The dock district of King's Basin sprawls along the waterfront in a riot of noise and color, a living artery pumping the lifeblood of Amigo Island through its crowded veins. Ships of every description bob against the salt-bleached timber piers—fishing sloops with patched sails, merchant galleons riding low in the water, pirate vessels flying colors from a dozen different crews. The air carries the perfume of a working harbor: brine and fish, tar and rope, the sweet-sour tang of rum barrels stacked four-deep on the quayside.
Law leads the procession, his spotted hat pulled low against the afternoon glare, his tattooed hands shoved deep into his pockets. Marya walks beside him, her raven hair stirring in the harbor breeze, her golden-ringed eyes scanning the crowd with the vigilance of a sentinel navigating unfamiliar territory. Behind them, Luffy stumbles along with the boneless gait, still feeling the remanence of being sedated, his straw hat pulled low over his eyes.
Vesta Lavana practically vibrates beside him.
Her rainbow hair shimmers with each step, reflecting the sunlight and scattering them across the weathered planks. Her violet eyes are fixed on Luffy with an intensity that borders on unsettling, and her smile—wide, beaming, full of the radiance of a superfan in the presence of legend—stretches across her face like a sunrise.
Jannali Bandler notices first. Her afro bounces as she tilts her head, her headscarf—gold and crimson—moving the breeze. Her brown eyes narrow in amusement as she spots the comical situation unfolding.
"What are you looking so stoked about?" she asks, her accent drawing out the words like warm honey.
Vesta's smile somehow grows even wider. She leans toward Luffy, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that isn't actually a whisper at all.
"What is it like?"
Luffy keeps walking. His eyes are distant, unfocused, fixed on some point on the horizon that only he can see. His lips move slightly, as if he's having a conversation with someone who isn't there.
Eliane Anđel skips up beside them, her silver ponytail bouncing, her chef's jacket flapping in the breeze. The smudge of paprika on her cheek has somehow multiplied, and there's a new stain—something orange, maybe turmeric—on her collar.
"What is what like?"
Vesta's smile falters. Her brow furrows. The annoyance of a performer whose audience isn't paying attention flickers across her features.
"HEY!" She plants her hands on her hips, her platform boots clicking against the dock planks. "ARE YOU IGNORING ME?"
Sanza Kaplan Figarland—walking alongside them head swiveling between Vesta and Luffy like a spectator at a tennis match. His heavy Gallagher eyebrows draw together in concentration.
When Luffy continues walking, oblivious, Sanza reaches out and shakes his arm.
Luffy snatches his arm away. "Hey!"
Sanza points at Vesta, his voice edged with the exasperation of an unwilling mediator. "She was talking to you."
Luffy blinks. His head swivels—slowly, like a weather vane in a gentle breeze—until his eyes land on Vesta. She stands with her arms crossed, pouting as her foot taps impatiently against the dock.
Luffy chuckles. His hand reaches up, rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture of awkwardness that has become his signature.
"Oh, sorry. What were you saying?"
Eliane answers for her, her voice bright and helpful. "She wants to know what it's like."
Luffy's brow furrows. "What is what like?"
Vesta brightens again. The pout vanishes, replaced by that beaming, radiant smile. She leans forward, her rainbow hair cascading over her shoulders.
"Being with him."
Luffy blinks. His head tilts. "With who?"
Vesta strikes a pose—dramatic, theatrical, one arm sweeping out as if she's showcasing a name in lights above some grand theater marquee.
"The Soul King!"
Luffy's head falls to the side. His expression is one of complete and utter blankness.
"Who?"
Law glances over his shoulder, his brow furrowed with the weary exasperation of someone who has spent far too long surrounded by idiocy.
"Brook," he says, his voice flat. "Your musician."
Law scoffs. Marya smirks.
Luffy blinks again. And then—realization. His eyes widen. His mouth forms a perfect O of understanding.
"Oh! Brook!"
Vesta whips around. Her palms press together, fingers interlaced, her entire body radiating the intensity of a superfan about to receive sacred knowledge.
"Yes! What is he like? I'm a huge fan! I know all his songs! I've even practiced the 45-degree—"
Luffy thinks.
His hand rises to his chin. His eyes drift to the distance. His brow furrows as he struggles to describe the indescribable.
"He's like... hmmm..."
Vesta nods. Her eyes are wide, sparkling with anticipation. She leans in closer.
"Yeah..."
Luffy tilts his head. His gaze drifts further into the distance.
"He's like... hmmm..."
Vesta nods again. She leans in even closer, her starry eyes fixed on his face.
"Yeah..."
Luffy tilts his head the other way. The silence stretches. The dock creaks beneath their feet. A seagull cries somewhere overhead.
"He's like..."
Vesta is practically vibrating now. Her hands are clasped so tightly that her knuckles have gone white. Her rainbow hair shimmers with the intensity of her anticipation.
"Yeah..."
Luffy finally speaks.
"He's like a singing skeleton!"
He laughs—an awkward, genuine, utterly Luffy sound that echoes across the dock.
Vesta's shoulders drop. Her face falls. The radiant smile dims, replaced by something that looks almost like disappointment.
"Is that all?"
Luffy's laughter fades. He scratches his cheek, his expression shifting to something almost like guilt. He opens his mouth—about to say something, about to offer more—
"We're here!"
Marya's voice cuts through the moment like a blade through silk.
Everyone stops.
The sloop sits moored at the end of a weathered pier, its hull painted a deep, peeling crimson that has faded to something closer to dried blood. The sails are patched—dozens of different fabrics, from sailcloth to what looks like an old tablecloth, all stitched together with rough, uneven seams. The mast leans slightly to port, as if the ship itself has given up on standing straight.
But it's the figurehead that draws the eye.
A skull. Carved from what looks like driftwood, its eye sockets hollow and dark, its jaw hanging open in a permanent scream. And crossed beneath it—not bones, but scissors. Massive, rusted scissors, their blades dull and pitted.
The jolly roger of the Flyer Pirates.
Beneath it, on the deck, a handful of figures lounge in various states of intoxication. Cards are scattered across a barrel. Bottles—empty, half-empty, and one that appears to be on fire—litter the planks. A man with a beard that hasn't been trimmed since the World Government fell snores against the mast.
Jannali mutters under her breath, her accent thickening with irritation. "About bloody time! I was ready to spit chips. If I had to listen to any more of that groupie yarn, I was gonna chuck up."
Atlas Acuta's shoulders bounce as he chuckles. The rust-red Mink's nub swishes behind him, his blue eyes gleaming with amusement.
Luffy blinks. "Huh?"
Marya glances back at the group. Her golden-ringed eyes sweep across them with the weight of a captain assessing her crew before a mission.
"Try not to—"
She searches for the right word.
Atlas answers for her, his voice carrying the laziness of a veteran who has already decided this isn't worth his full attention. "Relax, Boss. We'll behave ourselves."
Marya groans, pinching the bridge of her nose.
Law smirks.
Jannali strides past them, her platform sandals slapping the gangplank with the brisk rhythm of exhausted patience. "Bloody hell. Let's get on with it already."