbow hair shimmering in the afternoon heat, her violet eyes scanning the market stalls with a mixture of curiosity and barely concealed longing. She's dressed in her signature K-pop star style—an asymmetrical top that leaves one shoulder bare, platform boots that add three inches to her already considerable height, and a collection of Dial-tech jewelry that clicks and hums with each movement.
"Do you think we should get some more?" she asks, her voice edged with nervous energy as she tries not to dwell on their role in kidnapping the Pirate King. "I mean—for supplies. We should get more supplies. More food. Definitely more food. Not that we need more food. But maybe we do? I don't know. What do you think?"
Eliane shrugs. "We could always—"
"We're flat broke," Jannali cuts in, her accent thickening the words with a kind of finality. "Gonna have to crack open the pokies float if we want to keep going."
Vesta's face falls. "The what?"
"The emergency funds, mate. The rainy-day stash. The—"
"Oh." Vesta's cheeks flush a shade of pink that clashes spectacularly with her hair. "Right. That."
Jelly "Giggles" Squish bounces along at the edge of the group, his translucent blue body wobbling with each impact against the cobblestones. His starry eyes are fixed on a massive lollipop—a swirling vortex of colors that he's been working on for the past ten minutes. The candy is almost as big as his head.
"Bloop!" he chirps, taking another enthusiastic lick. "More snacks!"
Eliane scoffs, crossing her arms and jutting her chin out in a gesture of maternal disapproval. "You already have a snack!"
Jelly bounces higher, his body compressing and expanding with a wet squelch sound. He bites down on the lollipop with an audible crunch, then pulls the stick out of his mouth with a triumphant flourish.
"All gone!"
The stick is completely bare. The lollipop has vanished. Eliane's eye twitches.
"Well," she says with the strained patience of a chef watching someone gulp down a meal without tasting it, "you shouldn't have eaten it so quickly."
Jelly's lower lip juts out. His starry eyes—already impossibly large—somehow grow even wider, shimmering with the threat of glittery tears. He opens his mouth to reply—
"We are heading back," Hakugan announces, his voice cutting through the chatter like a blade.
Uni nods, adjusting his grip on the crates. "Yeah, we want to put this away before they wake up Luffy."
The words land like stones in still water.
Jannali doesn't hear them. Her head snaps around with the sudden alertness of a predator catching a scent, her brow furrowing beneath her headscarf. Her eyes lose focus, her lips parting slightly, and for a moment, she is no longer standing in the bustling market of King's Basin. She is somewhere else entirely.
Vesta notices. "What is it?"
Jannali doesn't answer immediately. She tilts her head, as if listening to something just beyond the edge of hearing.
"You hear that?"
Vesta shakes her head, her rainbow hair shimmering with the movement. "Hears what?"
Sanza stops walking, his head swiveling as he scans the market. His expression is one of intense concentration.
"I don't hear anything," he says. "Is it a code? A secret language? A—"
"It sounds like music," Jannali breathes.
And then she's gone.