Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The puddle had no right to look that inviting.

It was late afternoon, the sky a soft watercolor wash of fading orange and purple, and the city was doing that magical thing it sometimes did—glowing like a daydream.

Calypso—or Callie—had been wandering aimlessly, earbuds in, backpack slung over one shoulder, and no real plan in mind. Just a stroll to clear her head, after yet another pointless fight with her foster family. The rain from the earlier storm had stopped a while ago, leaving behind gleaming streets and glistening puddles, as if the world had been freshly polished.

That’s when she saw it: one of the puddles, wide and glassy, nestled between the roots of an old tree at the edge of a small park, reflecting the sky a little too perfectly.

She grinned. It was stupid, really, but Callie was the kind of girl who leaned into whimsy when it presented itself. Life was short, and her few real friends always joked that she lived like she was auditioning for a Studio Ghibli film—spontaneous, dramatic, always ready to baby-talk with random animals or just get spirited away. So, when she saw the puddle looking almost otherworldly, she simply couldn’t resist.

She checked to make sure no one was watching—though, frankly, she wouldn’t have cared if they were—and took a few exaggerated steps back, like she was about to perform a long jump.

"Three… two… one…"

She ran forward, launched herself with both feet, and landed smack in the middle of the puddle.

Except, there was no splash.

Instead, the ground vanished.

And then she was falling.

Wind screamed past her ears, and the city disappeared like it had never existed. The sun, the clouds, even the sense of up and down—all gone. The world became a blur of rushing air and blue skies. Her stomach flipped, her lungs seized, and her mind reeled.

She was falling. She was really, really falling.

Now, Callie had never been scared of heights, but this was something else. This wasn’t climbing to the top of the Ferris wheel at the summer fair. This wasn’t even like that time she went skydiving with her foster cousin on a dare.

This was… endless. Limitless. Terrifying.

She screamed. Loud, long, throat-burning.

Then she started to laugh. Because what else could she do?

Of all the ways she could’ve died—hit by a bus, eaten by a bear, or even spontaneous combustion—plummeting through a magical puddle into an alternate dimension was not one she’d ever considered.

“I’m gonna die because I thought a puddle was cute!” she shouted into the void.

The wind didn’t answer.

And then—there it was. The ocean.

Stretching endlessly below her, sparkling like someone had dusted it with crushed diamonds. Beautiful. Vast. Waiting to crush her like a bug on a windshield. Panic surged back full-force. She flailed, trying to slow herself down, even though she knew it was useless. She braced for the impact—

And the sea exploded.

A geyser, massive and impossibly timed, erupted directly beneath her. The plume of water surged upward with such force that it caught her like a reverse parachute, breaking her fall just enough to stop her from becoming a pancake on the ocean’s surface.

It still hurt. The impact knocked the wind out of her and left her ears ringing, but she didn’t black out, didn’t break anything. Instead, she surfaced, coughing and sputtering, water streaming from her hair and eyes and nose as she thrashed in place.

"Wh—what the hell—" she gasped, trying to keep her head above the waves.

The ocean wasn’t cold like she expected; it was surprisingly warm, almost tropical, and the water was clearer than any she’d ever seen. She twisted in place, scanning the horizon. It was empty. Endless water, save for—

“Island!” she cried, spotting a sliver of green in the distance. “Okay! Okay, I can work with that!”

Her limbs ached, her lungs burned, and her heart hadn’t stopped trying to punch through her ribcage, but she started swimming. The currents were strong, tugging at her with strange insistence, and instead of pulling her out further into the sea, they seemed to push her gently toward the island, like the ocean itself was trying to help her.

Callie had no idea what kind of weird, fantasy sea she’d fallen into but right now, she was grateful.

Stroke by stroke, she made progress. Every few minutes she had to stop and tread water, panting for breath, the island growing slowly larger in her view. Palm trees swayed in the breeze, and golden sand glinted like treasure. If she hadn’t just been yeeted through an interdimensional puddle, she might’ve mistaken it for paradise.

Her thoughts raced as she got closer. Where was she? Why had the puddle done this? Was it even a puddle? Was this all just a concussion dream, and she was lying face-down in the parc while paramedics tried to revive her?

“Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing my brain’s made up,” she muttered.

But it felt real. The sun was warm on her skin. The salt stung her throat. Her muscles trembled with exhaustion. This wasn’t a dream. This was happening.

She reached the shallows in what felt like both an eternity and no time at all. The current gave her one last push, sending her sprawling onto the beach in a heap. She laid there, gasping, the sand clinging to her soaked clothes and tangled hair, her backpack half-submerged behind her. She rolled over, blinking up at the sky.

It was bluer than anything she’d ever seen. A couple of birds she didn’t recognize wheeled overhead, their cries strange but oddly musical.

“I’m alive,” she whispered. Then louder: “I’m alive!”

She sat up and laughed, half-crazed with adrenaline, rubbing her arms and trying to shake the water from her ears. “Okay, Callie, girl. Let’s take stock. You just fell through a portal, survived a free-fall thanks to a magic geyser, and now you’re on a beach somewhere that definitely isn’t Earth. Cool. Cool, cool, cool, cool, cool…”

She stood, unsteady but upright, and looked back at the ocean. No sign of the puddle. No sign of a way back. Just waves, endless for miles.

“Well, guess I’m going the other way, huh?”

She turned to the jungle beyond the beach. It looked like it belonged on the cover of an adventure novel—dense foliage, strange flowers, trees taller than houses. Somewhere, something howled.

Callie straightened her shoulders, brushed the sand from her clothes, and tightened her grip on the straps of her soggy backpack.

"Alright, bring it on while I’m high on adrenaline, you weird jungle dimension!”

And with that, she took her first step into the unknown.

The first few days were almost fun. Almost.

Calypso had grown up on adventure books and coming-of-age anime, and a small part of her had always harbored a not-so-secret wish to be whisked away to another world. That part of her was having a field day. Magic puddles? Mysterious islands? Jungle landscapes that looked like something out of a high-end video game? Heck yes!

But then the reality hit. No food, no clean water, no Wi-Fi, no people. And the realization that her only link to civilization was a soaked, fizzling phone stuck on 4% battery and zero bars of service.

She’d eaten one of her five protein bars immediately, out of panic. It wasn’t a smart choice, those few bars were now her only source of reliable food supplies, but the deed was done and though it had been pretty soggy, she still enjoyed it immensely—and then regretted it terribly, of course.

Now, three days later, she was down to her last two bars. She’d been rationing them like a squirrel hoarding nuts for winter. Tiny bites, spaced hours apart, like a holy ritual. But even her stubborn optimism couldn’t stretch that out forever.

And Callie wasn’t what you'd call “wilderness ready.” Her survival knowledge extended to what she’d picked up from watching Survivor on-and-off or reading Tumblr threads about foraging—which she now realized was basically useless. She couldn’t tell a poisonous berry from a spicy gumdrop. She didn’t know how to make a fire, and she sure as hell didn’t know how to catch fish. The small mammals she’d seen skittering through the underbrush were more like squirrel-monkeys with freaky eyes, so no way was she about to try and hunt one of those.

So, when survival started creeping into panic territory, she did the only thing she could think of: build a boat.

Well, calling it a boat was generous. It was more of a raft. A very enthusiastic attempt at a raft. She dragged palm fronds, driftwood, and vines from the jungle and lashed them together with the vague memory of how they did it in cartoons. She banged rocks together until she got a somewhat flat edge to saw with. Her hands blistered. Her knees were scraped raw. She cursed a lot. Sometimes at the raft. Sometimes at the birds. Once, at a hermit crab who’d stolen her sock.

But slowly—very slowly—something took shape. It wobbled, creaked, and looked like it might collapse the moment she sneezed on it, but it floated in the shallows. That was more than she'd expected.

“Please don’t kill me,” she whispered to it.

And then, just as she was about to try her first real test float, something strange happened.

The ocean moved.

Not the normal tide-pulling or the wave-rolling kind of movement. It was subtle at first, a ripple beneath her feet, like the water was excited. She stepped a little further into the water, ankle deep, and felt it swirl around her skin—not just pushing, but… cradling. Like it was greeting her.

“...Hi?” she said hesitantly.

The sea bubbled. Like it was laughing.

That was the first time she thought something actually, genuinely weird was going on—beyond the world-hopping, that is. And it only got weirder, as the tide abruptly pushed her boat right back onto shore, right on time as three of the driftwood plans abruptly came apart, the knots she’d tried to tie with vines snapping free.

Not ready, she realized, gazing at the water with wide eyes. It knows… I’m not ready…?

It only got stranger from there. As she tried to perfect her boat and ensure it wouldn’t fall apart underneath her feet, the sea just… kept on doing it. Pushing the boat back to shore mere seconds before it collapsed onto itself, that is. As if it was telling her “you’re not there just yet, try again”.

And at some point, she’d tried to wade out to retrieve a floating palm leaf and slipped on a mossy rock. As she splashed face-first into the water, she did what anyone would do—she flailed and screamed.

And the ocean responded.

The water lifted her—lifted, like a pair of invisible hands—and set her upright. Gently. She was drenched, sputtering, but safe.

Callie stood there, heart hammering. “...Did you just catch me?”

A small, precise swirl formed beside her. Not a wave, not random movement. Like… a nod.

“Okay,” she breathed. “Okay, Callie. Either you’ve gone fully insane, or the ocean has a crush on you.”

She started testing it. Small things at first. She'd reach out her hand, and the water would follow, lifting gently toward her fingers. She pictured a small ripple, and the water would obey. When she concentrated, she could move it. Not just nudge it—shape it. Make it curl and lift and even hover for a few seconds like a shimmering ribbon.

It exhausted her at first, made her head ache and her knees buckle. But the Sea was patient. Gentle. It seemed to want to help her.

When she finally stopped being terrified of it, it almost felt like a friend.

Then came the fish.

On a morning where the clouds hung low and her stomach gnawed at itself, she sat by the water and muttered to herself: “God, I’d do anything for a tuna sandwich right now.”

Something brushed her leg.

She jumped, heart leaping into her throat, but when she looked down—there it was. A small, silver fish with big black eyes, swimming circles around her feet.

“Whoa, hey,” she murmured.

The fish paused. Tilted. Then nudged her foot, like a cat demanding attention.

Another fish joined it. Then another.

And she felt them. Not just the physical sensation of their tiny bodies brushing against her skin—but an emotional ripple, like an impression. Curious. Friendly. Warm.

That was when she realized it wasn’t just water. She could talk to sea life. Not with words, exactly. It was more like feelings. Impressions. She could send out thoughts like sonar, and the animals would respond.

Callie tested it cautiously. She imagined a question—“Is there danger nearby?”—and waited. Nothing. Then she imagined—food?

The fish darted away. A minute later, one returned with a bunch of algae dangling from its mouth like a dog bringing a chew toy. She cried. Not just because of the food, though she was starving—but because for the first time since she fell through that puddle, she didn’t feel alone.

Now, four days in, Callie had a routine. Every morning, she greeted the sea. Sometimes it answered with a wave tickling her toes. Sometimes, with a shell placed perfectly on the shore. She fed the fish the crumbs of her remaining bars. In return, they brought her seaweed, tiny clams, the occasional shiny rock. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

She practiced her water control every day, forming little spirals and waves. The Sea seemed to guide her, correcting her with subtle shifts when she got too tired or reckless. Once, when she passed out after pushing herself too far and collapsed face first in the water, she ended up waking up safe on the sand, the tide having carried her back like a worried parent.

Her boat—still rickety—was almost ready. She added a sail made of stitched-together leaves, lashed tight with vines. It wasn’t fancy, but with the Sea’s help, maybe it didn’t need to be.

And though fear still clawed at her when she thought too hard about being stuck here forever, Callie had hope.

Because she wasn’t just some random girl on a deserted island anymore.

She was a girl with the Sea at her side.

The raft wobbled like a drunk toddler, but it floated. That was good enough for Callie.

She’d launched at dawn, before she could think too hard about all the ways this could go wrong. The sky had been soft and pink, the water gentle and humming with energy, like it was glad she was finally doing something. She’d stood knee-deep in the sea, hands on the edges of her makeshift vessel—six palm trunks lashed together, a few flatter pieces for decking, a sail stitched from large waxy leaves. Her paddle was a long branch she’d whittled into a vaguely flat shape, and her backpack sat tucked under a piece of driftwood near the middle, secured with vines.

She hesitated. Then, feeling very awkward, she bent toward the ocean and mumbled, “Uh… can you show me where to go?”

There was a pause.

Then the water beneath the raft surged—not violently, but decisively—and the whole thing lurched forward. Callie scrambled on, half-falling, half-leaping, landing with a thump on the uneven surface.

“Whoa! Okay! Cool, yeah, that’s—yeah, just like that!” she called out, gripping a vine for balance as the raft picked up speed.

It didn’t make sense. It shouldn’t make sense. But here she was, being chauffeured across an unknown sea by… what? Magic? A sentient force of nature? A big, watery friend?

She didn’t know. And, for the moment, she didn’t care. Because she was moving. Leaving the island. Heading toward something. So she settled in, the wind in her face, the salt tang in the air. She watched the sun climb higher in the sky, and her eyes fluttered shut.

Just for a moment.

She woke up hours later to searing pain.

Her skin burned. Her cheeks, nose, forehead, and shoulders felt like someone had pressed hot irons into her. The sun blazed directly overhead, and the shade of the leaf-sail barely reached her toes.

“Aw, crap—sunburn—of course—” she groaned, blinking blearily and sitting up.

Everything stung. Her skin was a patchwork of pink and red, her lips dry, and her head pounded like a war drum. She fumbled for her water bottle, took a sip (warm, but precious), then cupped a handful of seawater from over the edge and splashed it on her face, wincing.

And then—

Relief.

Instant. Impossible. Magical.

The pain vanished, like a switch had been flipped. The heat on her skin faded, cooling like aloe straight from the fridge. She gasped and leaned over, using her hands to splash more water on her arms, her shoulders, her chest, and even her shins. Everywhere the seawater touched, the sting disappeared.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Fumbling, she grabbed her pocket mirror from her backpack and stared.

No burns. No peeling. No red. Just her usual pale skin, slightly flushed but smooth, healthy. Her freckles had gotten a bit bolder, sure—but the angry red splotches? Gone.

She stared at herself, then at the water.

“...You healed me,” she whispered.

The sea sloshed gently against the raft, as if shrugging.

And suddenly, things clicked. She remembered the weirdly fast healing of the cuts and bruises she’d earned while building the raft. How the scrapes on her knees vanished after swimming. How the blister on her thumb disappeared overnight.

The Sea didn’t just help her move or talk to fish. It healed her.

Callie let out a breathless laugh. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

A gentle wave nudged the raft. She swore it felt smug.

The rest of the trip passed in a dreamlike daze. She sat cross-legged on the raft, sipping her remaining water and nibbling on the last protein bar—now soggy but still edible. She dipped her feet in the ocean occasionally, watching curious fish flit by. Once, a sea turtle surfaced beside her, paddling along lazily, keeping pace with the raft.

She touched its shell lightly. “Hey, buddy.”

The turtle blinked at her with ancient calm. She felt a vague sense of reassurance. Almost there, it seemed to say.

And it was right.

Late that afternoon, just as the sun began its descent, golden light painting the sky in streaks of tangerine and rose, she saw it.

An island. But not like the one she’d left.

This one had buildings.

From a distance, they looked like clusters of white stone and warm wood, nestled on the slopes of a crescent-shaped cove. Red and blue banners fluttered from rooftops. Palm trees swayed alongside flowering bushes in bright, impossible colors. Smoke curled from chimneys. People—tiny figures—walked along a harbor dotted with ships of all shapes and sizes.

Hope slammed into her chest like a tidal wave.

She choked on a sob before laughing breathlessly, gripping the side of the raft. “Oh my god. Oh my god. We made it.”

The Sea surged beneath her in response, the raft coasting now with even more urgency, heading straight for the harbor. Callie held tight, hair whipping behind her, eyes wide.

She didn’t know what kind of world she was about to enter. Didn’t know if they spoke her language, or what kind of people lived here, or if they’d welcome a harried stranger arriving on a janky bundle of logs pulled by magic.

But it didn’t matter.

She was alive. She had powers. She had a raft that worked and a damn sea that liked her.

She had a chance.

As the raft bumped gently against the first dock piling and the harbor’s warm sounds of clinking tools and distant laughter reached her ears, Callie stood up.

Wobbly, tired, but grinning like someone who’d beaten every odd.

“Hey world,” she said softly as she reached the docks. “Looks like I made it after all.”

Callie’s arrival in the harbor town was, in true Callie fashion, less than graceful.

She stumbled off her raft like a newborn giraffe, legs jelly and sun-kissed despite her magical seawater spa treatment. Her hair was a salty, tangled mess, and her shirt was clinging damply to her back. People stared. Of course they did. A teenage girl cruising into town on a patchwork raft? Yeah. She’d stare too.

But the town—thank the Sea—was nice. Quaint, even. Whitewashed stone buildings with red-tiled roofs, vines growing between the cracks, and colorful fabrics strung between balconies like lazy party decorations. The market smelled like fruit and spice and fish, and the harbor was bustling with ships of all shapes and sizes—sleek clippers, chunky galleons, even a few clearly pirate-modded ones that looked like they were built by drunk carpenters with artistic vision.

People moved around her without much fuss. A few gave her curious looks, but no one yelled or pointed weapons or accused her of trespassing. That was… a good sign?

Callie wandered through the streets with a dazed look on her face, backpack slung over one shoulder, trying not to stare too hard or look too out of her depth. Which was difficult, because, well, she absolutely was.

Eventually, she found her way into a small tavern-like place on the corner of a plaza. It was loud, cozy, and blessedly shady inside. She sank into a chair near the window and ordered something that sounded vaguely like “juice” from the woman behind the counter, handing over a few shiny shells and hoping that was currency. It wasn’t. But the tavern lady gave her a funny look, then waved her off with a half-smile and a “First time on Cragveil, sweetheart?”

Cragveil. Right. That was the name of the island.

Callie smiled awkwardly and nodded. “Yeah, something like that.”

The juice was tangy, and probably alcoholic, but she drank it anyway since she wasn’t about to turn down the owner’s generosity. And that was when she noticed the newspaper on the table beside her. Someone had left it behind, pages slightly crinkled, a greasy stain on one corner. She picked it up absently.

And then she froze.

FEARSOME PIRATE ROOKIE PORTGAS D. ACE

OFFICIALLY JOINS THE WHITEBEARD PIRATES!

Below the headline was a full-color image of Portgas D. Ace grinning like a dork, flames curling around his shoulders, his trademark hat pushed back on his head. The article detailed a recent skirmish with another pirate crew and how the previous Captain of the Spade Pirates had made his grand debut under Whitebeard’s flag.

Callie stared at the paper like it had personally slapped her.

“What the hell,” she breathed.

Because forgetting the astounding fact that she somehow ended up in the world of One Piece, well, Ace—Ace—was supposed to be dead.

Not for a few years, sure, but in her mind, he was already part of a fixed story. Tragic. Legendary. A hinge on which so much of the One Piece plot turned. And now? Now he was alive. Young. Kicking ass in the New World.

She frantically scanned the rest of the page, her mind racing. If Ace had just joined the Whitebeard Pirates, then this was way before Marineford. Before Luffy's crew had even made it halfway through the Grand Line. Before the Straw Hats had even met half their members.

She wasn’t just in One Piece.

She was in One Piece around two years before the main story even began.

Callie set the paper down slowly. Her heart was pounding. Her hands were shaking. She took a deep breath and tried to process.

“I’m in the world of One Piece,” she whispered to herself, then laughed—once, short and kind of hysterical. “Oh my god. I’m in One Piece. What the actual hell.”

Suddenly, the sentient sea, the talking fish, the wild strength in the currents—it all made so much more sense. This world ran on weird. Devil Fruits. Sea Kings. Pirate emperors. Fishmen and cyborgs and walking skeletons. Sure, the sentient body of water was new, but who knew how much lore Oda was still keeping from them, right?

And of course she’d been dropped into the goddamn New World. Not East Blue, with its soft winds and soft-bellied pirates. Not even Paradise, where rookies sharpened their teeth and dipped their toes into pure insanity for the first time.

No—she was in the territory of Emperors. The lion’s den.

“I’m so screwed,” she muttered.

The door to the tavern opened with a jingle, and a few rough-looking sailors walked in, laughing loudly. Callie hunched lower in her seat, tucking the newspaper under her arm.

This changed everything, because she now had a choice to make.

Get involved—or keep her head down.

On the one hand, she knew things. Not everything—One Piece lore got weird, and the story still was far from over—but enough. Enough to know who the big players were. Enough to maybe, maybe, survive.

On the other hand, messing with the plot could mean drawing the wrong kind of attention. She wasn't a fighter. Not really. Sure, she had some water-based powers now, and yeah, the Sea liked her. But she wasn’t a pirate. She wasn’t a Revolutionary. And she most certainly wasn’t Navy material, either.

And the World Government?

They’d kill for someone like her.

A girl with healing abilities tied to seawater? A possible rare Devil Fruit user? Maybe even a new species, if her connection to the ocean was deep enough? Or worse: a world-hopper with forbidden knowledge of the past and future alike? Yeah. The moment she drew attention to herself, she’d have Cipher Pol breathing down her neck and a bounty on her head. And she was not ready for that kind of smoke.

So what did she do?

Play it safe? Live small? Try to find some out-of-the-way corner of the world to settle in, where she could trade shiny shells, and never get within a hundred miles of a pirate crew?

Or… dive in?

She closed her eyes.

Ace was alive. Luffy’s adventure hadn’t even started yet. The world was still shifting, still waiting to be written. She didn’t have to follow the plot.

She could make her own.

Callie opened her eyes.

She wasn’t sure what kind of role she wanted in this world. Hero? Villain? Ally? Observer? All she knew was that the Sea had brought her here.

She took another sip of the juice, straightened her back, and looked out the tavern window at the ships bobbing in the harbor.

Somewhere out there, history was waiting.

Chapter Text

Four months.

It had been four whole months since Calypso had cannonballed into another world—literally. Four months since she’d splashed down into the ocean like a half-drowned comet and washed up on the shores of a deserted island with nothing but a backpack full of protein bars and the vague memory of physics class yelling at her that she should be very dead.

But here she was. Alive. Breathing. Smiling.

Callie had decided somewhere along the second week—after finally coming to terms with the fact that she was in One Piece—that she was done freaking out. Done spiraling about timelines and canon events and potential butterfly effects. This was a world of opportunities, of danger, of adventure and unlike her own world, this one had an actual, honest-to-goodness path to freedom. Pure, actual freedom.

So, that’s what she chose—freedom.

No more “what-ifs.” No more trying to hide in the corners of history. Just her, the open sea, and a promise to herself that she would live this new life as fully as she could.

And in doing so, Calypso changed.

At first, she hadn’t even noticed it. Growth was like that—it crept up in the quiet moments. In the way she no longer panicked every time she had to dock somewhere new. In how her sea legs were no longer wobbly but confident and wide-set. In how her shoulders, once tight with uncertainty, now moved loose and easy, like waves.

Her precious raft hadn’t lasted long after leaving Cragveil. It made it a few more days before the Sea (helpful as ever) guided her to a beach-full of shipwrecks, where she scavenged enough wood to patch up something a bit sturdier. And, a few islands later, she managed to trade a shiny pearl the Sea had “gifted” her (dredged up by a very polite octopus) for a sturdier sail, one not made of leaves. In the end, it was still a patchwork raft, nothing fancy—barely more than a floating room with a mast—but she loved it.

She named it Skipper.

The Sea approved.

And oh, how she and the Sea had bonded.

At first, it had just been ripples in answer to her words. A current that nudged her boat toward food-rich shallows. Then it escalated—like a friendship leveling up in a game. Whirlpools that spun for fun. Waves that rocked her to sleep. A sudden push forward when she muttered “I’m gonna be late to those fireworks I heard about” to herself without realizing she’d been heard.

She didn’t command the Sea. It wasn’t that kind of relationship. It was more like… partnership. She talked. It listened. Sometimes it answered. Sometimes it didn’t. But it was there. Always.

And that comfort gave her space to grow into someone else. Someone stronger.

Physically, Callie was no longer the girl who collapsed after half a mile of swimming. Her arms had definition now, ropey with the strength earned by constant sailing, climbing, rowing. Her legs, once just long, were now powerful—good for sprinting across rocky terrain or kicking through a strong tide. Her skin had browned under the sun, and her once-feral curls had been tamed into a series of messy, practical braids she tied with bits of string, shells, or corals gifted by curious sea creatures.

But the biggest change?

The trident.

She’d found it three months in—sunken deep in a coral reef, embedded in the skeleton of something huge. A sea beast, maybe. Something ancient. Her fingers had tingled the moment she touched it. And the Sea? The Sea had sung. Not with words, but with feeling—warmth and approval and maybe even a little mischief.

The trident was long and lean, carved from some silvery metal that shimmered even in the deepest dark. Its prongs were sharp and curved, designed not just to pierce but to grip. It was clearly made for someone stronger than she was… and yet, in her hands, it felt light. Balanced. Like it had been waiting.

Callie hadn’t fought anyone yet with it. That part surprised her. But then again, she hadn’t exactly been walking into trouble either. She avoided pirate-infested ports, gave rowdy crews a wide berth, and always paid in trade when she could. People looked at her and saw a weird sea girl with a smile too wide and a trident strapped to her back, and most saw fit to leave her alone.

But she trained. Daily. Sparring with driftwood dummies or slicing through waves in mock battles with the Sea raising watery arms to challenge her. The trident moved like it was alive sometimes. It responded to her emotions, sang through the water when she spun it. It was more than a weapon—it was an extension of her. One she still didn’t fully understand.

Her abilities had evolved, too.

The healing trick? More refined now. She could will it, asking the Sea to cleanse a cut or soothe aching muscles.

She learned that her connection wasn’t just to water, but to life within the water. Dolphins came when she called, their clicks warm and affectionate. Schools of fish danced at her feet like glittering fans. Even a massive sea turtle had let her nap on its shell during a storm, bobbing gently on the waves like a mobile bed.

She communicated with them. Not always with words, but with thoughts, emotions. They always understood. And more often than not, they helped. Callie had once joked aloud that she was the “budget-brand Aquaman,” and the Sea responded by splashing her with a wave.

She still stood by her observation.

Mentally, she was tougher too. There were nights early on when she’d cried herself to sleep—cold, scared, convinced she’d made a terrible mistake. But those nights had grown fewer. Now, she welcomed the solitude. The self-reliance. The adventure. She was learning more about herself with every island she visited, every person she spoke to, every creature that brushed up against her boat with wide, curious eyes.

She wasn’t just surviving anymore.

She was living.

She’d kept an old map in her cabin, one she marked with every new place she stopped at. The thing was barely legible now—scribbled with notes, doodles, strange little stories in the corners. But it was hers. Her journey. Her stamp on this chaotic world.

And still, despite all the growth and change, some things remained the same.

Callie still danced when it rained.

She still sang sea shanties off-key with the wind.

She still talked to her boat like it was a pet and thanked the Sea every night before she went to sleep.

And she still didn’t know what the future held.

Maybe she’d meet Luffy one day. Maybe she’d get swept into some grander adventure or stumble into the middle of a war she wanted no part of, a conflict bigger than any other island she’d ever come across. But maybe not. Maybe she’d just keep floating, learning, growing. A little fish in a big ocean, carving out her own little legend.

Either way?

She was ready.

Chapter Text

The storm was perfect.

Winds howled like wild beasts across the water, and waves rose like liquid mountains, their foamy crests crashing with thunderous force. The sky was an angry swirl of black and silver, lightning illuminating it in jagged streaks like it was being ripped apart from the inside. And in the midst of all that chaos, standing barefoot and grinning on the deck of her modest little boat, Skipper, was Calypso.

She was soaked to the bone, drenched from head to toe in saltwater and adrenaline, her curls and braids plastered to her forehead and cheeks as she laughed into the storm. Not out of madness—though some might argue otherwise—but sheer, unadulterated joy. The kind of joy only the completely untethered could ever feel. The kind that came with trusting the Sea to catch her, even as it tried to knock her down.

The Sea was playing with her again.

Another wave roared toward her, and she bent her knees, feet planted wide apart, trident firmly strapped to her back so she wouldn’t accidentally lose it. The mast groaned. The boat lurched. Her body wavered for a split second—but she held on.

“Nice try!” she shouted, laughing into the wind, grinning like a lunatic. “You’re gonna have to do better than tha—whoa—”

The next wave hit with the force of a cannon.

Her boat bucked, tilted, then practically launched her into the air like a ragdoll on a trampoline. She screamed—not in fear, but exhilaration—as the world spun wildly around her. But as gravity took over and she plummeted, arms flailing and heart pounding, Callie’s grin faltered.

She was falling too fast. Too far.

And there was no water beneath her.

Instead, something hard broke her fall—a deck, wide and solid. Her shoulder took the brunt of it, then her head bounced off the wood with a sickening thud. Pain exploded in her entire body. Her vision went sideways, colors bleeding together. She gasped, wheezed, barely managed to curl around herself before everything spun.

“Holy shit, she just dropped out of the sky!”

“Where the hell did she come from?!”

“Get her inside—!"

The voices blurred together. Rough but not unkind hands lifted her, a heavy scent of salt, sweat, and something metallic surrounding her. She tried to focus, but her vision was too blurred, her brain too rattled.

She caught glimpses: a man with a long red coat, someone else with a thick mustache and a sword on his back. The edge of a black-and-white Jolly Roger flapping wildly in the storm above. Then a flash of pain stole her breath as someone shifted her broken arm, and the world went dark.

The first thing she noticed when she woke up was the sunlight.

It streamed through the porthole in soft, golden beams, lighting up a quiet, cozy cabin that smelled of clean linen and medicine. The second thing she noticed was the pain—lingering but dulled in her arm, now carefully wrapped and supported in a sling. Her head throbbed, but the swelling had gone down. Someone had taken good care of her.

She laid still for a moment, blinking up at the wooden ceiling, trying to gather her thoughts. The last thing she remembered clearly was laughing at the storm. Then the fall. Then… voices.

People.

She wasn’t on Skipper anymore.

Swinging her legs over the side of the cot, Callie hissed softly as the motion tugged at sore muscles and tender bruises. But she was functional. Alive. Someone had even set a small plate of fruit and a glass of water next to the cot. She scarfed down a slice of fresh mango with a wince and got to her feet, carefully making her way to the door.

The hallway outside was bright and well-worn, with polished floors and lanterns swinging gently with the motion of the ship. She could feel the Sea’s presence—curious, but calm. They were sailing smoothly now. The storm was long gone.

A couple of sailors passed by, giving her wide-eyed glances but saying nothing beyond a surprised “Morning’.” She offered an awkward little wave with her good hand and moved toward the open stairway leading up to the main deck.

She didn’t know what she expected when she stepped into the sunlight. Maybe a small crew. Maybe a merchant vessel or a fishing boat. But she instinctively lifted her head to take a look at their flag, and what she didn’t expect—what floored her entirely—was the massive black and white flag fluttering above them.

A Jolly Roger.

And not just any pirate flag.

A very specific one.

Skull and crossbones, plain as day, but with a distinct red scar slashed over the left eye.

Her breath caught in her throat.

No… no freaking way…

But it was right there, flying proud and unbothered in the wind. Familiar, iconic. The kind of thing every One Piece fan worth their salt knew by heart.

The Jolly Roger of the Red Hair Pirates.

Of Shanks.

Yonko Shanks.

Her heart nearly dropped into her stomach.

“What the hell…?”

She staggered backward, eyes wide, suddenly hyper-aware of the dozen or so crewmen scattered across the deck, all armed and all watching her now that she’d made herself known. Some looked surprised to see her up. Others looked curious. None looked hostile—but all were clearly trying to figure out exactly what to do now that she was awake.

Callie’s mind reeled.

She had fallen out of a storm and landed on a Yonko’s ship. What were the odds of that? A trillion to one? Worse? Her instincts screamed at her to run, to not get involved with that kind of major players, but that ship had sailed. Literally. She was already in it now. There was no undoing this.

Then, from behind her, a deep voice called out casually:

“Ah, you’re awake.”

She froze.

Turned slowly.

And found herself face-to-face with the man, the myth, the legend himself.

Shanks.

Hair bright as fire, a grin that could slice through tension like a blade, and a casual swagger like he didn’t have a care in the world—even with a complete stranger now standing on his ship. He looked her up and down, clearly amused, then gestured to her sling.

“That fall certainly was one hell of a ride. You good there?”

Callie’s jaw dropped. Her heart raced.

This was very bad.

Or… maybe not?

She honestly couldn’t tell.

All she knew was that she had landed—quite literally—on one of the most powerful pirate ships in the entire world.

And Red-Haired Shanks was standing in front of her.

Smiling.

A day earlier

The storm had come out of nowhere.

One minute, the Red Force was cruising across open waters, sails stretched taut under a cloudless sky. The next, the sky had turned a sickly grey, and the wind started screaming like the Sea itself was furious. Shanks stood at the helm, boots braced wide, soaked to the bone and squinting through the sheets of rain. Waves the size of islands crashed around them, and every few minutes, lightning cracked the sky open like an egg, revealing chaos in its brightest flash.

This wasn’t a storm. It was a beast. And it had them in its grip.

"Snake!" Shanks shouted above the roar. "How the hell did we not see this coming?!"

The Red Hair Pirates’ navigator—a buff man with ink-black hair and a dragon tattoo on his chest—clung to the railing on the quarterdeck, gritting his teeth. "I don’t know, Captain! It just appeared—like it rose straight out of the depths of hell itself! Usually there are signs, but...! Ugh, I’ve never seen anything like this!"

Benn Beckman appeared beside Shanks, coat plastered to his frame and a cigar somehow still clamped between his teeth. "We can’t outrun it. Best we can do is hunker down and ride it out."

Shanks nodded grimly. "Get the rest of the crew below deck. I’ll hold the rudder. Make sure everything’s secured—we're running thin on supplies, we can't risk losing more."

"Aye."

The crew scrambled, yelling over the wind, tying down sails and dragging supplies under deck. Even Lucky Roux, usually unbothered and ever-grinning, had a furrowed brow as he helped secure barrels in the galley. Yasopp cursed under his breath while trying to cover the ammunition crates. Shanks tightened his grip on the rudder. The Red Force groaned beneath him, her wood and steel creaking with the weight of the storm. She was a sturdy ship—had weathered worse than this. But something about this storm felt... strange.

Unnatural.

And then—

Laughter.

It was faint, barely audible beneath the cacophony of the storm. But Shanks heard it. Laughter, wild and gleeful, like someone was enjoying this insanity.

He blinked, shook his head.

"I’m losing it," he muttered. "Must be the wind."

Then the laughter came again—closer this time. It rose, unchained and fearless, and then—

A scream.

From above.

Shanks snapped his head up, just in time to see a figure plummet through the rain like a shooting star. He barely registered the shape—a girl, arms flailing—before she slammed into the lower deck with a bone-jarring crash.

"WHAT THE—!?"

His crew froze.

The wind shrieked.

"Go!" Shanks barked, already leaping down the stairs. "Move! Check her!"

Yasopp and Bonk Punch were closest. They sprinted toward the unmoving form. The girl lay curled on her side, a tangle of wet hair and torn clothes, a faint moan slipping from her lips.

She was alive.

Barely.

Shanks dropped beside her, carefully brushing her hair from her face. She looked young—maybe fifteen, sixteen at most. Her arm was twisted at an ugly angle, and blood trickled from a cut on her temple. But her chest rose and fell, and her expression was scrunched in pain, not stillness.

"Get her inside," he ordered. "And someone get Hongo to the medbay! NOW!"

It was a mess. Everything was a mess. But the moment Yasopp picked up the broken, battered body and carried her inside, the storm seemed to come to a standstill.

No warning. No tapering wind. One moment the ship rocked in violent currents—and the next, everything stilled. The clouds peeled back like curtains, revealing a moonlit sky so serene it was as if the storm had never happened.

Shanks slowly glanced around, watching the Sea churn gently, waves licking at the hull almost like an apology.

"That wasn’t normal," Beckman muttered beside him.

"No," Shanks agreed.

They were used to the Grand Line's unpredictable weather anomalies, but this had been something else.

Shanks took a moment to check up on the ship's state and his crewmates welfare. Everyone was a bit shaken by the storm, but they were already back in high spirits and ready to open the booze and throw a "survival party" Shanks decided to let them have their fun, this had been a stressful situation, after all. But before partying, he had their skyfaring guest to check up on, first. As if reading his thoughts, his ever-loyal First Mate joined him, and they headed straight to the medbay. Inside, Hongo sat beside the girl’s bed, clearly deep in thoughts as he put his medical supplies away.

"Status?" Shanks asked simply.

"Broken arm, most likely a concussion, some bruised ribs. Honestly, it’s a miracle she isn’t dead. She hit the deck like a cannonball."

"Any idea how she got up there?" asked Beckman.

"None. Maybe she fell from a Sky Island? But she didn't have much on her. Only this—" He lifted a trident from the wall. "—was strapped to her back. Not standard issue. Not marine. Looks custom."

Shanks stepped closer to the bed. The girl was still, pale but breathing steadily. Her hair—dark, a mess of curls and braids—was still damp. Freckles dotted her cheeks. A healing scratch ran from her temple to her jaw. Honestly, she looked completely out of place on a pirate ship in the New World.

And yet—

There was something about her.

Something in the way the Sea had spat her onto his ship. How the storm had vanished mere moments after she hit the deck.

He didn’t believe in this kind of coincidences.

"We'll wait for her to wake up," Shanks finally said.

Beckman raised an eyebrow. "And then what?"

Shanks turned his gaze back to the girl. "Then we find out who she is—and why the Sea brought her here."

Because if there was one thing he had learned in his years on the ocean, it was this:

The Sea didn’t make mistakes.

And neither did Fate.

Chapter Text

Shanks.

It took a serious moment for Calypso to register the fact that an Emperor, and arguably the strongest one (he was the last one standing from the four OGs, as far as she had been caught up with the manga).

Holy shit. I actually crash-landed on a Yonko’s ship.

A laugh bubbled up in her throat but died before it could leave her lips. Somehow, standing face to face with one of the most powerful pirates in the world didn’t feel as terrifying as it should have. Maybe it was the warm glint in his eye. Or the fact that he didn’t feel threatening.

She blinked again, swallowed hard, then gave him a little bow—stiff and awkward but earnest. “Um. Hi. Sorry for—uh—crash-landing on your ship.”

Shanks blinked, then threw back his head and laughed. “Now that’s a new one.”

“I, uh, really appreciate the help. And I’m sorry again. I wasn’t aiming for your deck, I swear…”

Her cheeks were flushed now, and a slight wobble entered her step as the dizziness from her concussion returned with a vengeance. The floor swayed under her feet. Shanks stepped forward swiftly, his only arm reaching out to catch her by the elbow and steady her.

“Careful now. You took quite a hit—don’t need you faceplanting on my deck again.”

Calypso let out a sheepish laugh, her legs regaining some strength under his support. “Right. Yeah. Thanks.”

He chuckled, his grip steady but gentle. “You’ve got better manners than most folks we meet out here. A rare sight on these waves.” He motioned with a tilt of his head. “Come on. You look like you could use some real food.”

“Food sounds great,” she admitted, her stomach choosing that exact moment to rumble loudly. “I could probably eat a whole sea king.”

He laughed again and led her toward the galley. “Let’s not put ideas into my cook’s head—he would try.”

As soon as they stepped inside, the scent hit her—something savory, buttery, and rich with spices she didn’t recognize. The galley was bustling with smells, and in the middle of it all stood a large, round man with a jolly smile and a ladle in hand.

“Calypso, meet Lucky Roux,” Shanks said with a grin. “Miracle worker with a frying pan.”

Roux grinned. “Glad you’re up, kiddo! And you’re just in time. Sit, sit. You look like you haven’t eaten in days!”

“I haven’t eaten since… well, before the storm,” she admitted as she sat down, already eyeing the platter being placed in front of her.

Meat, rice, fish, bread, fruit, and some sort of stew that smelled like heaven. She barely waited for the polite moment before diving in. Shanks sat across from her, watching her eat with a faintly amused expression, sipping casually from his tankard. He let her finish half the plate before speaking again.

“So,” he said, tapping a finger against the wood, “I have to ask—what exactly were you doing out there, to land on the ship like that? Were you surfing up a typhoon or something?”

Calypso swallowed, wiped her mouth on her sleeve, and offered a crooked smile. “I mean… yeah, basically that. I’m an adventurer, you see! I was having a blast. It was me versus the Sea and—well—I lost. Again.”

“Again?”

“She usually throws me off,” Calypso said matter-of-factly. “But then she always gives me a hand back on board. Though, this time, I guess she thought I needed something different.”

Shanks leaned back, genuinely entertained. This kid was wild and was making little to no sense, and he loved it—reminded him of a certain stretchy child. “So you fell out of the sky and landed on my ship because the Sea decided to switch tactics?”

“That’s how I’m choosing to interpret it,” she said, then hesitated. “Though I did lose my boat. Skipper. She’s… gone, probably.”

Shanks sobered slightly. “Sorry about that. We’ll keep an eye out. The Sea’s got her moods, but sometimes she gives things back when you least expect it.”

Calypso looked surprised, then smiled softly. “Thanks. That means a lot.”

A few moments passed in silence before he asked: "How old are you?"

"I'm fourteen!" Wow, younger than Shanks had estimated, then. “And you're traveling without a Log Pose?”

“Yup,” she said, perking up a bit as Lucky Roux swiftly slipped a plate of fried chicken next to her. “I just follow the currents. See where they take me.”

“No destination?”

“Not really. I just like being free.”

Shanks considered that answer carefully. He saw truth in it—unapologetic and simple. It reminded him of Luffy, in a way. That same wide-eyed love for the unknown. The kind of spirit the world didn’t make much of anymore.

He nodded, slowly. “Fair enough.”

They finished the meal in comfortable silence. Occasionally, crewmates passed by and shot her curious looks, but no one questioned her presence or came to bother them. She was with Shanks, after all, and if he wanted her off his ship, she’d already be long gone.

Eventually, Shanks pushed back from the table. “We’ll be reaching the next island in about a week. You’re welcome to stay aboard until then.”

Calypso blinked. “Really? You don’t mind? I mean, not that I have many other options…”

“All’s good—unless you try to commandeer the ship,” he said with a wink.

She snorted. “One arm or not, I’m pretty sure you’d still win.”

“You’d be surprised,” he said with a grin. “Some of the best fights I’ve had were against people with no clue what they were doing.”

Calypso laughed, the tension in her finally breaking. “I promise to behave. And thank you, seriously.”

“Don’t mention it. Sometimes the Sea delivers strange things for a reason. I trust her judgment.”

She watched him go, still smiling to herself.

Stranded or not, she had a place to rest for a bit. A week on the Red Force. With Red-Hair Shanks. It sounded like the setup to some wild dream.

She exhaled slowly, relaxing into her seat, full for the first time in days and strangely at ease. She didn’t know where this road would take her next—but for now, it felt like the Sea had her back, and she wasn’t about to question it.

Shanks didn't usually make announcements. He wasn’t the type to stand tall on a podium or rally his crew like a marine commander barking orders. But for this, he made an exception.

The Red Hair Pirates had all gathered on the main deck, the storm long gone and the sun casting warm light over the salt-washed planks. Most of them were curious—after all, it wasn’t every day someone quite literally fell from the sky and crashed on their ship, let alone survived said landing. A few of them had even placed quiet bets about whether the girl was actually human or not, since she was very much still alive and in one piece.

Shanks grinned and clapped his hand on Calypso’s shoulder, careful to avoid the arm still in a sling.

“This here’s Calypso,” he said, loud enough to be heard even over the lapping of the waves. “She’s our guest for the week, until we reach the next port, so I expect you all to treat her nicely. Got it?”

There was a loud chorus of “Aye!” and a few scattered whistles and cheers. Calypso, still a little wobbly but holding her own, offered a sheepish wave with her good hand.

“I promise I won’t be a bother,” she said quickly. “And I don’t mind helping out around the ship! Just give me something to do, and I’ll—”

“Absolutely not!” came a voice from behind.

She turned, startled, to see the man she now knew as Hongo striding over with all the righteous fury of someone about to scold a patient into submission.

“You’re injured,” he said, jabbing a finger at her like she was a misbehaving pet. “Broken arm, healing concussion, and bruised ribs. You’re not lifting a single crate while you’re on this ship. Doctor’s orders.”

Calypso blinked. “But I feel fine—”

“I don’t care if you feel like dancing the tarantella,” Hongo snapped. “Rest. Hydrate. Eat. That’s your job.”

She looked helplessly to Shanks, hoping for some kind of reprieve.

But the red-haired captain simply chuckled, already backing away. “He’s the doctor,” he said with a shrug. “I’m not getting in the middle of that.”

The rest of the crew howled with laughter, and Calypso, blushing furiously, sighed and muttered something under her breath about tyrannical medical staff. But despite her initial frustration, the week that followed turned out to be one of the most unexpectedly heartwarming of her life.

Lucky Roux was the first to take her under his wing.

She found herself drifting toward the galley again and again—possibly because it was the one place on the ship Hongo didn’t seem to bar her from.

Lucky Roux greeted her with a grin every time she stepped in, tossing her a fruit or a wedge of cheese like they were old friends. He didn’t say much, but he always listened with wide eyes and quiet hums as she told him stories about the things she’d seen—glowing coral reefs, sea turtles the size of caravels, the one time the Sea tossed her onto a deserted island that turned out to be infested with snoring sea lions…

“I can’t cook,” she admitted once, watching him stir a huge pot of stew. “Like, at all. Though, I’m getting pretty good at not burning my meat anymore!”

Lucky just laughed, handed her a spoon, and pointed to the pot. “Then it’s a good thing you’re learning from the best.”

By the third day, she was helping with prep—nothing heavy, Hongo would’ve exploded—but she peeled vegetables and stirred broth and snuck bites of whatever Lucky was making until he shooed her off with a playful swat.

Hongo, despite being an absolute mother hen, grew on her. He reminded her a bit of a strict but well-meaning uncle. Overbearing, grumpy, and absolutely unwilling to let her get away with anything, no matter how much she begged or whined about it.

“Drink this,” he’d bark, handing her the most foul-smelling herbal tea she’d ever encountered.

“Why does it smell like death and wet socks?” she’d grumble.

“It’ll help with your ribs.”

“And my soul’s gonna leave my body in protest.”

He’d give her a look. She’d drink it anyway.

But he also checked in quietly, always asking if her arm was hurting, whether she was sleeping alright, how her appetite was.

“You scared the hell out of us,” he said once, while rewrapping her sling. “No one should survive a fall like that.”

“I’ve got friends in high places,” she said with a little smile. “The Sea looks out for me.”

Hongo just nodded. She didn’t know if he believed her, but he never said otherwise.

Yasopp taught her how to hold her trident properly—because, as it turned out, she’d been holding it wrong this entire damn time.

“You’ve got decent instincts,” he said one afternoon, after catching her practicing with the weapon on the lower deck. “But your grip’s all wrong. You’ll sprain your wrist.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You shoot things. What do you know about tridents?”

“I was a spearman before I picked up a gun,” he said. “Used to hunt sea beasts with a trident twice your size. Now hush and listen to the Master! Here, hold it like this…”

He corrected her stance, taught her how to pivot her hips, and even how to use the ocean’s momentum to add force behind a strike. She picked it up fast. She always did when it came to the Sea.

By the end of the lesson, she was panting, sore, and grinning like an idiot.

“You’re not bad, kid,” Yasopp said. “Ever thought of joining a crew?”

She laughed. “Thought about it. Might still. But not just yet.”

Limejuice gave her her first real taste of the crow’s nest.

“You ever seen a storm rolling in from above?” he asked one lazy afternoon, the two of them lounging under the sun.

“No. I’ve always been too scared of heights.”

He nudged her shoulder. “C’mon. You surf typhoons, kid—what’s a ladder to you?”

With his help, she climbed all the way up to the crow’s nest. She froze a few times, but the challenge was too good to pass by, and Limejuice was surprisingly supportive, always encouraging her to take one step higher. In the end, they reached the top, and she didn’t regret it one bit

The view took her breath away—endless blue in every direction, the clouds stretched like cotton candy across the sky. The wind was fierce, but it smelled like freedom.

“This is what it means to be on the sea,” Limejuice said, arms spread wide. “To see the world from above and below.”

Calypso laughed, only able to agree. She certainly never got that kind of view from the Skipper.

Building Snake was more reserved, more of a mystery. He didn’t talk much. Preferred to do his job—charting routes, keeping the Red Force steady—and be left alone.

But Calypso had a way of worming into people’s routines. She asked about the maps. The stars. How to actually read the ocean currents.

Eventually, Snake stopped shooing her away and started answering.

“That swirl there?” he said one night, pointing to a weird pattern in the current a little ways away from their route. “That’s a whirlpool made by two opposing underwater jet streams. Avoid it unless you’ve got a death wish.”

"Eeh!? Tell me more, please!"

And, surprisingly enough, he did.

She started calling him “Professor Snake” after that night. He groaned every time, but he never corrected her.

And of course, there was Shanks.

He didn’t hover. He didn’t micromanage. But every so often, she’d catch him watching her with that easy grin of his, like he saw something funny and didn’t feel like sharing the joke.

He checked in every morning with a simple: “Feeling better?”

And she always answered: “Yep. Getting stronger.”

One night, they stood together at the prow, watching the stars.

“You’re really not from around here, are you?” Shanks asked at some point.

“No,” she said softly. “But I think I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

He nodded. “The Sea has a way of guiding the lost.”

“Even if it involves flinging them like darts?”

He laughed, full and loud.

By the time their destination came into view, Calypso almost didn’t want to leave. The Red Force had begun to feel like something dangerously close to home—a concept she hadn’t thought she’d ever find, be it in this world or the one before it. Still, she knew better than to overstay her welcome.

But, as the island grew larger on the horizon, and Shanks came to stand beside her once more, she turned to him with a small smile.

“Thanks for letting me crash your ship.”

He laughed again. “Anytime.”

And, for some reason, she believed he meant it.

Chapter Text

The week Calypso spent aboard the Red Force drifted by like a spring breeze—gentle, fleeting, quietly refreshing. Shanks wasn’t one to count days, but with her on board, time felt different. Softer. Slower. And somehow, still slipping through his hands.

He spoke with her daily, always briefly. A quiet moment during sunset. A passing exchange at dinner. He never pressed. Calypso wasn’t the sort to unravel with questions. She offered bits of herself freely in conversation, but those fragments refused to form a whole. Not yet. So, he gave her space. Let her explore. Let her wander the ship with that barely-concealed wonder in her eyes. And instead of digging for answers, he turned to his crew.

Lucky Roux chimed in first—unsolicited, as usual. He strolled up mid-snack, rice ball in one hand, gesturing with the other.

"Kid's got a stomach on her," he said. "Can’t peel a potato without threatening to stab herself, but she’s eager. Learns fast. Doesn’t flinch at the heat or the knives. Quiet when she’s working, but when she talks about her travels... she talks like the Sea’s alive. Like it’s her friend."

Shanks arched a brow.

"Alive, huh?"

"Yeah. Said it ‘caught her’ when she fell. Like it made sure she landed with us. Gave me goosebumps, not gonna lie."

Hongo was next. And, as expected, unimpressed.

"She won’t sit still," he grumbled, arms folded like he was prepping a formal complaint. "Keeps sneaking into chores, and treats rest like a punishment. Flinches if you check on her—like she’s waiting for the catch."

"You mean, she doesn’t know how to be cared for."

Hongo exhaled, obviously a bit angry about that. "Exactly. I don’t think she’s used to adults who don’t want something from her."

That stuck with Shanks. Beneath that iron resilience, she was still just a kid.

Yasopp was more amused than bothered. He leaned beside Shanks one evening, both watching Calypso practice with her trident, movements fluid and unpredictable.

"Good instincts," he said. "She’s raw, but there’s rhythm in how she moves. Like she’s dancing with the tide. And she listens. Really listens. Takes correction without ego."

"Not used to praise," Shanks said quietly.

Yasopp simply nodded. "Or safety."

Limejuice, unlike Hango, was impressed, and grinning from ear to ear.

"She climbed the mast with me! Said she was scared but did it anyway. And the way she looked at the sea..." He let out a whistle. "Like she was falling in love with it all over again. Kept asking about the clouds and the wind and everything that came to mind—the girl’s starving for the world, I tell you.”

Then came Building Snake—short and to the point.

"She’s got a head for navigation," he simply said, sliding a map across the desk. Shanks was surprised to find unfamiliar writings on it—Calypso’s, obviously. "Asks smart questions. Sees patterns. Doesn’t assume."

Patterns. Yeah. That tracked.

Since the moment she crash-landed on their deck, Calypso had left behind ripples—small but distinct. The kind that warned of something bigger on the way.

Shanks started watching more closely. Quietly. From a distance.

She never lingered long in one spot, always moving, always curious. He saw her pause at the rail sometimes, fingers brushing the wood as she whispered to the ocean. Like she was confiding in a friend.

He noticed the way she responded to kindness—with that tentative, startled softness. A joke from Roux, or candy from Limejuice, or a ruffle of hair from Yasopp. She took them all like she wasn’t sure they were real. Like she expected it all to be a trick, or to wake up and find their kindness washed away in memories.

He’d met all kinds: warriors, dreamers, liars, romantics. Calypso didn’t fit any mold. One minute, she was beaming like a sugar-happy kid; the next, she was speaking of tides and stars with a weight of ancient reverence. She was light-hearted and heavy-souled. A wanderer with no destination, but always on the move. And even after a week of shared meals, quiet talks, and careful watching, Shanks couldn’t say he truly knew who Calypso was.

But he knew this much—the Sea had brought her to them. Not randomly. Not by accident. There was purpose in it.

So he let settle in. Let her take up space. Let her rest.

Because, when the wind eventually swept her away again—and it would, he knew it in his guts—he wanted her to leave with one certainty: that for once, she’d belonged somewhere. Without having to earn it, without having to prove herself worthy of it.

He watched the change in her posture. The way her shoulders slowly loosened. The way she started to smile more easily.

She wasn’t home. But maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t lost either.

And when their destination finally appeared on the horizon, Shanks stood at the prow, his eyes on the girl leaning ahead, with her hair dancing in the wind and her gaze fixed on the sea rather than the island ahead.

"Still a mystery," he murmured to himself. Then he smiled. "But a good one."

And for him, that was enough.

The island didn’t have a grand name like some of the charted ports in the New World. It was simply called Moku Isle—a small, tropical slip of land tucked in a crook of the sea, mostly known to travelers as a peaceful resupply stop. No Marines, no political entanglements. Just quiet shores, gentle trade winds, and the kind of golden beaches that stretched forever under cloudless skies. To Shanks and his crew, it was a familiar haunt. They knew the dockhands by name, the taverns by smell, and the grocers by tab. But to Calypso, it was the unknown. Another mystery. Another piece of the wide, ever-stretching world.

She was leaning over the railing, eyes bright, scanning the sandbanks and swaying palms with quiet anticipation when she froze, and her breath hitched.

There, just a little further down the beach from where the Red Force was aiming to dock—half-buried in the soft white sand and tangled in seaweed—was a boat. Or rather, a glorified raft. Patchworked sail limp in the breeze, coral garlands tangled around the mast, and all.

Her boat.

“Skipper,” she whispered.

Before anyone could register what was happening, Calypso vaulted over the railing like a shot.

“Hey—!”

“Wait, kid!”

“Oi, your ribs!”

Their shouts chased her down, but she didn’t hear them, not really. The wind rushed in her ears and the sea rose up to swiftly catch her and safely lower her to the shallows, splashing up brine and foam. She stumbled once, nearly lost her balance, but she didn’t stop—not until her fingers met worn wood. She flung her arms around the little mast, hugging it like an old friend. The salt-stiff garlands scratched against her cheek, and the faint, faded scent of sea and sun-warmed rope filled her nose. Her laugh burst out in a single, breathless puff, half-sob and half-joy.

“You made it,” she said to the boat. “You really made it.” And then, softer: “Thank you. Thank you, Sea. I owe you one.”

She pressed a palm to the deck, reverently, as if she were checking a heartbeat. The boat creaked in reply, as if exhaling.

Behind her, sand crunched under heavy boots.

“You have absolutely no regard for your own safety,” Shanks said, mildly winded but not angry. His voice was firm, but not harsh.

She looked up at him, still grinning. “Nah, I’m fine.”

He gave her a look. “That fall could’ve cracked your ribs again. Hango is going to have your head, you know?”

“But I stuck the landing,” she pointed out cheerfully, brushing the sand off her knees. “And besides—look!” She gestured dramatically at the raft, like she was unveiling some grand treasure. “This is Skipper! My boat! Isn’t she absolutely beautiful?”

Shanks blinked. His eyes trailed over the sad little vessel—held together more by willpower than craftsmanship, with doodles sketched into the side planks in fading, uneven ink. There was a lopsided sun, a sea serpent with too many teeth, and what looked like a stick-figure version of Calypso herself, wielding a trident with pride. The sail had been patched more times than he could count, and one of the side rails was barely hanging on by a single stubborn rope knot. And the rudder—was that driftwood? Did it even work?

He let out a slow, amused exhale. “That’s… a boat?”

Calypso beamed, completely unbothered by the skeptical tone. “She’s mine. Built her myself. Sort of. I had help from a retired carpenter who owed me a favor at some point, so now the fake rudder isn’t falling off anymore.” She patted the deck lovingly. “Skipper and I have been through a lot. Didn’t think I’d see her again after the storm, but—” she looked out at the horizon, then back to him with a glint in her eyes, “—like you said: sometimes the Sea brings things back.”

Shanks rubbed the back of his neck, eyes lingering on the colorful chaos that was her makeshift vessel. Somehow, it made perfect sense. Just like her, it was a mess and a miracle at once. Fragile-looking, but inexplicably sturdy. Touched by chaos but still standing. Still here, even in the face of the greatest adversity.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, but there was fondness in his voice.

She turned to him, hands on her hips. “So, Captain. What’s the plan?”

He smirked. “The plan is, we finish docking the ship, head into town, and throw the biggest party Moku Isle’s ever seen.”

Her eyes widened with delight. “A party?”

“A proper one,” he confirmed. “With music, drinks, food, and enough noise to make the locals complain.”

She clapped her hands. “I’m in.”

“Good. But first…” He nudged her shoulder lightly. “You’re gonna let Hongo check your injuries again.”

Calypso groaned but didn’t argue. “Fine. But only because I want to be in top form for dancing. Did you know that I love dancing?”

Shanks chuckled, shaking his head as they turned back toward the ship.

By the time they reached the others, who had watched the whole reunion with varying degrees of concern and curiosity, the sun was already angling lower, casting a warm orange glow over the island. Yasopp whistled low when he got a better look at Skipper.

“That thing’s seaworthy?”

“Barely,” Calypso said proudly.

Lucky Roux laughed, tossing her a mango from his bag. “Well, if she floats, she's good enough, I say."

Limejuice was already sketching the boat in a little journal, muttering to himself about coral dynamics and makeshift hulls. Building Snake stood silently by the rail, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

Later, as the Red Force was docked and the crew poured onto Moku Isle, Calypso stood a moment longer by Skipper, brushing some seaweed from the prow.

“You waited for me,” she whispered. “Thank you. I’ll be back later, okay?”

Then she jogged after the others, barefoot in the sand and radiant in the golden hour light.

That night, the party overtook the island. The Red Hair Pirates lit up the little seaside village with music, dancing, and laughter loud enough to wake the waves themselves. Calypso was swept into it with ease, laughing with a drink in one hand and fried fish in the other. She even convinced Yasopp and Limejuice to dance with her, dragging them both onto the sand with a wild grin and absolutely no rhythm to speak of.

Shanks watched from a distance for a while, already through his third barrel of wine, with a small, knowing smile on his face.

She didn’t belong here—not really. Not yet. But tonight, she looked like she did.

And he figured, sometimes, the Sea didn’t just bring things back.

Sometimes, it delivered them exactly where they needed to be.

The first thing Shanks felt when he woke up was the deep, bone-splitting ache in his head. It was the kind of hangover that could only come from a night of partying with his crew, and it took him a hot minute to remember that they’d docked mere hours ago. They’d partied until the wee hours of the morning, and he’d passed out at some point. So, why was he awake now?

He couldn’t shake off a nagging feeling. It crawled through the back of his skull and gnawed at him even before his brain fully caught up with the rest of his senses.

Something was off.

He could feel it deep in his gut, an unsettling whisper just beneath the surface of the hazy fog of alcohol still clouding his mind. The air, even though warm from the rising sun, felt different. The wind carried a hint of saltwater and something else—something more. Shanks groaned, slumping further into the hammock, his eyes barely cracked open to squint at the dim room around him. The world was still too blurry, the throbbing ache in his temples too insistent. He considered rolling over and letting the world be, but that feeling wouldn't leave him.

Like he’d regret it if he didn’t get up now.

His hand went instinctively to the side of the hammock, and he did a headcount in his mind. All of his crewmates seemed accounted for, some snoring more loudly than others. But then he got to the last name, and his stomach tightened.

Calypso…

His gaze flicked to the empty spot in the corner of the room where she'd curled up in her guest hammock last night. Nothing. The spot was untouched, as if she hadn’t even been there. The nagging sense of something missing sharpened.

Without further hesitation, Shanks groaned again, this time a low growl of frustration, and pushed himself out of the hammock. The cabin was still dim, the sunlight barely beginning to trickle through the cracks in the ship's wood, but the crew were still asleep—except for Calypso, who never stayed asleep for long. He didn’t need to think too much about it. The girl had a habit of wandering off, always seeking something else—the Sea, the horizon, the unknown. But he knew her well enough by now to recognize that this wasn’t like the usual quiet walks she took through the ship in the early hours, when it was just the Sea and her that were awake.

This was different.

Slipping into his boots and grabbing his coat, Shanks quietly stepped out of the crew quarters, careful not to wake anyone else. The early morning air felt fresh, the kind that had a cool bite to it even as the day slowly stretched awake. The island around them was still, the last of the stars winking out as the horizon softened into pale, streaked gold. Shanks made his way down to the docks, where the Red Force was tethered. The ship loomed behind him, but his focus was all on the stretch of sandy beach ahead. His boots scuffed against the wooden dock planks, but there was no other sound. The only noise was the rhythmic lap of the water against the shore, and the faint, soft call of waking seabirds.

And then, he saw her.

Calypso was there, standing at the edge of the water, her back to him. The raggedy little boat—her Skipper—was bobbing lazily against the sand, just about ready to be launched. Her trident was strapped across her back, too.

She was preparing to leave.

A wry smile graced his lips as he walked toward her, his steps measured and quiet. She hadn’t heard him yet, and he wasn’t sure if that was because she was lost in her own thoughts or if she simply didn’t care to acknowledge him.

“Calypso.”

Her shoulders stiffened slightly at the sound of his voice, but she didn’t turn around right away. It was like she had been expecting him to come. Or maybe hoping he would. She let the silence stretch, the waves rolling gently beneath her feet as the sky brightened, painting the world in hues of orange and purple.

Finally, she turned. Her eyes met his, and there was no guilt in them. Just acceptance, and warmth, and maybe a bit of an apology, too.

“Good morning, Captain,” she said, her voice as light and unbothered as ever. But beneath that, there was something more—something quieter, something that made Shanks's heart ache in a way he couldn’t quite explain. “I’m sorry for sneaking out like that, but... the Sea’s calling.”

Shanks stared at her for a long moment, taking in her posture, the way her feet shifted in the wet sand, the way the wind tugged at her wild hair. The Sea had a way of calling to her, that much he knew. He understood it more than most, honestly. The Sea didn’t simply pull you in—it claimed you. It wrapped its tendrils around you and demanded your attention, your soul. The girl had heard that call long before she’d ever stepped foot on his ship, and he’d known that, eventually, she would answer it again.

The feeling in his gut, the one that had awoken him earlier, clicked into place. She wasn’t meant to stay, he’d known that. Not here, not with them, though he'd thought she'd at least stay for a few more days, at the very least. And as much as he wished he could keep her a little longer, to hold onto her and keep her safe, the Sea had other plans for her. And deep down, he understood that. He had known it from the moment she’s almost splattered onto his deck, from the first time she’d smiled at him like the whole world was hers to explore and devour.

She was a wanderer. Always moving, always seeking. Always running toward the next adventure.

And that was fine.

Shanks smiled, though the ache in his chest lingered. He always hated goodbyes. He stepped forward, closer to her, until he was just a few feet away.

“You know…” he began softly, ruffling her hair with a light, affectionate hand. “You’re always welcome to come back. But next time… use the plank to get on board, huh? I think Hongo won’t survive another of your dramatic entrances.”

She laughed, a soft sound full of light, her eyes glinting as she tilted her head at him. “I’ll try to remember, Captain.”

For a moment, there was silence. Calypso stood in front of him, the trident still across her back, but there was no nervousness or tension in the air. She wasn’t uncertain. She wasn’t running away. She was simply… saying goodbye.

Then, without a word, she threw her arms around him in a tight hug, pulling him close in a way that surprised him. It wasn’t a hug that sought comfort—it was a hug that felt like gratitude, like an unspoken promise. Shanks wrapped his arm around her, returning the embrace. She smelled like saltwater and sun, a mix of things wild and untamed, and he could feel the sincerity in the way she held him. He hadn’t expected the hug, but he didn’t pull away. When she finally pulled back, there was a strange, bittersweet smile on her lips. The kind of smile that only Calypso could give—bright, blinding, as if she were about to embark on the greatest adventure this world had ever known.

For a brief, fleeting moment, Shanks found himself wondering if she might have a D. somewhere in her bloodline. He could see it in her eyes—the same fire, the same untamable spark. But before he could dwell on it further, she was already stepping back, her hands brushing the hair out of her face.

“Well,” she said, her voice light again. “I’ll see you around, Captain. And don’t worry! I’ll be back when the Sea calls me home again.”

And with that, she turned, walking back toward her boat with bounce in her step.

Shanks stood there for a long time, watching her go, the light of the morning sun washing over her as she pushed Skipper into the water and began to sail away. There was something almost final about this moment, something that tugged at his heart, but he refused to let it show. Instead, he raised his hand, waving as she sailed further into the horizon, her silhouette disappearing against the vast, endless blue.

She wasn’t lost anymore, but exactly where she was meant to be.

And as for Shanks, he couldn’t help but feel that, somehow, that was enough.

The Sea had claimed her—and it would bring her back when the time was right.

Chapter Text

The days since Calypso parted ways with the Red Hair Pirates had melted into a quiet, dreamlike drift across the open sea. Calypso had almost grown used to the solitude again. Almost. The memory of warm laughter, good food, and the creak of the Red Force beneath her feet hadn’t faded, but it dulled with each sunrise, replaced with the excitement of the unknown. And Skipper, ever hanging-on by a thread, bobbed merrily along, its patched sail catching the breeze just enough to keep them moving forward.

Callie had a new addition to her boat: a little parasol tied to the edge of the boat, shading her lounging spot. She now laid half-curled beneath it, eyes closed, her arm dangling off the side to trail her fingers in the warm sea. The wind whispered softly. The Sea was taking her somewhere, but for once, it seemed in no rush. And for once, she wasn’t either.

She drifted between light slumber and idle thoughts, letting the rocking lull her. The calm was a balm. No storms, no gunfire, no wild pirate antics. Just the slow pulse of the water and the occasional chirp of a sea bird.

Which is why the voice startled her.

"Excuse me, do you need help?"

Her eyes snapped open. She jolted upright, blinking rapidly under the parasol’s shade. A shadow loomed over her—no, not just a shadow, a ship. A small one, only slightly larger than Skipper, drifting closer on an almost lazy course. And standing aboard it was a massive figure, impossibly tall and broad, with dark shades and a kind expression framed by wild hair. There was

Bartholomew Kuma.

Callie’s breath caught. She stared, wide-eyed. Because standing before her wasn’t the fearsome Warlord, she knew that much. He wasn’t cold or silent or half-mechanical. No, this was Revolutionary Kuma, the Tyrant King of Sorbet Kingdom she’d seen the bounty poster of in the news, the man who still had his heart in his chest and a daughter he’d do anything for. The man who hadn’t yet become a pawn to the World Government, who hadn’t yet sacrificed his very humanity for the one he loved most.

Of all the people she expected to run into... Kuma wasn’t even on the list.

He studied her from behind his shades, not threatening at all despite his sheer size.

"You’re alone," he said simply. “Were you shipwrecked? Do you need help?”

Callie nodded slowly. "No, I’m okay, thank you. I’m used to traveling alone.”

Kuma tilted his head. "Traveling? Where are you headed?"

"Wherever the Sea takes me."

There was a pause, then a quiet rumble of amusement in his voice. "That’s not a very safe strategy."

She grinned. "No, but it’s worked so far."

Kuma’s ship pulled closer, the two boats now bobbing gently side-by-side. He crouched at the edge of his deck to better match her level, arms resting loosely on his knees, though he was still impossibly tall.

"You remind me of someone," he then mused.

"Is it someone you like?"

His lips quirked into a faint smile. "Very much."

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, the Sea quietly sloshing between them. Callie’s mind raced, not with panic, but with possibility. This was a chance. A real chance. The chance to actively interfering with a story she knew would take place with or without her interference—but maybe it could be a little more just, a little more fair, a little less heartbreaking, for a select few.

Because right now, Kuma was still searching for Bonney’s cure. He hadn’t yet given himself up to Vegapunk and St. Saturn’s horrid schemes. And maybe—just maybe—she could help him. Steer things another way.

He then spoke again. "There’s an island not far from here. It’s my home. If you’d like, I can take you there. Rest. Eat. Wash the salt from your hair."

She hesitated for only a moment before smiling brightly. "I’d love that."

He held out a hand to help her board his ship, and she accepted it, scrambling lightly across the small gap. Skipper clinked against his boat, the garlands on its mast swaying.

"Don’t worry," she whispered to her little vessel. "I’m not leaving you behind.”

Kuma watched the exchange with a curious tilt of his head but said nothing as she swiftly tied a thin piece of rope around her raft’s mast to his own. Once she was done, he guided the ship into a turn, setting a course with practiced ease.

"I am Kuma," he then introduced himself. “And you are?”

"Calypso," she replied, smiling. "But you can call me Callie."

"Callie," he repeated softly, as if testing how it sounded. Then he nodded once. "Welcome."

The sun rose higher as the wind picked up, gentle but purposeful. The Sea was still guiding her.

And for the first time since she arrived in this world, she wasn’t drifting aimlessly.

The Calm Belt lived up to its name—silent, glassy, and treacherous.

Bartholomew Kuma stood at the prow of his modest ship, the book he'd been reading now closed and forgotten under his arm. The stillness of this stretch of the sea had always given him pause—not because he feared the sea kings lurking beneath, but because in this eerie quiet, even the softest sound rang out like thunder. It was the kind of silence that demanded attention, that forced reflection.

And in that silence, he’d heard a voice—soft, airy, and unmistakably human.

He squinted against the sunlight, following the source until his eyes landed on a strange sight: a tiny, tattered boat bobbing in the still waters. It looked more like driftwood than anything seaworthy. Colorful patches of paint clung to the hull in mismatched strokes, and coral garlands fluttered lazily around the mast. A makeshift parasol shaded a small figure who blinked up at him as he called out to her like she’d been pulled from a dream.

She didn’t scream or panic. Just sat up and stared.

“Excuse me, do you need help?” Kuma asked again, though she looked unharmed.

The girl—young, maybe late teens—tilted her head at him like he’d asked something strange. He asked again, figuring she may just be intimidated by his size, like most children usually were.

"You’re alone," he repeated simply. “Were you shipwrecked? Do you need help?”

The young slowly nodded, as if shaking off a stubborn afterthought. "No, I’m okay, thank you. I’m used to traveling alone.”

Kuma tilted his head at the unexpected answer. She didn’t look old enough to be traveling these treacherous waters alone. "Traveling? Where are you headed?"

"Wherever the Sea takes me."

He paused, genuinely taken aback. But she seemed serious, and he couldn’t help but feel amused by her confidence. "That’s not a very safe strategy."

She grinned. "No, but it’s worked so far."

Kuma wasn’t sure how to answer that. He studied her more carefully now. She truly didn’t look lost or afraid. Just... at ease. As if she belonged in this forsaken stretch of sea. But something about her didn’t strike him as purely reckless. She seemed... guided. Carried. Like her path wasn’t random at all.

He hesitated, then guided his boat closer, easing into her current. It was strange—there wasn’t a breath of wind, and yet both their ships moved smoothly forward, as if something unseen pulled them onward. He usually traveled the Calm Belt with a silent propelling device that had been designed by the scientific team of the Army, but it looked like he didn’t even need it, right now.

He cast a glance around. Nothing stirred beneath the surface, but the girl didn’t seem alarmed by the strangeness of it all.

"You remind me of someone," he eventually mused, mind flashing back to messy pink hair and a smile brighter than the sun itself.

"Is it someone you like?"

His lips quirked into a faint smile. "Very much."

They fell into a comfortable silence after that, neither quite ready to part ways just yet. There was something about her that felt… timeless. Like she wasn’t a girl who’d just washed into the Calm Belt on a fluke, but someone who was supposed to be here. Someone the Sea had chosen to cross paths with him.

He offered to take her with him, to bring her home to the Sorbet Kingdom. He didn’t know why, but it felt right. And she smiled and happily agreed, he knew he’d made the right decision. He helped her aboard his little ship, but she was unwilling to leave her own behind. She tied it—“Skipper,” she’d called it, lovingly—to the side of his, whispering to it like it was alive. Perhaps to her, it was.

He revealed his name. She didn’t react. Either she didn’t know him from the newspapers, or she did know him and didn’t care for the false repute the World Government had built on his behalf.

Her name was Calypso. He found it suited her.

And so, they traveled.

Two days through the Calm Belt, drifting without wind or waves. Except… they didn’t just drift. They moved. Quickly. Unnaturally so. He gave up on using the propeller after they ended up running in circles for a while, and Calypso had laughed and simply told him to “trust the Sea”. Kuma had sailed these waters often enough to know how still they should be, so Calypso’s advice made little sense, but he decided to heed it anyway, if only out of mild curiosity.

He was rather surprised when they started moving.

It was as if the Sea itself carried them, as if impossible currents bore them forward with purpose. He’d spent hours watching the water slip past the hull, never seeing a gust of wind or a ripple of movement in the sky. Yet, they advanced.

Calypso said it was the Sea helping him get home faster. He didn’t know what to make of that. He didn’t believe in fate. But he did believe in the strange, in the unexplained.

Calypso wasn’t normal, he could tell. Not just because of how he’d found her, or how she seemed to know so much more than she let on—but because of the way she felt. Like something rooted in the same unknowable forces that moved the tides. Something old, despite her youth.

She wasn’t a talker, not constantly, but when she did speak, it was always with insight. During those two days, she’d asked about Bonney without asking about her, speaking of the bonds that tethered people to one another, and how some were strong enough to pull you back no matter how far you were cast adrift.

She spoke of freedom the way he sometimes read it described in stories: a thing wild and impossible to contain, yet somehow achievable. Her belief was so raw, so sincere, it almost brought tears to his eyes as memories of his harsher, younger days in chains returned. He idly wondered if she, too, was an escaped slave, but he didn’t ask, simply let her talk.

And she listened, too. Patiently. Without judgment. When he eventually revealed that he was searching for a cure to an uncurable disease, that he would do anything to keep his daughter safe, her only reply was a soft, understanding, full of unwavering faith.

“You will.”

By the second night, Kuma found himself reading aloud from his book while she sat near the edge of the deck, head resting against the railing, eyes closed. She never fell asleep, just listened, occasionally smiling at a passage or quoting something back to him when he paused.

The silence between them was never uncomfortable. It was the kind of quiet Kuma had long resigned himself to, but with her, it felt less like isolation and more like... space. Space to breathe. To think. To hope.

By the time the green cliffs of the Sorbet Kingdom came into view, Calypso had climbed back aboard Skipper, her arms folded over the little mast like it was a treasured friend.

“And you’re sure it’s alright?” she asked, not for the first time. “I know your time with Bonney is precious. I don’t want to intrude…”

“Of course,” he answered without hesitation, and he meant it. “You’re most welcome to stay with us. Bonney will be happy to meet you, too.”

Her smile lit up her face. She pulled Skipper gently alongside his ship as they approached the harbor, and they eventually reached the small docks. She didn’t even bother tying her ship, obviously trusting it’d somehow remain in place on its own, and they finally stepped foot on firm ground.

“I promise not to stay too long,” she said, almost sheepish.

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you like,” he insisted.

She looked up at him, visibly touched by the sincerity in his tone, but didn’t respond with words—only a smile that said more than enough.

As they started walking, Kuma glanced back at the Sea one last time. He didn’t know what role Calypso would play in his life, or Bonney’s, or the tides of the world beyond—but as her laughter echoed along the harbor, light and unburdened, he couldn’t help but think, no, hope, that the Sea had brought her to them for a reason.

Chapter Text

Kuma leaned against the stone archway, the cool shade of the old church cloaking him like an old friend. Inside, scattered rays of sunlight spilled in golden beams through the stained glass, just enough to light the place, but never big or far enough to reach Bonney.

But still, she was laughing.

Truly laughing.

And it was because of Calypso.

Kuma watched them from a distance, unseen. Bonney sat cross-legged on a worn patchwork blanket, face alight, her cheeks flushed with more color than he'd seen in weeks. Callie was sprawled on her stomach beside her, chin propped on her hands, animatedly miming a sea king the size of a mountain.

"And I swear to you, Bonney," she declared, eyes wide with mock solemnity. "Its breath smelled like a hundred rotting coconuts."

Bonney cackled so hard she wheezed.

Kuma felt something loosen inside his chest.

He had spent years keeping her safe, warm, fed. And Bonney was far from an unhappy child. She held so much hope for the world beyond the walls of their home, but she was always grateful for the love she received within them, be it from him or their ever-loyal friends.

But somehow, this felt different.

“You’ll get better,” Calypso told Bonney at some point, gently brushing her hair back. “And once you do, come find me, alright? We’ve got a whole world to explore, you and me.”

“Promise?”

Callie raised her pinky. “Promise.”

Bonney smiled so brightly it made Kuma ache.

Bonney had seemed awed, tearful, almost reverent. Those who knew the truth of Bonney’s disease treated her with care and infinite love, but they never made the kind of promise that extended beyond her tenth anniversary. And yet Calypso did, her faith never wavering, as if she just knew for a fact that everything truly would be okay.

Kuma wanted desperately to believe it, too.

Kuma sat on a stone bench in the church’s courtyard, watching as Bonney dozed against Callie’s side under the shade of the old oak. She wasn’t supposed to be outside so long, but she’d insisted, and he hadn’t had the heart to tell her know—and since most of the courtyard had been covered to block the sunlight anyway, he figured they could afford a few more minutes to enjoy the fresh air.

“She’s stronger than people give her credit for,” Callie murmured at some point, not looking up from the little braids she’d started weaving in Bonney’s hair.

“I know,” Kuma agreed.

Callie smiled. “She’s gonna be a real troublemaker once she’s healthy.”

Kuma looked at Bonney’s sleeping face. Her little hand clutched Callie’s sleeve, the few jewels embedded in her face lacking their usual luster. He didn’t know how or why but, sometimes, it felt as though Calypso’s mere presence made the disease recede.

But that didn’t make sense. It was impossible.

And yet, he still dared to hope.

The days in the Sorbet Kingdom passed in a gentle rhythm, a stark contrast to the unpredictable life at sea. Callie found herself adapting to this new pace, even within the confines of the church where Bonney resided. The young girl, confined indoors due to her disease, was a beacon of curiosity and warmth. Her laughter echoed through the halls as Callie recounted tales of her adventures, painting vivid pictures of distant lands and daring escapades.​

Bonney's eyes sparkled with wonder as she listened, her imagination soaring beyond the church's walls. In return, she shared her own dreams and aspirations, her voice tinged with both hope and longing. Their bond deepened with each story exchanged, creating an almost sisterly connection that neither had quite anticipated would bloom.

Sometimes, though, Calypso would go off on her own to explore.

The Sorbet Kingdom was a land rich in culture and history. She wandered through bustling markets, tasted local delicacies, and marveled at the architecture that told tales of a bygone era. The townspeople, warm and welcoming and mostly very old people, shared stories of their homeland, further enriching Callie's understanding of the kingdom.​

Yet, as days turned into a week, and then a second one, the call of the sea started ringing in her ears again. Callie felt the familiar itch for adventure, the longing for the horizon, and she knew that it was now time to go.

It was with an admittedly heavy heart that she informed Kuma and Bonney of her incoming departure—she planned to leave first thing in the morning. Bonney, upon hearing the news, immediately clung to her, tears streaming down her face.​

"​Please don't go, Callie!” she pleaded. “I don’t want you to go! We still have to go on lots of adventures together, remember? You promised!”

Callie knelt, wiping away Bonney's tears. "​I have to, sweetheart. But I haven’t forgotten our promise. Just because I’m going a little earlier than you doesn’t mean you can’t come find me when you’re better, right? If you trust the Sea, it’ll take you to me when the time’s right—I know it.”

Bonney eventually relented, her smile returning amidst the tears.​ That night, she fell asleep on Calypso, eager to soak up every last minute they had together. And when Calypso woke the next morning, it was a real struggle to untangle herself from the sleeping child, but she eventually managed.

And now, it was time to go.

The sea smelled familiar today. Brine, sun, the promise of movement.

“She doesn’t want you to go,” Kuma said.

“I know,” Callie replied, slinging her pack over her shoulder. “But I can’t stay in one place too long. I’d break.”

She didn’t look regretful. There was only acceptance, as if answering the call of the Sea truly was the only option for her.

“She’ll cry again once she wakes up and finds you gone,” added Kuma.

He didn’t know why he said it. He knew it wouldn’t be enough to make her stay.

Callie bit her lip, then admitted, a bit more quietly: “I’ll cry, too.”

They stood by the water, waves lapping gently against the docked ships.

“Mister Kuma,” she said suddenly, almost a bit hesitantly. He’d insisted she didn’t need to call him ‘mister’, but she was a stubborn thing. “Why haven't you used your Paw-Paw Fruit to expel Bonney's disease?"​

The question, simple and direct, hit like a cannonball.

"​Because someone else would have to take it. I'm willing to sacrifice my life for hers, but like this… It’s a last resort. I promised to take care of her, and I can't keep that promise if I'm dead,” he reasoned. “She’s still young. There… there’s still time. I’ll do it if I have to, but I owe it to her mother to try every other option, first.”

Callie pondered his words, then spoke again. "​What about the elders in town? They're closer to the end of their lives. Maybe they'd be willing to take on the burden?”​

But he shook his head. “They call me their King,” he said quietly. “But I would never ask them to die for my child.”

Callie’s head tilted slightly. “Shouldn’t it be their choice, though?”

He stiffened and met her gaze at last, and something in her expression stopped him from answering altogether.

“You’re not the Tyrant the papers say you are,” she added. “So act like it. Talk to them.”

He remained silent at that, obviously a bit taken aback. Callie placed a hand on his arm, offering a reassuring squeeze before boarding the Skipper, the little boat bobbing almost excitedly as it welcomed her back.

She waved goodbye, and he waved back, deep in thoughts. He stood at the edge of the dock, watching as Callie’s boat grew smaller in the distance, her patchwork sails fluttering like a flag of defiance against everything sane and possible.

Bonney’s laughter echoed in the back of his mind.

“Shouldn’t it be their choice?”

The people of the Sorbet Kingdom loved Bonney. He knew this. They had watched her grow, grieved the appearance of her disease alongside him, brought offerings to the church every week. Flowers, sweets, toys. Hope.

He had never asked them. Never even considered it.

Was that kindness? Or pride?

The girl had shaken something loose in him.

Maybe… maybe it was time to talk.

Eventually, Calypso’s boat disappeared beyond the horizon, and Kuma wandered back home, his heart heavy but his mind surprisingly clear. When he eventually returned,  Bonney was still deeply asleep, tucked beneath a threadbare quilt, and now curled around a little paper boat Callie had made for her before leaving. On its side was scrawled:

“Until next time. Save me a spot !”

Kuma sat beside her, the candlelight soft on his face. His giant hand brushed her hair back gently.

He didn’t have to carry this burden alone—he never had. He’d just… forgotten. But now he remembered, and he knew it was time to move past his pride to do what was right for his daughter, and uphold the promise he’d made to her mother all those years ago.

Thank you, Calypso.

Chapter Text

The beach was quiet when Callie first set foot on it, toes squishing into warm sand as waves lapped gently at the shore behind her. Skipper, battered but still floating, bobbed in the shallows with one of its patchwork sails half-furled and a gaping hole in the deck still spurting out water. She needed supplies. Just a few nails. Maybe a new plank if she was lucky. Hopefully a hammer that didn’t look like it had been salvaged from the bottom of the ocean.

She’d thought the island deserted at first—lush and overgrown, the kind of place you could imagine being swallowed whole by nature. But then she’d seen the smoke curling in the distance, and, even more telling, the flag. The jolly roger had been emblazoned on a large sail pulled taut and staked in the sand like a proud declaration. A sun in the center, its rays curved like flames, surrounded by tribal marks she recognized from the few old wanted posters still drifting around the Grand Line.

The Sun Pirates.

Calypso had lit up at the sight, her steps quickening, grin wide as she broke into a small job, waving excitedly to the group.

“Hey! Hello there!”

Several heads turned from the camp, where a number of large figures had been working around an equally large ship. It was in better shape than the Skipper, but still clearly undergoing repairs—planks stacked, ropes being knotted, wood shavings scattered across tarps laid out under palm trees.

A few hands twitched toward weapons at her sudden appearance, but none raised them. Curiosity won out over suspicion.

One of the tallest among them—a wide-shouldered, blue-skinned, stocky man with thick lips and long hair tied back—stepped forward. Callie recognized him immediately. Jinbe. The First Son of the Sea, second Captain of the Sun Pirates, and now one of the Seven Warlords of the Sea, too.

He looked just as she remembered from all the manga panels she used to obsess over—calm, composed, and dignified in a way that didn't dull the strength simmering beneath the surface.

“Are you lost, child?” he asked, voice deep and rumbling like distant thunder, but not unkind.

She laughed, bright and breezy. “Not even a little. I’m exactly where I need to be. But…” She jerked a thumb toward her boat. “Skipper there’s sprung a leak, and I could really use a hammer and a few nails, if you’ve got some to spare.”

Jinbe blinked once, clearly taken aback. “You traveled the Calm Belt alone on… that?”

“Not the whole Calm Belt,” she said, waving her hand. “Just drifted into it a bit. The Sea kind of… helps me along.”

She then shrugged. A few of the Fishmen exchanged glances. One muttered something about “another crazy human.” Another laughed under their breath.

Jinbe, however, stepped aside and gestured toward the camp. “Well, you are welcome to share our fire and take what you need for your repairs.”

Her smile widened. “Thanks! That’s mighty kind of you.”

She followed him up the sand, where a few of the other Sun Pirates were still watching her warily. Callie was used to that by now—being a stranger in a strange world meant constantly being the subject of wary glances and half-whispered questions, but she supposed it wasn’t helped by the racial divide, either.

Her gaze roamed over the crew, and it struck her then, hard in the chest—Fishmen. Actual Fishmen. Towering, powerful, scaled and finned, and not just as exotic designs on a manga page anymore. These weren’t monsters. They weren’t the caricatures her old world had portrayed in ancient sailor myths. These were people. People who had bled, fought, survived—and carved out a place for themselves in a world that had only been cruel to them.

She swallowed thickly, mind filling with questions.

“First time seeing Fishmen?” Jinbe asked, watching her closely.

She didn’t pretend. “Yeah,” she admitted, but then grinned. “Y’all are kinda awesome, not gonna lie.”

He gave a quiet hum of approval, maybe even amusement, and nodded toward a large supply crate. “Feel free to use what you need. You may find a hammer or two in there. I can spare one of my men to help, too, if you'd like.”

“Nah, I got it,” she said, patting her toolbelt. “I’m handy enough.”

It took her a few minutes to sift through the crate, and she managed to find what she needed—a solid hammer, a handful of nails, and a thin plank she could saw down to size. Satisfied, she carried everything back to Skipper under the Fishmen’s bemused stares.

Calypso worked on Skipper with her tongue poked out in concentration, occasionally glancing back at the Fishmen and soaking up bits of their conversations. They spoke in a mixture of dialects, but they seemed to relax a bit as they realized she really wasn’t up to anything nefarious. She could hear talk of repairs, of recent supply runs, of trouble with Marines on a nearby patrol. It was almost domestic, in a way.

Later, Jinbe returned, crouching near where she knelt on the beach beside her boat.

“You’re not a pirate,” he then said. It wasn’t a question.

Callie wiped sweat from her brow. “Nope.”

“Then what are you?”

She thought about it a moment. “Traveler, I guess. I’m not chasing treasure or glory or fame. Just… stories. People. The Sea.”

He watched her in silence for a moment, then nodded. “The Sea has its own way of choosing companions. You’re lucky, child.”

A pause. Then…

“Do you know who we are?” he asked, quieter.

She looked up, straight at him. “I know what the world says you are, but I know better. Fisher Tiger was a hero, and your crew’s symbol is one of acceptance and freedom. You fight for equality, for peace. That’s the only thing that matters to me.”

Something unreadable passed across Jinbe’s face, his mouth tightening. “We are very different from one another. Would you not call us monsters, like so many humans do?”

Callie smiled, shaking her head. “Monsters are monsters because of what they do, not what they look like. And just because we’re different doesn’t mean we can’t be friends, right?”

He huffed a breath, something like a chuckle. “You speak boldly, child.”

She winked. “Someone’s gotta.”

A few hours earlier

The sun was high when the Sun Pirates came ashore, its rays strong and golden, glinting off the shallow waters that kissed the beach. The repairs were overdue—patchwork sails, scorched wood, and a fractured rudder had made it necessary to dock, if only for a day or two. The island itself was small and quiet, uninhabited save for palm trees, coarse sand, and a patch of jungle that rustled softly in the wind. A good place to rest and fix what needed fixing.

Jinbe stood with his arms folded, overseeing the work while several of his crew busied themselves along the shore, dragging supplies from their ship, hammering, sewing, adjusting. It was peaceful. Rare, even, in the New World. He didn’t expect that peace to be interrupted—not today, anyway.

So when he heard a voice calling out, chipper and bright, it gave him pause.

“Hey! Hello there!”

A girl was approaching from the far side of the beach, striding easily toward them with bare feet and dark freckles splattered on her face. A colorful boat—could it even be called a boat?—was beached not too far behind her. And, confusingly enough, she waved at them with all the exuberance of a child greeting old friends.

Jinbe blinked. She was human—no more than fifteen by the look of her, dressed in salt-bleached clothes, sun-kissed and wind-tangled, and completely, utterly unafraid.

"That’s not something you see every day," murmured Aladine beside him.

"No," Jinbe agreed. "It’s not." He then took a step forward, calling out to her. “Are you lost, child?

“Not even a little. I’m exactly where I need to be!” she beamed, before jerking a thumb toward her boat. “But Skipper there’s sprung a leak, and I could really use a hammer and a few nails, if you’ve got some to spare.”

Jinbe blinked once, taken aback. If she’d reached this island, it could only mean one thing: “You traveled the Calm Belt alone on… that?”

“Not the whole Calm Belt,” she assured, waving her hand while shaking her head. “Just drifted into it a bit. The Sea kind of… helps me along.”

She then shrugged, like that explained everything. Silence hung for a beat too long. Some of the younger crew members stared. Arlong would’ve growled, Jinbe thought absently, if he were still with them.

But this girl? This strange child standing barefoot on in front of dozens of armed pirates—Fishmen, nonetheless—just beamed at them all, blatantly uncaring for her own safety.

After another moment, Jinbe stepped aside and gestured toward the camp. “Well, you are welcome to share our fire and take what you need for your repairs.”

Her smile widened. “Thanks! That’s mighty kind of you.”

Her words caught him off guard once more, but not as much as the lack of fear or distrust in her voice. Most humans looked at him with suspicion, hesitation, or poorly hidden discomfort. She looked at him like he’d offered her the stars in the sky.

In fact, she looked at all of his crew with the same kind of hardly-concealed awe.

“First time seeing Fishmen?” Jinbe asked, watching her closely.

She laughed a bit. “Yeah. Y’all are kinda awesome, not gonna lie.”

She really was strange, and Jinbe couldn’t help but feel a bit amused, now. She reminded him of a time long past, of a friend long gone, of a girl long freed.

“Feel free to use what you need. You may find a hammer or two in there. I can spare one of my men to help, too, if you'd like.”

“Nah, I got it,” she said, patting her toolbelt. “I’m handy enough.”

So Jinbe simply watched her take the bare minimum from what he’d offered, trying to make sense of the strange puzzle that was the girl

Calypso, she’d introduced herself as at some point. She was done with her repairs, and their brief exchanges had stirred Jinbe’s curiosity, so he’d invited her to share a meal before she left, to which she’d happily agreed.

As she ate with them, Jinbe noticed something else—how his crew watched her, and how she returned each look with interest, not wariness. She asked questions—what was that tool called, what their home was like, how deep could they dive? She marveled at the webbing between their fingers, complimented the iridescent colors of their scales, told many of them in no uncertain terms how “badass” they looked…

She didn’t stare like a human gawking at a spectacle.

She gazed upon them like she found them genuinely beautiful.

Jinbe found himself watching her more closely than he expected. Not because she was suspicious or dangerous—but because she reminded him of something long buried beneath years of war and bitterness.

Hope.

She helped repair a net, listening attentively to Saladine’s instructions. She danced barefoot across the sand while one of his crewmates played a shell flute. She handed out fresh tangerines from her pack, and when one of the younger Fishmen boys shyly asked about her own adventures, she spun wild, colorful tales of geysers that spat her across oceans and a boat that listened when she sang.

And not once—not once—did she flinch or startle when they breached her space.

Later that night, as she sat cross-legged at the edge of the beach, toes buried in cool sand, Jinbe joined her again. The sea whispered beyond them, and Calypso seemed to listen. And then, Jinbe spoke.

They talked of monsters and men.

Calypso called him her friend.

It brought a balm to Jinbe’s heart—and then worry, for his newfound, fragile friend.

“If you continue drifting like this, you will meet people who do not treat you as kindly as we have,” he said, a gentle warning. “It is dangerous.”

“I know,” she said softly. “But I’ll meet other people as kind as you, too.”

He nodded, looking at her with a touch of something wistful. “Well, if you ever need help… the Sun Pirates remember their friends.”

Callie smiled at that. “Thank you.”

They fell into a comfortable silence after that, simply watching the waves curl at their feet.

She set sail the next morning, with the patched Skipper creaking a little less than usual and the smell of last night’s fire still clinging faintly to her clothes. Their repairs were done, too, and it was time to go.

Before boarding her boat, she hugged pretty much all of the crew goodbye. Some were a bit reluctant, but a single warning look from Jinbe made them fall in line. And, when she reached Jinbe, her hug lasted just a bit longer. As she pulled away, though, she seemed to hesitate, before saying something.

“I know it may sound strange… but I think you should check up on Arlong. He's your responsibility, after all."

Jinbe blinked, genuinely taken aback. How did she even know Arlong, or know that he was once a member of his crew? But when he tried asking her, the words died on his lips, as if he knew, deep down, that he wasn’t actually supposed to ask.

And that was that.

As she drifted away on her patched-up Skipper, Jinbe and his crewmates waved them goodbye from the shore until she fully disappeared. And as they others began preparing for their own departure, Jinbe stood there for a little longer, deep in thoughts.

If more humans were like her… maybe Tiger’s dream wasn’t so far off after all.

And maybe, just maybe, the tides of the world would shift one day—not through battle and violence, but through laughter and open hearts.

One child at a time.

(Now, last he’d heard, Arlong had settled somewhere in the East Blue…)

Chapter Text

The harbor buzzed with life—shouting merchants, creaking carts, chattering travelers, and the distant call of gulls overhead. Callie’s eyes lit up the moment she stepped onto the wooden docks, the scent of salt and spice mixing in the breeze. Behind her, Skipper bobbed gently in the shallows, not tied to anything, not weighed down with an anchor.

It never was. The Sea would keep it here, or the Sea would take it away. If it floated off, then it simply meant she wasn’t supposed to leave just yet.

She strode into the city with excitement bubbling in her chest. It had been a while since she stepped foot in a proper trading port, and it showed in the way her feet almost danced across the cobbled street, eyes flitting from stall to stall. Callie bartered with rough-edged coins, coral beads, and pearls pulled from the sea—thanks to the helpful creatures who still occasionally followed her from place to place. Some vendors gave her odd looks, but a smile and a curious tilt of her head usually won them over.

She traded for fresh bread, a brass compass that didn’t work, and a painted scarf she tied around her hair. Her fingers ran over maps and baubles, and for a time, the energy of the crowd swept her up like a current.

Hours passed like moments.

By the time she made her way back to the beach, a peach she’d half-eaten still in her hand, her steps slowed. Something was off.

There were Marines standing near Skipper.

Four of them. All uniformed, all looking disgruntled and suspicious. One of them, a broad man with a bristled jaw and a chest puffed up like a rooster, was poking the patched hull with his boot like he expected the boat to disintegrate on contact.

“Hey!” Callie jogged closer, frowning. “That’s mine!”

All four heads turned sharply toward her.

“Yours?” the bristled Marine scoffed. “This piece of driftwood?”

Callie’s eyes narrowed. “Skipper’s held together through storms worse than you’ve ever seen. Don’t touch it.”

“Don’t get lippy, kid,” one of the others said. “You’re not allowed to anchor this close to a public dock, even less without a permit. Harbor rules.”

“It’s not anchored,” she assured, still walking closer, her steps steady despite the rising tension. “I don’t even have an anchor.”

The Marines looked at each other. One raised an eyebrow.

“That boat’s been sitting here for hours. In the shallows. Not moving. You expect us to believe you didn’t drop anchor?”

“It’s the Sea,” Callie said simply, arms crossing. “It kept her here for me.”

“Are you screwing with us?” the bristled one demanded, stepping forward.

“She’s obviously trying to make a fool of us,” another muttered. “That thing shouldn’t even float. Look at it—it’s a miracle it hasn’t sunk.”

“Don’t talk about her like that!” Callie snapped, the words out of her mouth before she could pull them back. “She’s better than any ship you’ve ever set foot on!”

The tension thickened in an instant, the Marines squaring up in the face of her rising hostility. They must have been bored out of their mind, Calypso briefly thought, to seek a fight with a girl not even half-their-age. One of them started to step toward her—

“Oi.”

The voice cut through the air like a blade.

Every Marine straightened like someone had yanked their collars. The one mid-step froze in place. A plume of white smoke drifted in on the breeze as Calypso turned around to face the source of the voice—tall, broad-shouldered, a justice coat draped across his back and a thick cigar clamped between his teeth.

Captain Smoker.

Callie’s eyebrows shot up. She recognized him instantly. She didn’t know he’d been stationed in the New World before getting relocated to Loguetown, but it made sense, considering his powers and rank. Though, she’d never imagined she’d cross paths with him here, of all places.

He stopped beside the group, eyes flicking between the Marines and Calypso. She probably didn’t offer a very impressive sight, barefoot on the sand, arms folded, glaring like she was ten feet tall.

“What’s the hell is going on, here?” Smoker asked, his voice like gravel.

“Sir!” the bristled Marine said quickly. “This girl’s boat is in violation of harbor regulations. She is anchored near a public dock, and she does not have a permit. She—”

“And I told you, I don’t have an anchor,” Callie interrupted, pointing behind her. “Go ahead. Check. There’s no anchor. I didn’t tie her to anything. She’s just... there. And you didn’t even ask if I have a permit!”

“Well, do you?” asked Smoker, quirking a brow.

“Well, no, but you can’t just assume that kind of stuff.”

Smoker stared at her a moment. Then his gaze shifted to the boat—Skipper, patched and painted, small and strange and stubbornly afloat in the gentle surf. His brow lifted slightly.

“No anchor?” he asked.

“Nope.”

“...Then how is it still there?”

“I told them. The Sea’s keeping her.”

The Marine beside him made a strangled noise, like he couldn’t believe she was daring to spew the same excuse in their Commander’s face. Callie didn’t flinch. Smoker then huffed, something halfway between a scoff and a chuckle.

“Well, she’s not anchored, that much is obvious.”

“But Captain—!”

“She hasn’t broken any rules.” He glanced at the others, and there was steel in his voice now. “Civilians need a permit to anchor a ship. Since it’s not anchored, she’s technically not breaking any laws. Now stop harassing teenage girls and get back to work.”

The Marines saluted quickly, retreating like the tide in the early morning. Callie watched them go, her glare softening into something more neutral.

She turned back to Smoker. “Thanks for that.”

He studied her for a second longer. “What’s a kid like you doing out here anyway?”

“Traveling,” she said with a shrug. “Exploring. Learning things.”

“On that boat?”

“Yep.”

“You know this sea chews up ships like hers for breakfast, right?”

Callie grinned. “She floats anyway.”

The day had started like most others in the past month—quiet. Boring, even.

Smoker leaned back in his chair, the faint clatter of a fan spinning above him doing little to ease his restlessness. The paperwork had piled up again. Half of it was reports on minor infractions, some on shipment schedules, and the rest were, predictably, requests from Headquarters that he neither cared for nor intended to answer promptly. He wasn’t built for a desk, and everyone in the building knew it. Captain Smoker was a man of the field, through and through—but lately, there hadn’t been much “field” to speak of.

After word got around that he’d been stationed on this particular island, the less foolish pirate crews had learned to steer clear of the port entirely. That was fine. That was good. It meant the civilians were safe, that order held. But damn, was it dull.

The weather was nice, at least—blue skies, sea breeze, sun just warm enough to press against his back without turning the uniform into a sweatbox. So he stood, exhaled a sigh heavy with smoke and boredom, and made his way outside. He left the stack of papers behind. They’d still be there when he got back. Regrettably.

He wandered down to the docks more out of habit than anything. The tide was rolling in gently, tugging at the ships moored at the harbor. Fishermen shouted over crates. Sailors unloaded barrels. Life moved steadily, predictably. At least, until he heard that.

“—better than any ship you’ve ever set foot on!”

Smoker’s brow furrowed. He followed the voice, familiar irritation already creeping in. A small crowd had formed where four of his men stood in a loose semicircle around a girl—barefoot, of all things—standing with her arms crossed in front of a small, beat-up boat that looked like it shouldn’t have made it out of a bathtub, let alone the sea.

“Oi,” he called out, his voice low but cutting. “What the hell is going on, here?”

“Sir!” the closest Marine, Carter, if he remembered correctly, said quickly. “This girl’s boat is in violation of harbor regulations. She is anchored near a public dock, and she does not have a permit. She—”

“And I told you, I don’t have an anchor,” the girl interrupted, visibly annoyed. “Go ahead. Check. There’s no anchor. I didn’t tie her to anything. She’s just... there. And you didn’t even ask if I have a permit!”

“Well, do you?” asked Smoker, quirking a brow.

“Well, no, but you can’t just assume that kind of stuff.”

A little strange, but she wasn’t exactly wrong. He shot another glance to her… boat.

“No anchor?” he repeated.

“Nope.” She certainly didn’t look like she was lying.

“... Then how is it still there?”

“I told them. The Sea’s keeping her.”

Smoker squinted at her, then at the boat again. Like she said, no anchor rope. No anchor marks. No dragging chains. Just a weather-beaten skiff with mismatched planks and faded coral garlands tied along the edge like decorations on a four-years-old’s birthday cake. And yet… it hadn’t drifted. It sat peacefully in the surf, bobbing like it was meant to be there.

The Marines nearby now looked uncomfortable. Smoker couldn’t help it and huffed out a scoff akin to a chuckle. He’d certainly seen weirder on these seas, after all.

“Well, she’s not anchored, that much is obvious.”

“But Captain—!”

“She hasn’t broken any rules.” He glanced at his men, narrowing his eyes menacingly when he noticed they were about to protest again. “Civilians need a permit to anchor a ship. Since it’s not anchored, she’s technically not breaking any laws. Now stop harassing teenage girls and get back to work.”

The men saluted in unison. “Yes, sir!”

They then hurried off without further complaint. That left Smoker standing alone on the sand with the girl and her peculiar boat. She turned back toward it, running a hand across one of the patched sections of the hull like it was a live steed in need of comfort.

She eventually turned back to Smoker. “Thanks for that.”

He studied her for a second longer. “What’s a kid like you doing out here anyway?”

“Traveling,” she said with a shrug. “Exploring. Learning things.”

“On that boat?”

“Yep.”

“You know this sea chews up ships like hers for breakfast, right?”

Callie grinned. “She floats anyway.”

He truly couldn't tell if she was messing with him.

“You’re what—sixteen?”

“Fourteen,” she corrected with a cheeky grin. “Old enough to know where I’m going. Not old enough to know how not to make a mess of it, sometimes.

He gave a dry chuckle. She was proving to be an entertaining distraction, if nothing else.

“Well, I’ll say this—you’re the first kid I’ve seen trying to solo it in the New World—or at least, one who isn’t a stowaway, cannon fodder, or lying about having a crew.”

She just laughed at that. “Skipper’s all I need.”

“Skipper?” he repeated, nodding toward the boat.

She patted its railing like one would a loyal dog. “She’s not much, but she’s mine.”

There was something about her. Youthful, yes—but not naive. She had a confidence that wasn’t bluster, wasn’t performative. It wasn’t even arrogance. She just believed in herself. Believed in that ragged little boat. Smoker didn’t know whether to be impressed or concerned. But what he did know was that hearts like hers didn’t come around every week, and there was a very definite path usually made for them.

“Ever thought about hanging a flag?” he asked, folding his arms.

Her eyes flicked up to him, amused. “You asking if I’m gonna be a pirate?”

He shrugged, a bit impressed she’d understood his real question. “People like you tend to fall into one of two categories. Marine or pirate. Can’t drift forever without picking a side.”

She smiled again, but this one was softer. “If I ever fly a flag,” she said, “it’ll be the one belonging to the true ruler of this world.”

Smoker raised an eyebrow. “Which would be?”

“The Sea, of course.”

He snorted, a puff of smoke rising from his nostrils. “Cute answer.”

“Not a cute truth, though,” she replied, hopping into Skipper with practiced ease. “The Sea takes what it wants. Gives back what it feels like. Doesn’t matter if you’re a Warlord, an Emperor, or a Captain with a cigar collection.”

He grunted, unable to fully disagree, but still unwilling to let it go. “So, not a pirate?”

“We’re similar in spirits, I suppose, but no. They think the Sea belongs to them, when it’s really the other way around. And I don’t like the history of violence behind the black.”

“What about the white, then?”

She grinned a bit, almost challengingly. “I appreciate order, but the World Government’s corrupted to the core, and I couldn’t possibly fly the colors of a people serving a throne.”

“An empty throne,” corrected Smoker.

But she simply tilted her head. “Is it?”

Smoker’s sharp retort died on his tongue as she stared him in the eyes and challenged the most basic truth he’d grown up with. Everyone knew the empty throne in Mary Geoise was but the last historical remains of a worldwide conflict that eventually led to the creation of the World Government—a symbol of peace and equality between all member nations, now. Hell, every newly christened Captain is brought there at some point so they can see it with their own eyes!

(Smoker hadn’t been very impressed. It was an old, empty chair with broken swords all around. But he could appreciate the symbolism of it.)

And then, this wisp of a girl came along and tried telling him that the very foundation of his allegiances and ambitions was naught but a lie.

“… I was wrong. You’re sounding more like the Revolutionaries,” he said, a bit colder.

But she just laughed. “I don’t think so. I think they’re right, for the most part. But organizations like this tend to lose themselves, and I’m not holding my breath for when they inevitably crumble from the inside—though, probably not without taking a good chunk of the old world with them, first… But yeah, philosophical differences, you know?” She then shook her head, obviously done with the conversation. “Anyways, thanks again for helping. Your guys weren’t bad, just… being a bit thick.”

“They’re lucky you’re not pressing charges,” he said dryly, taking the change of subject in stride.

She grinned. “I’d rather just keep sailing.”

With that, she lightly stepped onto the colorful deck of her little raft and, as if suddenly possessed, it suddenly started getting steered away by the currents—as if, now that she was onboard, it was finally free to get carried away.

Smoker stood there, hands in his pockets, watching as the strange little boat turned slowly and began to drift out with the tide. No sail unfurled. No oars moved. And yet it glided, purposeful and quiet.

He watched the girl wave once over her shoulder, then sit cross-legged on the deck as the sea carried her away, his mind filling with thoughts and questions.

If neither flags suited her, and she didn’t feel like joining the Army, either…

“…The Sea, huh?” he muttered to himself.

For some reason, it didn’t feel like a joke.

And Smoker kept on watching until she disappeared, smoke curling from his cigar as he eventually came to a single conclusion about this encounter: “Weird kid.”

But there was no malice in it. Only curiosity. Maybe even a little respect.

Chapter Text

The sky was painted in soft pastels that morning, the kind of cloudless calm that made it hard to tell where the sea ended and the sky began. The current was gentle, the wind lazy. Skipper drifted like a leaf on a pond, and alongside the patchworked sail now fluttered a brand-new flag.

Callie sat cross-legged on the deck, admiring her handiwork. The flag caught the light just right—a white canvas with a wave-shaped swirl in deep black, but colored in with various shades of blue, like the tides themselves had left a signature. The symbol was a literal rip-off of the Water Tribe’s from Avatar: the Last Airbender, but she figured no one here would really mind the blatant plagiarism.

It flapped steadily in the breeze, and she smiled. It was hers. Not a pirate’s jolly roger, not a Marine banner, but something else entirely. White, black, and blue—the colors that made this world go ‘round, but now painted to represent something new.

A flag of the Sea.

She was so enthralled by her little addition that she didn’t hear the other boat approach. It was nearly silent, coasting along the same calm current as a drifting companion. Only when its shadow stretched over Skipper’s deck did she lift her head, surprised.

"Now this is a rare sight," a deep, amused voice called out.

She turned—and her eyes widened.

A small, sturdy craft sat not ten meters from her own, and aboard it stood a man with broad shoulders, silver-white hair pulled back, glasses perched on his nose, and a jaw that looked carved from stone. He wore no uniform, no badge, just a sleeveless shirt and slacks, and a sword strapped casually at his side.

Silvers Rayleigh.

Callie blinked. "Holy shit.”

His smile widened as he leaned casually against the mast of his boat. "You're not the first to say that—though I am surprised someone your age recognized me so easily.”

"You’re—you’re him. The Dark King, Roger’s first mate!”

He tilted his head. "Guilty as charged. And you are?"

"Callie," she said, hopping to her feet and giving him a little wave. "Well, Calypso, but my friends call me Callie. I, uh—don’t have a title or anything."

"That’s quite alright, Callie," he said kindly. "Not everyone needs a title to be interesting."

She laughed. "That’s good, ‘cause I’m mostly just a girl with a cool boat."

“I think you may be underestimating how unusual it is for a child to roam the New World on her own.” His eyes drifted upward, squinting at her flag. "You know, that’s an unusual symbol on your mast. Pirate crews usually prefer black flags and skulls."

"It’s not a pirate flag," she said brightly. "It’s the flag of the Sea."

Rayleigh raised an eyebrow. "The Sea?"

"Yup! Everyone always picks sides. Marines or pirates. Government or revolutionaries. But the Sea doesn’t pick sides. It just is. Wild, unpredictable, and alive." She looked up at her fluttering banner. "I figured that, if I had to sail under a flag, it should be hers."

Rayleigh studied her for a long moment. The breeze tugged gently at their sails, the only sound for a beat.

"A philosophical sailor, are you?" he mused, voice low and amused. "I can’t say I’ve met many of those in my life.”

"Philosophical? Maybe. Or maybe I’m just stubborn and don’t want anyone telling me where I belong."

He chuckled, and it was a deep, warm sound. "I think Roger would’ve liked you."

Callie’s cheeks turned pink. "You think so?"

"He liked people with spirit. And that flag of yours…" He trailed off, watching it flap. "It says a lot. And do you have as much faith in your boat as you do your flag?”

Callie glanced at Skipper’s worn deck, the patched sail, the coral decorations, the haphazard repairs. She smiled softly. "Of course. She’s taken me this far."

They lapsed into silence again, not the awkward kind but the peaceful kind, like two strangers who had nothing to prove. Just a shared moment in the vastness of the ocean.

After a minute, Rayleigh nodded toward the horizon. "Current’s about to split."

Callie turned and saw it—two slow streams parting, each heading its own way like they had their own destinations in mind.

"Guess we’re not going the same way," she said.

"Seems not."

"Hey, Mister Rayleigh?"

"Hm?"

"Thanks for stopping to chat. It’s kinda lonely out here, sometimes. Even with Skipper."

He gave her a half-smile. "It was my pleasure, Callie. Meetings like this—brief as they are—can mean a lot."

"Think we’ll run into each other again?"

Rayleigh looked up at her flag one more time. "If you keep following the Sea, I’d say there’s a good chance."

The currents began to tug them gently apart, one boat drifting east, the other west.

"Good luck out there, Mister Rayleigh," Callie called.

"And to you, Callie of the Sea," Rayleigh replied, raising a hand in farewell.

She stood at Skipper’s edge and watched his silhouette grow smaller, the bright sky painting him in gold as the wind shifted again.

Then she turned, eyes gleaming as turned to face her own horizon. The Sea had other places to take her.

Her new flag fluttered in the wind, echoing her heartbeat and the rise of the waves.

Chapter Text

The port city of Galdbrant was loud, vibrant, and teeming with life—a typical trading hub nestled in the outskirts of the New World. Ships rocked gently against the docks, their sails and flags fluttering in the morning breeze.

Chief-of-Staff Sabo stood at the edge of one such pier, his gloved hands in his coat pockets, golden eyes scanning the crowd for any sign of the strange figure he was supposed to investigate.

He hadn't been given much to go on. Just whispers, rumors. A barefoot girl who roamed the sea alone in a boat that shouldn't float. She paid in pearls and old coins, they said. She tamed sea creatures. She didn’t fly a pirate flag, nor a Marine one—just a symbol no one recognized: waves in a circle, in white, black, and blue.

A “true child of the sea,” some had taken to calling her.

At first, he thought it was all exaggerated—tales spun by bored sailors or charmed merchants. But Dragon had asked him to look into it. Personally. That alone was reason enough to take it seriously.

He’d landed here three hours ago, had spoken with a few vendors and a pair of shipwrights, all of whom had seen something—or someone—unusual, and seemingly matching the description he’d been given. But before he could pick up the trail again, a sharp shout from a little further down the docks drew his attention.

"She's back again!" a little boy yelled excitedly. "Over there—look at that!"

A crowd had gathered at the main dock. Sabo moved toward them, weaving through the bodies until he found himself observing a rather unusual and somewhat ludicrous spectacle—it was so out of pocket, it was enough to startle a laugh out of him. A girl was riding two dolphins like they were surfboards, barefoot and balanced with the ease of someone who’d done it a hundred times. Her arms were spread wide, her laughter ringing out over the waves, and the dolphins cut through the water in perfect harmony. She wore a loose shirt and mismatched shorts, her hair whipping around her face but still held back by a colorful pink and orange scarf.

There really was no mistaking it.

“This has got to be her,” he murmured to himself.

She didn’t look dangerous, but neither did she look ordinary. There was something almost otherworldly about her presence, like she belonged to the sea more than she ever could to land. He understood better why it had been so difficult for others to describe her, now. He took a few steps forward to get a better look as she looped around toward the dock.

“She’s coming in fast,” someone said beside him.

“Really fast,” echoed a woman nearby.

“Really, really fast!” exclaimed happily a little girl.

Too fast. Way too fast.

The dolphins let out synchronized chirps and suddenly stopped short.

The girl did not.

Her momentum launched her into the air like a cannonball.

“Whoa—HEY!” she shouted mid-air, twisting awkwardly in an attempt to brace her landing.

Sabo had time to blink once before she crashed into him.

They hit the ground in a tangle of limbs, the impact jarring his skull hard against the wooden dock. Stars exploded behind his eyes. Someone in the crowd groaned audibly at the sight of the violent impact, and shadows edged in Sabo’s vision.

“Ah, I’m sorry!” the girl groaned, half-sprawled on top of him. “Are you okay?! That was supposed to be a cool landing... but the dolphins bailed early—”

Sabo sat up. Or tried to. A sharp pain pulsed at the back of his head, and he brought a hand up instinctively. But the pain was nothing compared to what followed.

Memories.

They came rushing in like a tidal wave, with no filter, no mercy. A boy with freckles, another with a straw hat. Firelight and fists. Oaths and shared dreams. A cliffside and a cup. A burning ship.

A promise to never die.

Ace... Luffy...

He clutched his head, gasping as images poured through his mind in vivid, breathtaking clarity. He remembered laughing with them. Fighting beside them. Running, hiding, planning their futures together.

He finally remembered who he was.

Tears streamed down his cheeks before he even realized he was crying. He looked at the girl—this barefoot, reckless, sea-loving girl—and in that moment, he realize she was the catalyst for his entire identity snapping back into place, after so many years of chasing ghosts and shadows.

The girl only looked concerned. “Are you—uh... are you crying? I’m sorry—I just... I didn’t mean to crash into you, I really didn’t mean to hurt you,” she said, clearly unsure of how to handle the emotional turn.

Sabo laughed, wiping his face even as more tears came. Instead of answering, he pulled her into a sudden, tight hug.

“Thank you,” he whispered into her shoulder.

Her hands hovered in the air before she cautiously patted his back. “...You’re welcome?”

He pulled back, beaming through the tears. “I’ve got to go.”

“Wait—what? Where are you going?! Let me at least apologize!”

“I’ve got to go find my brothers,” he said, still grinning. “I remember them now. I remember everything!”

Her mouth fell open in confusion. “You—what? Brothers?”

He didn’t stick around to explain. He shot to his feet, barely registering the murmurs of the crowd around them, some even questioning if the blow to his head had somehow made him lose his marbles. The world around him felt sharper, more vibrant.

He was himself again.

For the first time in years, he felt complete.

He waved at her as he ran off down the dock. “Thank you again, Sea Girl! You’re amazing!”

“That’s not my name!!” she called after him, hands on her hips—but she was smiling. “I’m Calypso! And, huh, glad I could help, I guess!”

Sabo laughed again, tucking away her name in the back of his mind, but it didn’t really matter right now. He ran, weaving through the market and back toward his ship, heart thundering in his chest with one goal in mind:

He had to find Luffy and Ace.

He had to go home.

Chapter Text

The afternoon sun bathed the New World’s waters in a golden hue, and Callie lay sprawled across the deck of her boat, enjoying a well-deserved nap. The gentle rocking of the sea and the warmth of the sun had lulled her into a peaceful slumber.​

Her rest was abruptly interrupted by the cacophony of shouting, clashing steel, and the thunderous roar of cannons.

Startled, Callie sat up, her eyes scanning the horizon. Not far from her position, a merchant ship was under siege. Three pirate vessels had surrounded it—two flanking the merchant ship, while the third lingered at a distance, cutting off any potential escape.​

Callie’s brow furrowed. Being a merchant in the New World was perilous enough without opportunistic pirates exacerbating the danger. The Sea was for everyone, after all, and pirates didn’t have to make everyone else’s life more difficult just because they felt like it. So, without hesitation, she grabbed her trident—she’d become much better at wielding it since she got those tips from Yasopp—and prepared to intervene.​

With a whispered word and a subtle gesture, the Sea responded. A wave rose beneath her, lifting Skipper and propelling it toward the embattled ships. As she approached, she leapt from her boat, landing gracefully on the deck of the nearest pirate ship.​ The pirates turned, their expressions shifting from surprise to amusement at the sight of a barefoot girl challenging them.

Their laughter was short-lived as she viciously empaled the first who tried to attack her.

Callie moved with the fluidity of the ocean itself. Her trident danced through the air, deflecting blades and disarming foes with precision. She struck with the force of crashing waves, each movement deliberate and powerful.

Within moments, the deck was littered with incapacitated or dying pirates.​

She wasted no time, leaping to the next ship. The pirates there, having witnessed the swift defeat of their comrades, hesitated. Calypso offered them a chance to surrender—it was only fair. Some dropped their weapons and gave up, others attempted to fight. Those who resisted met the same fate as the first crew, and she sent the remaining ones on their way.

As she prepared to address the third ship, cannonballs whistled through the air, narrowly missing her. Now a bit annoyed, Callie let out a sharp, piercing whistle. The sea around the furthest pirate ship began to churn violently. Moments later, a colossal Sea King emerged, its massive form dwarfing the ship. With a swift motion, it wrapped itself around the bow of the ship and dragged the vessel beneath the waves.

The few pirates she’d let escape doubled their efforts to run away as fast as possible. The sailors she’d rescue watched in stunned silence as Calypso returned on their ship, the Sea King doing a few playful flips in the water as she waved it goodbye and thanked it for its help. Once it was gone, Callie turned to the sailors, a cheerful smile on her face.

“Anything else I can help with?” she asked.​

The man who seemed to be the Captain stepped forward, obviously still processing daring rescue and the unexpected support of the Sea King. He was sweating a bit as he came to stand before her.

“Thank you for saving us,” he said, nervous, but his voice filled with gratitude. “Would you consider escorting us to our destination? We can offer fair payment for your services.”​

Callie laughed, shaking her head. “No need for payment, really. But if you have a barrel of fresh water and some fruits to spare, I’d be grateful.”

The captain nodded, a smile breaking across his face. “Of course, whatever you need. Thank you, miss.”

With a small bounce in her step, Callie returned to Skipper, ready to guide the merchant ship safely through the treacherous waters of the New World. She didn’t make a habit of escorting ships to their destination, but she couldn’t help but feel curious—one merchant ship getting ambushed by a small fleet?

Whatever they were carrying, it ought to be interesting!

Chapter Text

Callie was sweating, and not because of the heat.

She didn’t get nervous very often. She spent most of her days under the sun, barefoot on the deck of a boat that barely floated, hair tangled by sea breezes and salted mist. She had faced storms and pirates and tamed Sea Kings and fought pirates, and rarely had she ever felt anything even remotely close to panic, saved for when she first landed in this world.

But now?

Now, she stood on a dock of gingerbread and spun sugar, in the shadow of candy canes thicker than tree trunks, and she was sweating.

“This can’t be right,” she muttered under her breath. “This definitely can’t be right.”

Behind her, the merchant captain was happily shouting orders to his crew, clearly relieved to have made it to port alive and intact. His delivery had already been snatched up by a parade of homies—animated teacups and grinning lollipops and cinnamon bun golems marching it toward the center of the island.

Callie had figured something was off the moment she saw the clouds starting to smile, but she’d been too curious to ignore it, then.

But it was too late now. The Sea had seen fit to bring her here, and then, when she'd attempted to quietly slink away, the Sea had taken her boat. Just like that. A wave crested out of nowhere, curled around Skipper like an affectionate sea serpent, and swept it out to deeper waters before she could make her escape.

“Traitor,” Callie had whispered after it.

Now, she stood flanked by two of Big Mom’s soldiers—towering brutes in feathered caps, with rifles slung over their shoulders and wary eyes on the barefoot girl who walked like she didn’t belong but acted like she did.

“You’ve been invited,” one said, full of disdain and awe at the same time. “By the Queen herself, to attend a tea party.”

And Callie knew how invitations worked around here. Declining one wouldn’t end well for her. And most importantly, until the Sea saw fit to return Skipper to her, she was stuck.

So now she walked, head held high, through the twisting candy-colored streets of Totto Land’s capital. The homies whispered as she passed. Some called her brave. Others, foolish.

She just kept walking.

The smells were intoxicating. Toasted marshmallow drifting in from a neighboring island, licorice and honeycomb lining the alleys, even the bricks looked like they could be bitten into. If Callie hadn’t already known where she was, she might have thought she’d washed up in some kind of whimsical dream world.

Instead, she was walking into the heart of a Yonko’s domain.

“You alright?” one of the soldiers asked, finally breaking the silence. He looked down at her skeptically. “You look pale.”

“Just wondering if your Queen prefers her snacks salted or sweet,” Callie said, managing a grin. “Seeing as I might be added to the dessert tray.”

The soldier chuckled, though the other didn't. “You saved one of her precious shipments. She won’t forget that. You’ll be fine.”

“I mean, I didn’t know it was hers when I helped.”

“She knows that,” the other one grunted. “But the Queen’s gratitude is rare, so be careful with what you say and you’ll be just fine.”

Like I have a choice, Callie thought bitterly.

They crossed a candy bridge, passing under a licorice archway into the courtyard of an enormous castle, a baroque monstrosity with walls that oozed frosting, and a roof tiled in chocolate bars. The air was heavier here. The ground, sticky. The very walls seemed to hum with life.

Callie’s steps slowed.

She could still feel the pulse of the Sea now, but it was distant and muffled. She didn’t like that. She was landlocked, trapped. She couldn’t leave even if she wanted to.

A pair of enormous, armored doors loomed before her. They looked like they were made of caramel, but she could tell they were hard as steel.

One of the guards stepped forward and knocked twice.

Callie took a deep breath.

The doors creaked open.

Inside was a grand hall that looked like it had been dreamed up by a sugar-obsessed child—dozens of plush, pastry-shaped chairs, a carpet made of ribbon candy, and a throne carved from layered cakes and topped with whipped cream. And on that throne, reclining lazily, was Charlotte Linlin herself.

Big Mom.

She was even bigger than Callie had imagined, a mountain of muscle and fat and power wrapped in a pink polka-dotted dress. Her hair was wild and wavy, her eyes sharp as knives. Her laugh rumbled through the hall like a landslide.

“Ma-ma-ma~! So you’re the one who saved my shipment!”

Callie stopped a few feet into the room. She didn’t bow, nor did she kneel.

But she did offer a short nod, and managed to muster a smile.

“I am. Hello.”

Big Mom’s voice was oddly… delighted. “A little girl with a trident twice her size, cutting down pirates like she was swatting flies. I heard you called upon a Sea King, too, and that it obeyed you. That all true?”

“Yes,” Callie said. “They were hurting people, and that didn’t sit right with me. But the Sea King only answered because it wanted to—I can’t outright control them.”

“Hoh?” Big Mom leaned forward. “And you just happened to be there? Perfect place, perfect time, some would call it. How very convenient for you, yes?”

Callie smiled, though her shoulders tensed. More like wrong place, wrong time, lady. “The Sea brings me where I need to be.”

Big Mom grinned wide. “The Sea, huh? Hahaha! What a funny little thing you are!”

Callie didn’t respond. She wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or not.

“I like you,” Big Mom finally stated. “You’ve got guts. And manners. And you didn’t steal anything. That’s rare around here.”

“I do try to be polite,” Callie mused. “And I’ve no reason to steal. It isn’t right, and the Sea provides what I need.”

The Yonko laughed again, a booming, belly-shaking sound. “You will have tea with me! Yes, yes, I insist! Tea and sweets. You’ll join me as a guest of the Charlotte Family.”

Callie hesitated. Her first instinct was to decline, but again, she felt it—that tug in the back of her mind, the whisper of waves beyond the walls.

It wasn’t time to leave yet.

So, she nodded. “Alright.”

“Excellent!” Big Mom clapped her enormous hands. “You can tell me all about the Sea’s whispers, and I’ll feed you the best cake in the world!”

Callie gave her a crooked smile. “Sounds fair.”

She had no idea how this would end, but she knew one thing:

If the Sea brought her here, there was a reason.

And she'd find it—before it swept her away again.

The tea party was absurd—that was Callie’s first thought as she took her seat at the central table beside the towering, smiling monolith that was Charlotte Linlin.

There was a full orchestra of anthropomorphic instruments playing upbeat music in the corner. The tables were covered in lace and stacked with towers of colorful sweets—macarons the size of her head, glittering cupcakes, and teapots that giggled when poured. The chairs squeaked like delighted mice. The whole thing looked like something out of a fever dream, dipped in sugar.

She now understood better how Alice felt when she’d stumbled into Wonderland.

And every person—no, every monster in the room—was staring at her.

She resisted the urge to sink into her chair. Everyone here was so tall. Like, absurdly tall. Even Chiffon, the shortest of the group, had several heads on her. Smoothie was terrifyingly elegant, with her blade never more than a foot away. Oven looked like he could punch through a mountain. Brûlée’s grin made Callie instinctively keep her trident at her side. Perospero’s long tongue and candy cane outfit gave him a rather grotesque air, while Praline floated nearby in a tank filled with saltwater, swishing her tail lazily.

And then there was Katakuri. The man exuded menace. He stood silently, arms folded, towering over the rest with his mouth hidden behind that signature scarf. His eyes were locked onto Callie like he was trying to figure out what kind of creature she was, exactly, and if she posed a threat.

She simply grinned, waving awkwardly as they all eyed her with varying degrees of disinterest or suspicion.

Big Mom laughed, her voice like thunder. “You lot were worried about the little pests scraping at our borders? No need! Our guest here cleaned them up before they could cause even more of a stir!”

Perospero blinked, clearly not expecting this. “Mama, this little girl—she handled the Razor Pirates alone?”

“I didn’t say she did it alone,” Big Mom said slyly, giving Callie a sidelong glance. “But I didn’t say she didn’t either.”

Callie shifted in her chair, letting out a soft snort. “I had help,” she muttered. “The Sea’s got my back.”

A few of the siblings arched brows. Brûlée narrowed her eyes. “The Sea?”

“It listens,” Callie replied, shrugging. “Sometimes.”

That only made the group more curious, or more dubious.

Smoothie tilted her head. “You speak as though it’s a living thing.”

Callie reached for a biscuit, chewing thoughtfully. “I mean, it is. You ought to know that much—you’re pretty powerful pirates, after all.”

Big Mom laughed again, delighted. “Ma-ma-ma~! She’s got spunk! Hah!”

With that, the tension eased, at least partially. Conversations broke off into smaller clusters. Brûlée joined Chiffon and Oven at a side table. Praline and Smoothie shared a tank-side tea tray, chatting idly. Katakuri remained still, but Callie could tell his attention hadn't wandered far.

Then there was Pudding.

The young girl sat across from Callie at the central table, her teacup poised neatly in her hands. “I heard you called upon a Sea King! Can you really control them?”

Callie grinned, grateful for someone her size and almost her age—she was two years younger than her, still. “It’s not control—it’s a mutually beneficial partnership. We trade favors, and they like me enough not to eat me when that get a little hungry, that’s all.

Pudding only seemed more in awe. “And you’re traveling alone?”

“Not exactly. I’ve got Skipper,” Callie replied. “My boat.”

“Skipper? Is it a good boat, then?”

“Sure is,” Callie said proudly. “She’s a little worn down, but she’s perfect.”

Pudding leaned in, fascinated. “Why are you traveling, then? Where are you going?”

Callie hesitated, then gave a half-smile. “Looking for answers, I guess. Maybe just trying to see if there’s a place for someone like me.”

Pudding’s beamed at that. “There’s always a place for everyone! I mean, I think. But people here come from everywhere, and they’re very happy!”

It was oddly comforting, chatting with her. Despite her lineage, Pudding felt... normal. Human. It was a small island of calm in the surreal chaos of the tea party. And of course, she was very much still a child, but it felt different to be given such an innocent perspective of Totto Land.

From the other end of the table, Perospero suddenly scoffed, his voice becoming a bit louder—they’d obviously been talking about her this whole time. “She doesn’t look like much, Mama. A girl with no flag, no crew—”

“She has a flag,” Big Mom interrupted, lifting her teacup. Her eyes met Calypso’s, and the girl startled a bit at getting caught eavesdropping. “Tell him, darlin’.”

Callie hesitated for only a second. “It’s the flag of the Sea.”

A silence fell.

“Not pirate. Not Marine,” she said, more confidently this time. “Just the Sea.”

Oven raised a brow. “That’s not a real flag.”

“It is because I made it. I didn’t want to pick a side, so I made my own. That’s all.”

Big Mom, unlike most of her children, seemed rather pleased by her answer, and even a bit impressed. She just smiled wide, showing too many teeth. “Smart girl.”

The tea party moved on.

Calypso chatted with Chiffon about life in Totto Land, and exchanged a few jokes with Brûlée, who seemed marginally less suspicious after hearing more of Callie’s stories. Praline, curious, asked more questions about Calypso’s peculiar relationship with Sea Kings—even Fishmen couldn’t maintain that kind of relationship, after all. At one point, Big Mom directly offered Callie a mountain of sweets as thanks, and Callie, trying not to choke on the pressure, kindly accepted a single candied fruit stick instead. That seemed to please Linlin even more.

Eventually, though, the party began to wind down. The Charlotte siblings dispersed one by one, and Calypso figured it was about time she took her leave, too. After bidding goodbye to a slightly disappointed Pudding, who waved as she started making for the doors—

“Now, now, where do you think you’re going, my dear?”

Callie winced and stopped in her tracks, slowly turning around. “Uh... heading out?”

Big Mom tutted. “The sun’s already setting, and you’ve been such a delightful guest! I wouldn’t dream of sending you back out into the sea so late.”

Callie blinked. “I’ll be okay, really—”

“Nonsense!” Big Mom waved a hand. “You’ll stay the night. Have breakfast with me in the morning. You can stay with Pudding for now.”

Callie opened her mouth to protest—then frowned when she failed to sense the familiar pull and tug in her heart. The Sea wasn’t letting her leave just yet and she now instantly that, if she were to go back to shore right now, Skipper still wouldn’t be there. So, she plastered on a smile.

“Alright. Thank you for your hospitality.”

Pudding, who’d been about to leave, beamed happily as she grabbed her hand. “I’ll show you to my room—we can have a sleepover!!!”

“Sure,” Callie said, laughing softly. “Why not. Looks like the Sea’s decided I’m grounded for now, anyways.”

Big Mom laughed heartily. “Good! Then I’ll see you bright and early for breakfast!”

Callie gave another slightly forced smile as she followed Pudding further inside the candy palace. At this point, one night wouldn’t do much harm.

Probably.

Chapter Text

The breakfast spread was just as wild as the tea party had been.

Candied bacon curled like ribbon beside fried eggs with smiling yolks. Towering stacks of pancakes dripped syrup that giggled when poured, while talking teapots grumbled sleepily about the early hour. Calypso sat cross-legged on a tall, padded chair that felt more like a throne than a seat, picking at a croissant stuffed with at least three kinds of chocolate.

Across from her sat Big Mom herself, beaming in her pastel morning gown, eyes gleaming with something more than just amusement.

And for the first time, Callie felt the pressure in the room shift.

“Oh, don’t look so stiff, dear,” Big Mom said sweetly, pouring herself a steaming cup of cinnamon coffee. “You’re all but part of the family now, after all!"

Callie blinked. “Uh. Thanks, but… I was actually planning to head out after this.”

Big Mom didn’t respond immediately. She took a slow sip, her enormous eyes never leaving Callie’s face.

“Oh, but why rush?” she said at last, tone light and honeyed. “You’ve only just arrived, and we’ve all so enjoyed your company. Why, just last night Pudding couldn’t stop chattering about how nice it was to finally have someone her age around. Isn’t that sweet?”

Callie hesitated. She had liked spending time with Pudding. The sleepover had been a blur of giggling in the dark, pillow tossing, and swapping travel stories—Pudding’s exaggerated recounting of Totto Land’s drama, and Calypso’s fantastical tales of giant sea turtles and rain that fell upward for two days straight.

It had felt… nice. Like finding a piece of something she didn’t know she’d lost.

But that didn’t mean she was planning to stay.

Big Mom didn’t stop. “And Katakuri, my dear Katakuri—did you know he wields a trident too?” She clapped her hands, and a servant wheeled in a portrait of her son mid-fight. Does she just have a bunch of those lying around? “He’s so talented. Imagine what you could learn from him. You could spar!”

Callie squinted at the portrait. “Uh-huh.”

“And Perospero,” Big Mom continued smoothly, spreading strawberry jam over a scone with her massive fingers, “is preparing a lovely surprise for you. I won’t spoil it, but he does like his candy sculptures. Oh, and Smoothie kindly volunteered to show you all around Totto Land, too—”  

Callie frowned slightly. “Look, this has been great, but I really—”

“—and of course, there’s Pudding,” Big Mom cut in, voice dropping just a note. “She’s so happy to finally have a friend. My older children are so busy these days, you know, so she never gets to spend much time with her siblings. It gets awfully quiet for her. Don’t you think it’s sad? Always the little sister. Always waiting for someone to talk to.”

Callie felt it then. The shift. The words weren’t just pleasant now—they were angled.

Manipulation came in many forms. Screaming, force, threat. But it could also come like this: a slow layering of guilt, compliments, and emotional obligations, sugar-coated so thickly you almost didn’t notice.

Almost.

Callie leaned back, crossing her arms. “You trying to guilt-trip me, ma'am?”

Big Mom smiled wide. “I’m inviting you to consider your options.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then I’d be terribly sad,” Big Mom said, her voice still chipper, but her eyes sharp now. “But the Sea doesn’t seem in a hurry to let you leave anyway, does it?”

Callie’s gaze flicked toward the balcony window, where the ocean sparkled beyond candy-tiled rooftops. Her boat hadn’t returned. Not since last night. The tide hadn’t shifted.

Of course it hadn’t.

She swallowed. “I’m not... part of this place. I don’t belong here.”

“Darlin', none of my people ‘belonged’ here at first. But now they do.” Big Mom reached forward, plucking a sugar star from a dish. “I have a dream, you see. Totto Land, a paradise for all races. Where everyone can live without fear. That can include you, can’t it?”

Callie hesitated. Made to say something, but eventually swallowed back her words.

“You said yesterday that you didn’t pick sides,” Big Mom murmured, her voice soft now, almost maternal. “But my side? My side is the world I’m building. Where there’s a place for everyone. Isn’t that a dream worth staying for?”

Callie looked down at her plate. Her croissant had grown cold.

“I do admire your dream,” she said after a long pause, quietly. “A world without war. Where people who are different don’t have to keep running or hiding. Where everyone is equal. I really… I really do admire that.”

Big Mom beamed. “Then you understand!”

Callie met her gaze. “But your dream… it’s not always clean, is it?”

The smile didn’t fade, but it didn’t grow either.

“I’ve done what I had to,” Big Mom said. “To keep Totto Land safe.”

Calypso knew there and then that saying anything more on the subject wouldn’t do her any favors, so she decided to switch subjects altogether.

“I’m not going to stay forever,” she simply warned. “But I would like to see the home you’ve created for everyone, if you’re willing to let me.”

Big Mom’s smile promptly returned at that. “Ma-ma-ma~! Of course, you can stay for as long as you like. We can have breakfast together, and Pudding can keep on hosting you—it’s good practice for when she’ll get her own island. And all of my children will take good care of you, you’ll see—I’m sure you’ll absolutely love it here.”

Callie didn’t answer right away.

She thought about the Sea, about how it had swept her boat away, just as she was about to make her exit. She thought about Pudding’s eyes lighting up when she offered to braid her hair, last night. She thought about the silence that usually followed her when she left a port—rarely was someone there to see her off or try to make her stay.

“Alright,” she said finally, standing from the chair. “Let’s call it a deal, then.”

Big Mom clapped her hands in delight, her laugh booming off the walls. “Marvelous! Oh, my children will be very happy, yes!”

Big Mom grinned like the cat that got the cream as she kept on talking about all of the activities Calypso had to try out and all of the places she had to see. Slightly tuning her out, Calypso subtly glanced back to the window.

The Sea wanted her to find something.

She just had to figure out what.

If there was one thing Katakuri hated more than liars, it was disruptions.

He maintained order—within his body, his schedule, and his family’s protection. So when Mama brought home a new “guest of honor” and ordered everyone to make her feel welcome, he’d felt the disruption like a stone dropped into still water.

Ripples. Chaos. Unnecessary.

A human girl, no less. Barefoot. Hair tangled by the sea breeze. Trident slung over her back like she had any right to wield it.

He didn’t get it. He could crush her with a flick of his finger, if he wanted to.

He didn’t, of course. He had better things to do.

Still, he watched. From a distance.

It was a bit difficult to keep an eye on her—she was always moving. A flash of unending energy weaving between the sugary towers of Totto Land, smiling all too widely in the face of the unknown, and much too casual and unafraid for someone directly under Big Mom’s watch. Mama had taken a liking to her quickly—too quickly. Katakuri had seen it before. That dangerous fascination. That particular edge in Mama’s voice when she’d found something—or someone—new to fixate on.

So he watched her. For the family’s sake.

Because it was his job to protect them, and he didn’t trust Calypso one bit.

The first test came with Perospero.

Katakuri had been present when his eldest brother approached Calypso with his usual theatrics. Cane clicking against the ground, candy-coated smirk dripping with charm and calculation.

“A sweet little guest like you must have a sweet little thank-you coming her way,” Perospero had said, conjuring a spiral of caramel and molding it into a perfect model of her sorry-looking raft.

To Katakuri’s surprise, Calypso hadn’t flinched. He knew most regular people found Perospero a bit… creepy. Hell, even he wasn’t always comfortable with him around. But Calypso just laughed, visibly delighted.

“It’s wonderful! How did you get the details so accurately? You’re very talented!”

Perospero’s grin grew a little sharper. To most, it would seem threatening and vicious, but Katakuri knew his brother was actually pleased—he’d always taken pride in his more artistic side.

Next was Oven.

He’d tested her resolve with heat—standing just a little too close, the air shimmering around him as he asked if she was ready to be scorched by Totto Land’s standards. A barely veiled threat. Another test—obviously, Katakuri wasn’t the only one who didn’t trust her.

Katakuri watched her just square her shoulders and look Oven in the eyes.

“I’ve been living under the sun of the New World for months,” she’d said with a half-grin and an almost teasing tone. “Standing next to you feels more like being in a sauna than getting burned alive. Oh, also Pudding told me you're a big football fan! Wanna play a game?"

She wasn’t afraid. Not of Perospero, not of Oven, not even of Mama.

Foolish or brave—Katakuri wasn’t sure which.

Smoothie had a friendlier nature, on the surface. She was mostly carefree, though still dutiful. And she had a bit of a cruel streak, too. She liked the cute girls the most, liked to literally squeeze the life out of them and laugh as the pleas died on their dried-out lips.

But Katakuri had seen something rare when Smoothie and Calypso hunt out.

Softness.

Not in Smoothie’s words, per se, but in the way she didn’t brush the girl off when she asked her questions. In the way she didn’t look like she wanted to outright kill her for her endless chatter, like she usually did her more foolish subordinates. In the way her façade of pleasantness seemed just a bit too genuine to actually be faked. At some point, Calypso cracked a joke Katakuri didn’t hear. And Smoothie smiled—barely—but Katakuri caught it. It was the kind of smile that grew a little scarcer as his sister grew older, the kind of smile only a rare few in their family had seen before.

There was something wrong with Calypso.

What was it that made even his most hardened siblings drop their guards?

Praline had immediately taken to Calypso. Both sea-bound, both straddling two worlds, it seemed. Katakuri wasn’t as surprised by that one. Chiffon had welcomed her like family—she’d always had a fondness for children, and she’d always been the softest one. So, again, not much of a surprise there, either.

And Pudding...

Well, Pudding had positively lit up. Katakuri hadn’t seen her that happy since—no, he couldn’t remember her ever looking that relaxed. The two girls spent their evenings talking, giggling, throwing sugar cubes at each other during tea. They whispered endlessly to each other, privy to secrets they’d never share with anyone else.

It should have been annoying. Distracting.

But Pudding was smiling. And that mattered.

So, Katakuri still watched.

He still didn’t get it.

It had been a quiet morning. Calypso had gone off somewhere and Katakuri had decided to let up on his mission of observation for a bit. He’d taken a rare moment of peace by the veranda. The sun was bright, the sea was calm, and he needed a moment to just be.

Until, through the branches of a candied tree, he saw them.

Brûlée was sitting on the edge of a caramel bench, clutching her shawl. Shoulders hunched, voice low. Calypso was next to her. Cross-legged, barefoot, her trident set aside like a discarded accessory rather than a lethal weapon, her attention entirely on Brûlée. He couldn’t hear all of it, not from where he stood, but he heard enough.

“—don’t care what they said. I think your powers are amazing,” Calypso was saying, voice gentle. “And I think your reflection trick? Super creepy, sure, but also super cool!”

Brûlée mumbled something, too soft for him to hear.

Then Calypso laughed—a soft, warm sound.

“You know what I saw the first time I looked at you?” she asked. “A survivor. Someone who still smiles even when the world keeps calling her names. That’s pretty awesome, and you’re exactly that—pretty and awesome.”

Brûlée shifted. Her hair covered her face, but Katakuri could see the tension ease from her shoulders.

“And,” Calypso added, leaning in like she was sharing a secret, “you’ve got the coolest scar in the world. I mean it. You look like a pirate queen!”

Brûlée snorted. Actually snorted. A sound that was more emotion than Katakuri had witnessed from her in weeks, nay, months.

Calypso grinned, satisfied.

And something in Katakuri clicked.

It wasn’t strength she wielded—it was presence.

She didn’t impress people. She didn’t command them.

She saw them.

All of them.

Even the parts they tried to hide.

That’s what Mama had noticed. That’s what the others had responded to.

She hadn’t tried to make herself important—she made them feel like they were.

Katakuri didn’t say anything when she passed him later that day. She was walking with Pudding, trident slung over her back, talking about flavors she’d never tasted before. She paused when she noticed him. Gave him a small wave and a friendly smile.

He gave her a curt nod back, nothing more. But something had shifted.

She was still a disruption. Still unpredictable. Still a human girl with no real sense of the dangers of this world.

But now, he saw something else. A spark. Something dangerous in a different way. Not because she was strong—but because she made others want to be stronger.

Because she made Brûlée smile.

Because she made his family feel seen.

Katakuri didn’t trust easily. But now?

Now he understood why the Sea kept her afloat.

And maybe, just maybe, he understood a little better why the tides of Fate brought her to them.

Chapter Text

It had been nearly a month since Calypso first washed up in Totto Land, now. She’d never stayed for so long in a single place before, not since she'd come to this world—not since the Sea had taken her in, carried her on its back, and taught her to move with the current rather than against it.

But lately, she had started to feel... wrong. Not unhappy, no. She liked it here. She'd grown close to Pudding. She respected Katakuri, in his stoic and silent way. She’d shared meals with Smoothie, traded sea-songs with Praline, laughed with Chiffon and dodged caramel traps with Perospero. Even Brûlée, with all her bitterness and insecurities, had let Calypso in, if just a little bit. And Big Mom had shown her more attention and care than Calypso had ever known from a mother figure.

It was twisted, maybe, but it had its warmth.

Still, something churned in her chest.

The Sea was calling again.

She felt it in the restless way her feet paced the halls of Chocolate Town. In the way her eyes kept drifting to the horizon. In how her thoughts wandered even in the middle of conversations. She didn't sleep much that last week. And when she did, her dreams were filled with salt spray and sunrises, wild currents and Sea Kings gliding through the depths. It was the Sea, whispering to her again.

Tonight, she’d almost left.

She'd crept out of Pudding's room, trident strapped to her back, and had found Skipper bobbing quietly at the edge of the harbor. But her hand froze on the dock line.

Running away felt wrong. Dishonest. Cowardly.

So she’d returned to bed, but she knew the time had come.

In the morning, she got up early, tied her windswept hair back with a piece of coral string, and dressed simply. She walked straight to Big Mom's palace, alone, ignoring the way her heart twisted with every step. The guards let her in without question. She suspected Big Mom already knew why she’d come, as she always seemed to know everything that happened in her kingdom. She found the Yonko in her candy-throned chamber, surrounded by her ever-present sweets and giggling homies. Big Mom regarded her with slightly narrowed eyes, not surprised in the slightest, but appearing displeased, still.

"You're leaving," she said simply.

Calypso nodded. "Yes, ma'am. Within the hour."

A tense silence stretched between them.

Then Big Mom sighed—a deep, disappointed exhale. "You're restless. Like the Sea you came from."

"Yes. It’s time for me to go.”

Big Mom shifted in her throne, eyeing Calypso as one might a treasured possession slipping through their fingers.

"I gave you safety. Food and shelter. My children like you. Even Katakuri has stopped scowling as much. You have brought much to this family.”

Calypso's lips twitched. "I noticed. Thank you, for all of it. Truly."

"Then why leave?" Big Mom insisted, leaning forward. "Stay. You belong here. You could have a future here. Friends. Sisters. A mother who loves you.” The air thickened. The sweetness in her voice turned heavy with threats coated in honey. "You don't have to go back to that lonely sea."

Calypso felt the pull of it—the ache for what she'd always wanted. But she shook her head.

"It was never about what I wanted," she said softly. "The Sea carried me here for a reason. And now it's carrying me on again. I don't know why. I just know I have to go."

Big Mom's expression darkened. The temperature in the room dropped.

"I could make you stay," she said, voice low and dangerous. "What if I don't let you leave? What if I don’t want you to go?”

Calypso didn't even flinch. She just smiled, albeit a little sadly.

"You know, for the longest time, I wished for someone to say those words to me. Just once. So thank you, ma'am. If anything, I’m sorry I moved on from that dream before meeting you and your family.”

Big Mom stared at her. Menacing. Immense.

Then, slowly, she leaned back and grinned.

"Fine, go if you must. But when you come back, it won't be so easy to leave again,” she warned, sounding all too happy about it. “And call me Mama, would you? Ma’am is for strangers, and we’re not strangers anymore.”

Calypso laughed through the sting in her eyes. "Thank you, Mama."

She left quickly, before the weight of her choice made her falter. She returned to Pudding's room, expecting to pack in a rush—but found everything already folded neatly in a satchel by the door. Pudding was waiting beside it, eyes red-rimmed but dry.

"You knew?" blinked Callie, surprised.

"Of course, dummy," Pudding said, punching her lightly in the arm. "I might be younger than you, but that doesn’t make me stupid. You haven’t stopped staring out the window for a week."

“Sorry.”

That was that. They walked to the harbor in silence, and Pudding held her hand the whole time, her grip tightening as they reached their destination.

What Calypso hadn't expected, however—what almost shattered her there and then—was that the others were there. All of them.

Perospero, whistling low and pretending he wasn't upset. Oven, arms crossed, and eyes narrowed, but nodding when their eye met. Smoothie, who ruffled her hair and made her promise to come back around. Praline and Chiffon both wrapped her in tearful hugs. Even Katakuri was there, silent in the back, arms folded but watching. Always watching.

And Brûlée was crying. And then Pudding started crying, too.

"Stop crying or you'll make me cry!" Calypso wailed, voice cracking.

Too late. Her tears spilled down her cheeks as she burned their faces into her mind. As she promised to return. As she promised not to disappear forever.

And then she climbed aboard Skipper.

The boat had been cleaned. A new patch sewn into the sails. A small basket of sweets tucked beside the mast. She inhaled deeply and, wide a wide smile, she waved them goodbye as a familiar roll of the waves promptly carried her off.

She waved until she couldn't see them anymore, and then it was just her and the Sea beneath her feet again. Familiar. Welcoming. She breathed in the salt air, let the breeze tousle her hair, and for the first time in a month—for the first time in far too long—she felt fully alive again. The ache of farewells in her chest didn't vanish. But it transformed. It became part of her.

As she sailed away, she looked back only once, and she abruptly realized why she’d been brought there in the first place: the Sea had sent her there to show her what family could be. What love could feel like. But it had also given her the freedom to choose—dreams of yesterday or dreams of tomorrow?

She had chosen to leave.

Now, no matter where she drifted, she'd carry that sense of belonging with her. Their voices. Their warmth. Their belief in her. Their care, as twisted as it’d been sometimes. The Sea had allowed her to find the family she’d longed for so many years and, in doing so, had granted her the closure she needed in order to fully give herself to this new life.

One day, she'd come back. She’d promised, after all. But for now, she sailed onward.

The Sea was calling, and she was finally ready to answer with all of her heart.

Chapter Text

The sun was already warm against her skin when Calypso stirred on the sand, cheek pressed into a bed of crushed shells. Something was poking her face—relentlessly, annoyingly.

Not the Sea this time. Something with fingers.

“She dead?” a voice asked, close to her ear.

“Nah,” another voice replied. “Maybe she’s a mermaid?”

“Mermaid?” scoffed the first. “She’s not pretty enough for that.”

A snort escaped her before anything else.

“Erg, screw you too,” she muttered.

She slapped the hand poking her away and forced herself upright, blinking through sunlight and a lingering headache.

Two boys knelt beside her on the shore, both a few years older than her, maybe sixteen or seventeen. The first had messy crimson hair and a mouth set in a permanent sneer. The second had a calmer presence, blond hair falling around his face like silk, a lined mask hiding all of his face. Calypso’s eyes flicked toward the water. Skipper bobbed not too far away in the shallows, looking none the worse for wear. She vaguely remembered attempting to make it through a deadly whirlpool, so it was a relief both her and her boat had survived that peculiar adventure.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” the redhead said with mock cheer. “Though judging by that trash heap we found you unconscious on, not for long.”

She scowled. “Says the guy who’s probably never traveled half a mile past his mama’s backyard.”

The redhead blinked, then barked a laugh. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Calypso said, brushing sand from her arms. “You talk big for someone who’s never left his island. You ever even seen a Sea King up close?”

“Please,” he said, scoffing. “I could take one down easily!”

“Sure you could,” she said dryly. “It’d try to swallow you whole and it’d choke on your big fucking head.”

The blond one—Killer, she’d realize later—let out a muffled chuckle, but quickly schooled his face when the redhead turned a glare on him.

“I’m Eustass Kidd,” the redhead snapped. “And I’m gonna be the King of the Pirates. So yeah, I talk big—because I can back it up.”

Calypso gave him a flat look. “Right, and I’m Queen of the Sky.”

“You’re not from around here,” Killer said. His tone was less confrontational, more curious.

“Obviously,” Calypso replied, rising to her feet and stretching. Her joints cracked like creaking wood. “I drifted in last night, I guess. Been at sea for weeks.”

Kidd folded his arms. “Weeks? On that?”

She grinned as Skipper was brought a bit closer by the waves. “Sure. Skipper’s carried me across the whole New World!”

He squinted at her. “You’re lying.”

“Why would I lie?” she shrugged. “It’s not like I get paid to impress you.”

“You expect me to believe some brat like you—what, twelve?”

“Fourteen,” she corrected with a huff.

“Whatever, you’re still a brat. And you expect me to believe you’ve made it through the New World with a pile of driftwood and that dumb face?”

Calypso rolled her eyes. “Look, I’m not gonna get into a pissing contest with a wannabe bully. If you’re that good, you ought to take to the sea already—if you haven’t, it’s ‘cause you know, deep down, that you’re still too weak to make it, is all.”

“Fuck you! I’m not weak!!!” snapped Kidd. “I already told you: I’m gonna be King of the Pirates! So that means I’m gonna be the strongest!!!”

“And I’m gonna help him do it,” Killer added. “I know he can do it.”

Kidd’s mouth curled into a smirk as they bumped fists. “Yeah. We’re gonna be the most feared pirate in the entire world. Those dumbass civilians will cry just hearing my name, I’ll burn down whole fucking cities, I’ll—"

Calypso snorted, wholly unimpressed. “That seems pointless and overly dramatic. For a start, if you want to make people cry, you can just show them your face—”

“Oi!”

“—and why would you want to burn down cities, anyways?”

“Because I’ll be a pirate,” he said simply. “That means I can do whatever the fuck I want, and the more people are scared of me, the less they’ll try to get in my way!”

She stared at him for a long moment. Then, brow furrowed, she asked: “Even if it means hurting people who can’t fight back? People who’ve never done anything to you?”

Kidd’s jaw twitched. “That’s the point. If they’re weak, they don’t matter.”

“That’s a shit way to think,” she said bluntly.

Kidd clenched his fist. "Oh yeah?"

She didn’t back down. “If you go after people weaker than you just because you can… that doesn’t make you strong. It makes you weak, too. And cowardly, to boot. And you can’t be King of the Pirates if you’re a weakling and a coward, can you?”

For a moment, she thought he might actually hit her. His face twisted in rage, fists clenched at his sides. But then he scoffed and turned sharply, storming off without another word—apparently, he still had the decency to be above hitting little girls.

Killer watched him go, then turned back to her.

“You didn’t have to say it like that,” he said quietly.

“Maybe not,” Calypso murmured. “But someone had to. Just because you’re gonna be pirates doesn’t mean you have to be assholes.”

Killer looked at her for a long time. Then he nodded, just once.

She gave him a faint smile. “He’s lucky to have you. Watch your backs, alright?”

Without waiting for a reply, she turned and walked back toward Skipper, pushing the little boat gently back into the water.

“Hey,” Killer called after her. She paused, glancing over her shoulder. “You’ll come back this way again?”

“Maybe,” she said. “Depends on the tide, really.”

And with that, she stepped aboard, adjusted the sail, and shoved off.

Chapter Text

The sea was calm that day—eerily so. The waves rocked gently beneath Skipper's patched-together hull, the sunlight glinting off the water in brilliant shards like scattered jewels. Calypso laid on her back across the deck, one foot dangling over the side and dipping into the cool water, her arms pillowing her head. The lull of the current and the soft creak of wood usually meant peace, but today, there was tension in the air.

Something was going to happen; she could feel it in her guts.

So, when the shadow fell over her boat, she was already sitting up.

A massive warship loomed near—pristine, steel-hulled, and flying the Marine insignia. It was barreling toward her with purpose, and not the kind that involved polite conversation. Skipper shuddered slightly as the larger vessel’s wake pulled at it.

From the deck of the battleship, voices barked out orders. “Vessel, your flag is not recognized—you are to board our ship in order to identify yourself!”

Callie raised both hands lazily above her head, yawning. “Geez, alright. Don’t blow a gasket. I’m not exactly hiding cannons on this two-meter wide deck.”

A single rope was dropped, and she was instructed to tie her boat with it. Then, a ladder was lowered and whoever was barking orders demanded she climbed up, leaving all weapons behind if she had any. Rolling her eyes a bit, Calypso left her trident behind, then climbed onto the much bigger vessel. As soon as she reached the deck, she was roughly grabbed by two men in uniform and dragged further from the ladder, as if they expected her to make a run for it the moment they let their guard down.

“She’s alone, sir,” the one who’d been barking orders called out, offering a salute.

There was a pause, a lull in the air. Then, with a thud of heavy boots, a broad-shouldered figure stepped out of the shadows. He was a tall man, square-jawed, wearing a white Marine coat slung over his shoulders like a cape. His purple hair was cropped short, and his arms were huge—one dark metal gleaming where flesh had once been, crackling faintly with energy.

She knew that arm. Knew that man.

The legendary "Black Arm" Zephyr, former Admiral, now instructor to new generations of Marines. She hadn’t expected him to be so... intense in person. Or to meet him at all, considering he’d been in one of the movies, and not the series itself. The aura that surrounded him was like an anchor dropped straight into her gut.

“You,” he said, voice like gravel. “State your name and purpose.”

Callie shook off the Marines holding her with a small glare, then offered a short bow, half playful, half respectful. “Calypso. And I’m just an adventurer, sir.”

Zephyr’s dark eyes narrowed. “Adventurer?” He stepped forward, arms crossed. “I don’t recognize your flag. No records in the registry. Are you a pirate passing off as a civilian?”

“No,” she replied without hesitation. “Not a pirate.”

“Then you must be affiliated with the World Government. Where’s your identification?”

“I don’t have any. I’m not with nor against the World Government.”

He stared at her. She stared back. His gaze was like closed windows, never betraying what he thought; hers, an open book.

“Do you have a Devil Fruit?” he asked finally.

“Nope.”

“Then how have you survived this long, alone, in the New World?” His tone was skeptical, bordering on sharp. “This sea swallows seasoned crews whole.”

“I never said I didn’t have any powers,” she replied with a casual shrug. “I said I don’t have a Devil Fruit.”

He raised a brow, obviously expecting her to show him. Rolling her eyes a bit, Calypso turned toward the waves and lifted a hand, two fingers to her lips. She let out a high-pitched whistle, followed by a low hum that seemed to ripple through the water itself.

There was silence.

Then—movement.

A shadow passed beneath Skipper, long and serpentine. The Marines tensed immediately, gripping weapons, backing away. A massive shape breached the surface a short distance away: a Sea King, scales glittering, eyes locked on the boat with startling intelligence. It gave a low rumble and then, without instruction, sank back beneath the surface like a phantom.

Gasps. Shouts. Guns raised.

“Stand down!” Zephyr barked, and the panicked Marines froze. He turned back to Calypso slowly. “You command Sea Kings?”

“Command?” she echoed, tilting her head. “No. We’re just friends.”

Zephyr stared at her like she was some strange sea creature herself. Then he stepped closer, gaze sharp.

“And what do you intend to do with that power?”

Callie blinked. “Do?”

“Yes,” he snapped. “What are your goals? Your endgame? Power like that, in the hands of the wrong person—”

“I don’t have a goal,” she interrupted, genuinely puzzled. “I just sail. I go where the Sea takes me.”

“That’s foolish,” he said immediately. “Power without purpose is a weapon waiting to be misused.”

She frowned a little at that. “Not everything has to be about war or ambition, you know. Some of us just want to explore. See the world. Live.”

His expression hardened. “You’re hardly making sense. If you are not a pirate, nor are you affiliated with the World Government, then what does your flag stand for?”

She smiled gently and gave the answer she always gave.

“It stands for freedom. For the wind at my back, and the sea beneath my feet. For kindness when you can give it, and strength when you need it. It’s not much, I guess, but it’s mine.”

“Freedom? You are a pirate, then.”

“No,” snapped Calypso, a bit harsher. “I’m not a pirate. I don’t agree with the violence most of them think themselves entitled to. The majority of them hurt a lot of innocent people in order to achieve their dreams, and that’s not right.” Her expression hardened a bit. “But you should know better than most that the World Government is hardly any better. They’ll do whatever it takes to ‘serve and protect’, but that line only truly applies if you’re a Celestial Dragon. And if they have to get their hands dirty and throw Justice out the window in order to bend the knee to those particular assholes, they’ll do it.”

One of the Marines around was red in the cheeks. “Speaking against the world’s greatest authority is a punishable offense—!”

“Oh, shut up. I’m a child yet I know more about this world than you do. Are you just ignorant, or willingly blind to the horrors committed by your own people?” she snapped, and he took a step back in the face of her sudden hostility.

“I see. You speak like the Revolutionaries, then—those who seek to deconstruct order entirely and throw this world into chaos,” huffed Zephyr, unimpressed.

“Wrong again. I admire what the Army stands, for, sure—and they’re certainly a much better alternative for ordinary people who seek to make a difference. But ultimately, they’re blind to their own humanity. Those who serve a great cause often are. And when they ultimately achieve their goal, I fear they’ll have removed this ‘great authority’ only to replace it with another one—only, one in their colors, this time around.”

“So what, you’ve decided to create your own side to stand on?” scoffed a nearby Marine.

“Well, why not? If the pirates aren’t good, and the Marines aren’t just, and the Revolutionaries aren’t right, it can all be explained by a single reason: their ambitions.” Her eyes gleamed, and the wind seemed to rise in tandem as she spoke her faith. “But I have no ambitions to rise to, no dreams to strive for. I belong to the Sea, and the Sea guides me. It provides and it takes, it is not right or wrong, it is neither good or evil, and it is always just and always unfair. So I follow her and her alone, and simply do what I think is best when the opportunity presents itself.”

Zephyr didn’t reply as she grinned. His mouth twitched, like he wanted to argue—but the words didn’t come. Instead, he turned away from her.

“Return to your ship,” he told her simply. “We’re done here.”

“But—sir—” immediately protested one of his men. “Suspicious figures are meant to be apprehended and questioned, and powers like hers—”

“I said we’re done.”

With a cheerful wave, Calypso sauntered back toward the ladder, the Marines around throwing her glances that ranged from wary to awe-struck. But as she prepared to go back down, Zephyr glanced back to her, jaw clenched.

“Be it your power or your faith—you may not intend to do anything with either,” he said, voice thick with all sorts of warnings she couldn’t begin to decipher. “But the world will decide for you if you don’t decide for yourself. Remember that.”

Then he was gone, steps thundering as he returned inside.

Callie exhaled slowly and quickly returned to Skipper. As soon as her feet hit the deck, she untied the rope, and a stronger current promptly started dragging her away. Her fingers grazed the wood of the mast, steady as ever.

“Guess I struck a nerve, huh?” she murmured.

She didn’t know if her words had reached him. Maybe they had. Maybe they hadn’t. But maybe—just maybe—they’d planted a seed. Because, when someone like Zephyr paused long enough to question why they did what they did… that pause could change everything.

Chapter Text

Jagged cliffs wreathed in ice, wind sharp like blades, and the kind of cold that reached right through skin to rattle your bones.

Calypso hit the shore with all the grace of a fish being slapped out of water—one moment comfortably dozing on Skipper under patchy sails, the next tumbling face-first into a snowbank as her boat was yanked back out to sea from right underneath her. She sat up, sputtering, drenched and shivering, watching as Skipper bobbed just beyond the shallows, tauntingly out of reach.

“You traitor,” she muttered, clenching her fists. “I fed you! I loved you!”

But the boat turned lazily with the wind and drifted off, like a parent nudging a child into a schoolyard with a bittersweet shove.

Grumbling, Callie pulled her light jacket tighter around her and trudged inland, bare feet crunching through the thick snow. Her teeth chattered. The wind howled. Her fingers were numb before long, her cheeks raw and stung pink. This wasn’t just cold—this was Winter Island cold. The kind of cold that made you question your life choices. She wandered for what felt like hours, winding through icy ravines and frost-covered pines, before the mountain’s looming face broke through the fog ahead. Nestled into the rocky slope, two massive metal doors stood out like a sore thumb—cold steel against ancient stone, humming faintly with dormant energy.

Callie approached, hesitant, her breath puffing visibly in the air.

“Well… nothing ventured,” she mumbled, and raised a fist to knock.

The sound echoed—deep, reverberating, like she’d tapped a titan’s ribcage.

There was a hiss. A groan. The doors creaked open slowly, revealing a corridor bathed in soft white light and flanked by strange machinery. Standing dead center was a man—shorter than she expected, wearing a pristine white lab coat, his apple-shaped head spinning slowly with little whirrs and clicks. His brows raised the moment he saw her.

“What—you’re not the Marine envoy I’m expecting!”

Callie blinked. “Hi. Um. Can I come in? It’s stupid cold out here, and I think my fingers are gonna fall off. Pretty please?”

The apple rotated with a low chirp, pausing when the green side faced her. “You’re… not supposed to be here. This location isn’t public.”

“Well, tell that to the Sea. She booted me out and said this was where I’d be staying for a while, so—here I am.”

The man tilted his head, visibly calculating whether this was nonsense or genius. Finally, he stepped aside and waved her in. “Alright, alright, in you go. Let’s talk some more once I’m sure you’re not going to collapse at my feet.”

Calypso didn’t need to be told twice, hurrying inside with palpable relief.

The warmth hit her like a tidal wave the moment she crossed the threshold. She could’ve cried. Her joints sighed in relief. The lights overhead were sterile, but the air was dry and comfortable. Doors opened around her without touch, machinery buzzed softly along the walls, and faint robotic voices chimed in from unseen sources. It was honestly a bit surreal to see such advanced technology more akin to her original world’s than this one for the first time since she’d arrived.

Callie barely noticed she was being led deeper into the facility until they arrived at a large circular chamber with a couch big enough to fit five grown men. She collapsed into it gratefully, hugging the thick blanket someone (or something) draped over her shoulders. A mug of hot cocoa was gently placed in her hands by a tiny robot with arms like whisks and eyes like buttons.

“Thanks, Whiskers,” she murmured, inhaling the sweet-smelling heat.

The robot beeped contentedly and rolled away.

Vegapunk—because who else could he be—sat across from her now, arms folded, watching her with that same deeply analytical gaze. She could practically feel the neurons firing in his big ol’ apple brain.

(And wasn’t that a disturbing sight, honestly. She’d seen a lot of weird things but, somehow, someone literally cutting their own brain out took the cake so far.)

“So,” he said, “let’s start simple. Who are you?”

“Calypso,” she answered, sipping the cocoa. “Callie, if you want. Most people just shout ‘hey you’ until I turn around, though.”

“And what, pray tell, brings a barefoot child with no visible weapons or backup to the doorstep of a top-secret research facility buried under a frozen mountain?”

No visible—shoot! My trident’s still on Skipper!

She scowled, a bit annoyed. “I got evicted.”

“Evicted?”

“Yup. The Sea kicked me out.”

He stared at her. “The Sea… kicked you out.”

“Yeah. I mean, I guess she’s got that right. I’ve been drifting a while. Maybe she thought I needed a break.” She stretched, sighing into the blanket. “And here I am.”

Vegapunk’s apple spun again—blue, then red, then green again.

“You shouldn’t even know about this place,” he insisted.

“I mean, I didn’t even know it was here until like, five minutes ago.”

He sat back, frowning. “You’re not lying. At least, you believe you’re not lying.”

“Why would I lie about being tossed into a snowbank? I still have frost in my ears.”

“Stranger things have happened,” he muttered. “Especially in this sea.”

Callie took another long sip, letting the silence stretch for a moment. The hum of machines filled the air like a lullaby, steady and patient.

“So,” she asked eventually, “do you get a lot of surprise guests?”

“No,” Vegapunk replied flatly. “You’re the first since… well, ever.”

Wait, that means Kuma and Bonney aren’t here? Either I’m too early, or Kuma took my suggestion to heart, then…

“Huh. Cool.” She brightened up at the thought of having spared this particular tragedy. “Well, if it helps, I’m not here to steal your research or whatever. Honestly, I didn’t even know you were the Vegapunk until I saw the head.”

He snorted. “Yes, I’ve been told it’s one of my most recognizable features.”

“Hard to miss,” she agreed with a grin.

“Do you have a Devil Fruit?”

“Nope.”

“Then how did you even get here?”

“I mean, I arrived on my boat, Skipper. She’s a bit beaten up, but she’s a good boat! But I got kicked off by the Sea—it wanted me to come here.”

“You talk of the Sea as though you have a… connection, to it,” he pointed out. “Are you saying it is sentient? Or do you pretend to control it?”

“I mean, it’s more like… a friendship, or a mutual understanding,” she mused. “The Sea’s weird, y’know? Sometimes she gives, sometimes she takes. You just kinda go along for the ride and hope she likes you enough to spit you back out in one piece.”

Vegapunk tapped his chin. “Fascinating.”

“Yeah, that’s one word for it.”

They sat there for a while, Vegapunk pondering, Callie thawing out and gently kicking her legs against the couch like a child in a doctor’s waiting room. Somewhere deeper in the lab, she thought she heard a mechanical hiss, maybe even heavy footsteps—probably the Satellites getting attracted by the commotion her arrival caused. Or maybe some of the Marines located here had already sent word of her unexpected arrival.

Who knew? Maybe she’d get to kick St. Saturn in the teeth then get promptly squashed like a bug for the offense.

But the thought floated away, like so many others before it. For now, she had hot cocoa, and warmth, and a mad scientist trying to figure out what kind of cosmic joke she was. Whatever came next… she’d face it like she always did: with outstretched hands, an open heart, and an endless thirst for thrills.

Chapter Text

If there was one thing Dr. Vegapunk hated more than flawed equations, it was puzzles. As ironic as it may seem, he simply didn’t have the time and patience for them—his genius was much better spent elsewhere. But, as he watched Calypso recline on the oversized couch in his base hidden within the frozen mountains, sipping cocoa with a catlike contentment, he realized he had stumbled upon a living, breathing puzzle.

She was young—nearing fifteen, if his calculations were correct, and he was most certain they were. Her clothes were patched and sea-stained. No visible weapons. No den den mushi, no means of identification, no tech signatures worth noting. He hadn’t told the girl, yet, but the boat she’d told him about had washed ashore near the base a mere hour before she’d shown up, and his team had already examined it. And yet, for all of her exceptional claims, her boat, Skipper, really was quite ordinary. It lacked anything close to a navigation system, there were no Weatheria upgrades, and there wasn’t even a proper rudder—it was clearly fake, it didn’t even reach the water!

By every metric, she should’ve drowned a long time ago.

And yet, she hadn’t.

That irritated him.

Once she’d finished her cocoa and warmed up, he activated a full BioScan. He examined her energy profile, her health stats, her biometry, all the works. But nothing came up. No Devil Fruit signature, as told. No cybernetics. No strange energy surges. No outstanding biology or long-lost lineage.

Just the steady readouts of a perfectly healthy, perfectly human girl.

Except she wasn’t normal. There was something about her that all of his scans and technology couldn’t pick up on, but his instincts did.

She’d claimed the Sea had “kicked her out” and “brought her here.” When asked if that was metaphorical, she’d just shrugged and asked him what he thought. But no matter what he tried to come up with, he had other problems to solve and questions to answer and research to focus on.

So Vegapunk divided the problem.

Shaka was up first. Logic embodied. He asked about her navigation.

“I don’t use maps,” she assured, curiously peering into his tinted helmet. “I just… feel it. I let the currents carry me for the most part. But sometimes, I get this weird tug in my chest, and I just follow it, and I get where I need to go.”

“This method has never failed you?”

“Not really. I mean, sometimes she sends me places I don’t want to go. I mean, getting launched on a frozen island was not my plan,” she huffed. “But also, she won’t let me leave if it’s not time to go, yet.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, I don’t anchor Skipper. But the Sea takes it away if she thinks I have to stay longer, and then she brings it back around when it’s time.”

Shaka’s report was direct and to the point:

Navigates intuitively. Potential empathetic or environmental synchronization. Observation Haki-adjacent, but doesn’t match known patterns.

Lilith approached her like a storm—high energy, high stakes, highly rude.

“So you’re a drifter, huh? Little sea rat playing sailor?”

Calypso laughed. “Rats are smart. They survive where others don’t.”

“You don’t even have a weapon. How do you defend yourself?”

“With a trident, but I forgot it on Skipper. And sometimes a Sea King will come lend a hand, if I ask nicely and they feel up to it.”

Lilith laughed, until she realized Calypso wasn’t lying.

Her report was a bit more opiniated than Shaka’s:

Subject either delusional or actually possesses a method of aquatic-affiliated control. Possibly both. Reckless. But not stupid.

Edison ran the tech. Scanned clothes. Analyzed Skipper’s hull via drone. Tested the pearls she claimed to use as currency and also the colorful coral garlands she’d taken to hanging all over the base without asking for permission.

Everything was normal. Fabric, wood, pearls, coral—all mundane.

She was perfectly, utterly, almost boringly normal.

His report was rather cut and dry:

Statistical anomaly. Continued survival suggests unknown stabilizing factor.

Atlas tried to spar with her, but Calypso didn’t fight, per se. She just weaved through blows like it was a game of cat and mouse, swift on her feet. It felt like trying to fight a body of water, with it slipping through her fingers every single time.

“You’re fast,” Atlas huffed, eventually tiring out. “But why not hit me back?”

“I don’t want to hurt you. You’re too nice.”

No one had called Atlas nice before. She glowed for half an hour.

Her report was filled with pointless exclamations:

High reactive agility, reflexes above-average!!! Possibly tied to low-level future sight???? Pacifistic despite clearly honed survival skills, but do NOT piss off!!!

Pythagoras decided to go for a more direct approach and asked to conduct a psychological evaluation. Calypso had seemed a bit bemused, but had easily agreed.

“You speak of the Sea as if it were sentient. Is that metaphorical or literal?”

“It depends. But the Sea listens. She remembers. She tests. She guides.” She offered Pythagoras an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. It’s a bit difficult to explain.”

“It’s alright. So, you believe the Sea communicates with you?”

“Not with words, exactly. With feelings, and pulls. Sometimes, she reacts outwardly to what I do or say. She’s got opinions, and we don’t always agree—but I trust her with my life.”

Her psych profile eventually came back clean. No delusions. Coherent. Grounded.

His report was tinged with incomprehension:

Interprets stimuli via unknown sensory framework. No contradictory statements. Either possesses a unique worldview, or is capable of genuine environmental communication on levels never seen before.

York was just frustrated.

“She won’t even relax around me,” she complained mid-meal while the rest of the Satellites busied themselves with various projects all around her. “She’s chill with the rest of you, but with me? She always looks on edge! I can’t get two minutes alone with her!”

“Why?” Vegapunk asked.

“No clue. I offered her snacks, and she just looked at me weird, like I was gonna eat her.”

She wasn’t wrong. Calypso always smiled when York entered, but the smile never reached her eyes. And she never accepted anything from York, either, be it food or attention. Where she seemed to get along fine enough with Pythagoras and Atlas, she seemed to genuinely dislike York—which didn’t make any sense, because they were all Vegapunk, in the end.

Vegapunk logged it for further examination.

Then came Kizaru, slow drawl and unreadable gaze. His arrival had been expected, but Vegapunk had failed to warn him of their impromptu guest. So, the Admiral was a bit stunned to find Calypso doodling on the lab floor. She didn’t even look up from her admittedly awful drawing, but she did offer him a friendly wave as he walked past her, just barely acknowledging his presence.

Kizaru found Vegapunk in the office right next door.

“…So. Who’s the kid?” he asked, bemused.

“An anomaly,” Vegapunk said, just a bit annoyed. “I’m studying her.”

“She's dangerous?”

“Only to my peace of mind.”

An odd answer for the ever-curious scientist. Kizaru decided to satisfy his own curiosity and try and see what made the new girl tick. So, he returned to the adjacent room and watched her for a minute. She’d moved on from drawing stick figures to braiding garlands with pieces of colorful shells and corals—she was surely the reason behind the sudden addition of sea-themed decorations all over the base, he suddenly realized.

Kizaru eventually crouched beside her.

“You a pirate?”

“Nope.”

“Revolutionary?”

“Nope.”

“Then what are you?”

She smiled. “I don’t know. I’m still trying to figure it out. But you can call me Callie.” She paused, then glanced toward him. “Hey, random question: if you ever had to choose between killing your best friend or disobeying the World Government, which would you pick?”

“Is this a trick question? If the World Government allegedly wanted my friend dead, then it’d be because they did something wrong,” he reasoned.

“And if they didn’t?” she insisted.

“Then I would still uphold my duty. I have faith in the Justice I serve—as much as it would pain me, my friend’s death must be necessary.”

She stared him down for a moment longer, and it felt like she was peeling back layers of his souls. She then let out a snort, shaking her head as she returned to her drawing.

“You sound like a cultist.”

Kizaru blinked. Whoever the girl was, her understood better why she drove his old friend a bit crazy—or at least, crazier than he already was.

That night, Vegapunk found a few minutes to spare for the reports his Satellites had made on Calypso.

• Shaka: Intuitive.
• Lilith: Delusional.
• Edison: Anormal.
• Atlas: Kind.
• Pythagoras: Hopeful.
• York: Withholding.
• Kizaru: Strange.

And Vegapunk? He still didn’t know what to make of her, even after all this.

The math didn’t work. No origin. No logic. No pattern. She spoke in riddles, fought like a survivor, looked like a lost child. No formula fit.

Growing more and more annoyed, he connected to the live security feed of the base and easily found the room Calypso had been lent for her stay. Inside, she was sitting by the Sea Prism-tinted window, humming under her breath as she watched the snow drifting down. He suddenly felt a bit ridiculous. She was still just a child, after all. But then, just as he was about to close the feed and move on, something caught his attention.

It took him a moment to catch up with his overworked brain but, once he did, his eyes went wide in the face of the readings his machines were now giving out. The temperature had risen slightly, but the generator output had dipped. The electromagnetic field of the island itself shifted. The Sea, visible from his own window, had gained a semblance of a pattern that seemed to match the girl’s humming.

As if the world itself had paused just to listen to her, then decided to match its rhythm to her own.

Vegapunk leaned back, aghast.

Intuitive. Delusional. Anormal. Kind. Hopeful. Withholding. Strange.

But most strikingly…

“You are impossible,” he whispered.

But on the screen, she smiled, as if the Sea was whispering a joke only the two of them were privy to—and as she smiled, the snowstorm outside came to an abrupt all.

And deep within the base where once reigned science and logic… awe bloomed.

Chapter Text

Calypso stood before the sliding doors of Dr. Vegapunk’s private chamber, a dull hum of electricity pressing at her skin. The base beneath the mountains felt unusually quiet tonight—no clanging of metal arms, no shouted commands from Lilith or complaints from York... Even the Sea beyond the ice-crusted cliffs had stilled, as though holding its breath.

Inside, the lights dimmed low over stacked monitors, holograms flickering with equations only a handful of people in the world could hope to understand. And at the center of it all was the greatest scientist in the world, half-shadowed, hunched over his desk like a philosopher haunted by truths only he could see.

Vegapunk didn’t even look up when she cleared her throat. “Ah. Calypso.” His voice, as always, held a mixture of warmth and calculation. “Anything I can help you with?”

Calypso took a step forward, her bare feet silent against the cold metal floor.

“I need to talk to you,” she said simply. “Can you spare a few minutes?”

Intrigued, Vegapunk pulled away from his desk to face her fully as he raised an eyebrow. “Of course. What about?”

She didn’t circle the subject. She’d done enough circling. She’d stayed too long already.

“In four years’ time,” she said simply. “York will betray you.”

The world itself seemed to still.

Vegapunk blinked, then leaned back slowly in his chair. “I… What?”

“She will sell you out to the World Government and take a piece of your greatest invention—something you call the Mother Flame. It’s an eternal power source, infinite energy. I don’t know how far along you are with it, but if you finish it, if you give the government a single spark of it… they’ll burn the world down. Or rather, sink it to the lowest depths like they did 800 years ago.” She let out a shaky breath, the weight of this truth almost too much to let go of. “Hundreds of thousands will die. Whole islands will be destroyed. Everything and everyone… gone. Just like that.”

Vegapunk’s hands gripped the edge of the table. His brain, fragmented across satellites and other devices, whirred with calculations faster than light.

“...How do you know this?” he asked at last, his voice low. “You can’t have seen the files. Not even the others know the full scope of Mother Flame. And York—she’s only just begun to express deviation from—”

“I know because I’ve seen it happen,” Calypso interrupted, tense.

Her words rang in the air like the aftermath of a gunshot.

Vegapunk rose, slow and stiff, burdened by the weight of the knowledge she’d just dropped on him. “That’s not possible.”

“I know.”

“Are you… from the future!?"

She looked away. “Not exactly.”

“Then how?”

“I can’t tell you that. But the Sea has its secrets and this one… this one felt too important not to share.”

Vegapunk stepped around the desk, arms folded. “You’re asking me to believe in prophecy. You expect me to flip my entire scientific philosophy—my life’s work—on the word of a girl who won’t even tell me where she’s from, or how she truly gained such knowledge?”

“No. But I expect you to stop pretending that ethics are beneath your genius,” she snapped.

That hit. Vegapunk flinched as though she’d physically struck him.

“You’ve made yourself useful to the World Government because you’re scared,” she continued with a tremor of thunder in her voice. “Because you think your death would set humanity back a hundred years. You think your brain is the key to progress, that if they killed you, no one else could ever catch up.”

He remained silent in the face of her sudden accusation, and she gritted her teeth. This man had done so much for this world—both good and bad—and while she truly admired his genius and dedication, she couldn’t possibly abide the utter and complete lack of morals he exhibited through his various projects.

No matter the remorse he expressed, no matter the tears he shed, he still did it for the sake of the “greater good”.

“But you're wrong,” she eventually added. “You’re not the only mind in the world, Dr. Vegapunk—you’re just the loudest.”

Vegapunk opened his mouth but, for once, no sound came out. He obviously wanted to argue, to defend his work, but he couldn’t even find the strength to face the ugly truth she’d shoved in his face, let alone argue against it.

“I know you’re not evil,” she said, a bit more gently. “I know you’re tired. That you think you’re buying time. Maybe you even believe you’re doing the right thing. But you’re not.” She walked to the window. Outside, snow blew in soft spirals, and below, the sea shimmered with icy calm. “You’ve created so much. You’ve helped so much already. But you’ve also enabled monsters.” Her voice lowered. “You’ve created living weapons. You've experimented on living beings. You’ve given them blueprints for destruction. You’ve sacrificed countless lives for your unending research, treating them as nothing more than collateral damage for the sake of advancement.”

“I have done many mistakes in my life, that much is true—”

“You should have helped Ohara. You should have helped Dr. Clover.”

Maybe it was childish. Maybe it was wrong, or even naïve. But Vegapunk had chosen survival above friendship, he’d chosen the future above the past, without even realizing just how many lives this single choice would forsake.

Vegapunk had fallen silent again though, this time, it was probably from the shock—not many knew of his affiliation with the doomed archeologists of Ohara, after all.

“Yes, you’ve made many mistakes, Dr. Vegapunk. And if you give the World Government the Mother Flame, you’ll only be adding to your unending list of regrets—except this time around, even five of you won’t be enough to clean up your mess,” she concluded.

Behind her, Vegapunk sat down slowly, collapsing into his chair like a man much older than he looked. He rubbed his forehead, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. He looked absolutely crushed, now, and Calypso realized that maybe, just maybe, she may have gone a bit too far.

“It’s not too late to make a different choice,” she finally said. “It never is. But if you believe me, or if I’ve at least inspired doubt… then you should probably figure some things out before hooking yourself up to the shared memory database again.”

He stiffened, but she didn’t wait for a reply, and she simply left.

The walk out of the base felt longer than it should have. No one stopped her—not the Satellites, not the robots or the staff or the few Marines stationed around, not the automated systems... The halls were empty. Only the low hum of lights and the sound of the snowstorm outside echoed through the steel corridors.

Outside, the cold hit her like a breath from an old friend. She welcomed it.

Skipper waited for her at the shore, tucked into a small inlet like it had been waiting all along. Seaweed garlands fluttered from the mast. Her patchwork sail rippled with anticipation. The Sea stirred at her approach, as if coming awake as she stepped foot into the ice-cold water. A low current curled around her ankles, like a hand welcoming her home.

She briefly hesitated—briefly wondered if she’d done the right thing.

It felt wrong to interfere. She didn’t know if she was supposed to. This world wasn’t hers, after all. These people were strangers, and their stories their own. But when she thought of all the tragedies that stemmed from a single source, from a single mind, she simply couldn’t stop herself.

Innocent lives shouldn’t be traded for scientific curiosity.

She hadn’t come here to be a hero. She was just a girl lost between worlds. Sure, she’d talked and hinted and suggested before, and maybe sometimes let on a little more than she should have, but never before had she outright interfered like she did tonight. But the Sea had brought her here for a reason. Maybe it was to bring change.

As she finally stepped onto Skipper, the boat rocked beneath her feet like it was glad to have her back. The Sea lifted her gently, pulling her away from the frozen shores.

She didn’t look back. She closed her eyes and let the salt wind tangle her hair, and breathed.

The Sea sang back to her.

You did well, it seemed to say. Now on to the next shore, we go.

She dipped her fingers into the water, whispering her thanks. For now, her path was clear again. The world was vast, and danger still bloomed on the horizon—but she’d also resolved herself to seizing the opportunities that came her way. And, if that meant taking the story into her own hands from time to time, so be it.

Chapter Text

‘ THUD. ’

The jolt rocked the tiny boat so hard that Calypso’s head knocked against the mast with a soft clunk. She groaned, rubbing her temple, and blinked the sunspots from her eyes. Her nap had been peaceful until it wasn’t—dreams of drifting alongside sea turtles and warm sunlight on her face interrupted by the jarring sound of wood scraping wood.

Before she could even sit up properly, there was a new sound. A sharper one.

‘ Shhhhing. ’

Steel unsheathing, clean and precise. Not the clumsy, desperate scrape of a rookie. This was the sound of a blade handled with reverence.

Her eyes snapped fully open—just in time to see a sword the length of her entire body aimed directly at her throat.

The edge glittered in the light. It was beautiful. Terrifying.

She swallowed and slowly raised her gaze.

Standing atop the sleek black deck of a gothic-looking vessel was a tall man with sharp yellow eyes and an elegant hat.

Oh shit.

Dracule Mihawk.

Warlord. Master swordsman. Equal parts myth and menace.

“You woke me from my nap,” he said, voice low and even, almost completely unreadable saved for the slightest tinge of annoyance in it.

It took a beat for Calypso to realize what had happened. Their boats—hers a chaotic, brightly painted mess of patched sails and seaweed garlands, his an ominous-looking coffin-shaped boat that sailed like a predator on the prowl—had collided. She blinked up at him. Then looked down at the bow of her boat, currently nudged against his in a very awkward way. Then she looked back up at the sword still near her throat.

“And you woke me from mine,” she replied, sleepily indignant. “What’s your excuse?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, to her astonishment, Mihawk lowered the blade.

Not by much, but enough that she no longer had death glinting inches from her jugular.

The world tilted slightly as the ocean shifted beneath them, and for a moment, the two simply stared at one another across the narrow gap between their boats—her with messy sea-damp curls, wide eyes, and a defiant slouch; him with absolute poise, hawk-like intensity, and not even a fold of his cape out of place.

“You’re the little wanderer Shanks told me about,” Mihawk finally said.

Calypso blinked. “Wait. What?”

He gave a slight nod, as if coming to an internal understanding. He stepped back and sheathed his sword with the casual grace of someone who knew he’d never need to draw it twice—or at least, someone who most definitely didn’t see her as a threat.

“He said you crashed onto his ship. Said you were peculiar. Something about you being claimed by the Sea.” He scowled lightly. “He’s never made much sense, even less drunk, but this was a particularly bad episode.”

She sat up straighter. “Shanks actually told you about me?”

Mihawk raised an eyebrow, his expression still unreadable. “He tells me many things, though most of them are annoyingly whimsical.”

Calypso snorted, tension finally easing from her shoulders. “Yeah, that sounds like him.” She leaned forward, propping her elbows on her knees. “I didn’t think you two kept in touch like that, though. Thought you were more rivals than friends.”

“We used to be rivals. He’s no longer a worthy opponent.”

She nodded slowly. Count on Mihawk to completely sidestep the ‘friendship’ part.

Then she looked up at him again, curiosity outweighing caution. “So… did he say anything else? How are the others? Are they doing okay?”

He tilted his head slightly, and though his expression remained still, something in his eyes shifted.

“They are alive. Causing trouble. Laughing too much.”

“That’s a yes, then,” she said with a grin.

A moment passed before Mihawk spoke again. “I don’t understand what he sees in you.”

Calypso blinked. “Pardon?”

“You,” he said flatly. “You’re small. Your boat is poorly made. Your aura is erratic. You don’t appear dangerous, and you are not even armed.”

“I have a trident,” she said, pointing vaguely toward the back of her boat, where her trident laid discarded and half-forgotten under a sun-beaten tarp. “It’s just… napping too.” He didn’t react. She gave a sheepish smile. “Yeah, no, not impressive. I don’t get it either, you know.”

“What?”

“Why he saw something in me.” She scratched the back of her neck. “Though, to be fair, it probably had to do with the fact that I almost died face-planting on his deck. He probably read too much into it—old men like him often find meaning in meaningless stuff."

Mihawk stared for a long moment, the corner of his lips twitching slightly in amusement.

“Friendship is weird like that,” she then added. “You don’t always see it coming, or understand why it came to you. Sometimes, it just happens. You meet someone who decides you matter, and then you spend the rest of your life trying to deserve it.”

Another long silence.

The sea whispered around them, waves gently nudging their boats apart now, like it, too, was ready for this meeting to end. Mihawk swiftly returned to his own boat.

“Your journey will not be easy,” he finally stated.

“Yeah, I figured that out the first time I almost got struck by lightning.” She smiled wryly. “It happened twice, actually. Wanna stick around and hear that story?”

He paused, and—was that amusement?—passed like a fleeting shadow across his face. But her offer wasn’t tempting enough, clearly, as he took a hold of his rudder.

“Hey,” she called after him, a bit impulsively. “Thanks for not killing me!”

He spared her half-a-glance. “You were never a threat.”

“Ouch.”

“... but you may yet become one. You intrigue me, little dove. I now find myself wondering what kind of storms you’ll bring to these waters.”

That stopped her. She watched him leave , his cloak fluttering in the wind, sword glinting lightly at his back. She didn’t even realize she was smiling.

As the black-hulled ship began to glide away—elegant and eerie—Calypso leaned back on her deck, hands behind her head, the sun warm again on her face. The moment replayed in her mind. That blade. That look in his eyes. She thought she should feel shaken—he could have killed her in the blink of an eye, and he had been about ready to do it, too. But instead…

She felt more alive than ever before.

(She was probably a bit of an adrenaline junkie, now that she took the time to think it over.)

“Mihawk, huh?” she said aloud, teasingly twirling her fingers in the water. “Well, you sure know how to surprise a girl. I don’t know why you led me to him, but I didn’t die, so I’m counting that as a win.”

A wave splashed in her face, almost playfully. Laughing a bit, Calypso returned to her initial napping spot. This time around, though, she had a feeling she’d be dreaming of sharp-eyed birds and gleaming swords.

Chapter Text

The town was too quiet.

Calypso had been to enough different places by now to know when something wasn’t right. The air hung heavy, as if the town itself was holding its breath. Shutters creaked on rusted hinges. Children peeked out from behind torn curtains only to be yanked back by frantic hands. The cobblestone streets were cracked and filthy, lined with crumbling houses. But there wasn’t anyone outside, there wasn’t anyone in sight—

Until a hand shot out and snatched her wrist, yanking her into the shadows of a narrow alley.

Calypso spun instinctively, muscles coiled and ready, but she stopped short when she saw the fear in the woman’s eyes. Real fear. The kind that came from living day to day without knowing for certain if you’d see the next sun rise. Callie lowered her fist at once—this woman, whoever she was, meant her no harm, that much was obvious.

"Please," the woman whispered, cradling a child with one arm while pressing Calypso against the wall with the other. Her voice trembled. "You need to hide. Now. The King is here. He doesn't want anyone in the streets while his important guests are visiting. If he sees you—you'll die."

Calypso blinked. "Because I'm walking around?"

The woman nodded frantically. She gestured to the child in her arms, whose small body was limp and bloodied. "My son ran out earlier. Just for a moment. He didn't even make a noise, he’d just forgotten something outside. And they shot him. Shot him for being seen."

Calypso looked down at the child. Pale, still breathing, thankfully enough. The bullet seemed to have only grazed his arm, his wound already bandaged with the ripped-off lining of the woman’s skirt. Her fists clenched.

"Where is he now?" Calypso asked.

The woman stared at her, confused. "Who?"

"The King."

"In- in the main plaza. They’re gathered there. If you stick to the backstreets to return to the docks, they shouldn’t see you—wait!”

Calypso was already walking.

She ignored the hands that reached out to stop her, the cries and gasps from alleys and doorways as she emerged into the open street. Her feet carried her forward with purpose, her messy hair billowing in the breeze. The plaza ahead buzzed with the sound of polished boots, haughty laughter, and smug declarations.

A crowd of armored guards formed a perimeter, encircling a raised platform adorned with red velvet and gold trim. Nobles in gaudy outfits stood around sipping wine and sneering down their noses at the empty streets. And at the center of it all was a man Calypso immediately knew was the King.

He looked as revolting as she’d briefly imagined him.

Greasy brown curls hung limp beneath a crooked crown. His cheeks were flushed and swollen, his mouth pulled into a permanent, oily sneer. Rings glittered on pudgy fingers as he gestured grandly toward the beautiful young envoy standing beside him—a tall woman with long blonde hair and a neutral expression, clearly unimpressed.

Then his eyes found Calypso.

And his face crumpled with offense.

"Who dares defy my decree?!" he bellowed, jowls trembling. "Seize her! Kill her where she stands!"

Calypso didn't flinch.

The first guards rushed her.

The first four fell in less than five seconds.

Her trident spun through the air with blinding speed, sweeping legs, smashing helmets, and driving its prongs through armors like they were made of butter. She fought like the storm itself—wild, unpredictable, and impossible to contain. Every movement was calculated chaos, every blow a lesson in rightful fury. The nobles around screamed and scattered like mice. The envoy was urged back by her bodyguards. The King staggered and trembled as more guards threw themselves at her, only to be dropped just as quickly. By the time the last one collapsed at her feet, the plaza was dead silent.

Calypso stood in the center, untouched, panting slightly, hair tousled and damp from sea-spray that seemed to cling to her even here. The crowd gawked. Some of the townsfolk had come out of hiding, watching from corners, balconies, and rooftops.

Then she marched.

The King turned to flee.

She grabbed him by his gold-laced collar and hoisted him off the platform like he weighed nothing.

"Put me down! Do you have any idea who I am?!" he screeched, kicking his legs uselessly.

Calypso said nothing. She just began walking again.

Through the streets she went, dragging the howling King behind her, his velvet cape snagging on stones, his crown falling off and clattering into a gutter. People stared in disbelief. No one stopped her. No one dared interfere. By the time she reached the docks, a full procession had gathered behind her. Locals, nobles, even the envoy. The King was crying now, snot and spit running down his chin.

"Please! Mercy! I can pay you! I can give you anything you want! Just let me go!"

Calypso dropped him to his knees at the edge of the dock. He scrambled back, babbling and pleading, but she didn’t follow. Instead, she turned on her heels, looking over her shoulder with eyes full of promises.

"I'm not the one you should be begging,” she simply said.

On which she walked away, straight back for the town. And as she walked, leaving a confused royal behind, she whistled. A sharp, clear note that echoed across the sea.

The water shifted.

And then, death emerged from the depths.

A massive shape surged from beneath the waves. Scales the size of shields, teeth longer than harpoons. A Sea King, a very big one this time around. Its maw opened, revealing rows of jagged fangs and a tongue that flicked at the salty air as it lunged. The King’s scream was cut off with a wet crunch as the beast took a section of the wooden pier along with the tyrant into its maw before promptly vanishing under the deep blue once more, gone as quickly as it had come.

Silence. Total, stunned silence.

And Calypso? She kept on walking, unperturbed.

It was probably murder. Probably. And maybe at some earlier point in her life, she’d have thought about it twice before feeding someone alive to a ravenous beast. But the sheer terror in these people’s eyes, the pain an innocent boy had been dealt for a nonsensical crime…

“Listen up!” she called out as she came face to face with the thickening crowd. She wasn’t usually one for public speeches, but she felt inspired, and also a bit high on adrenaline. “I am Calypso, and I bring you a message from the Sea!” The crowd leaned closer, drinking in her every word, and she grinned. “You are all alive! And by this very definition, you are all free! And if anyone ever tries you to tell you otherwise again, then the Sea will gladly take them off your hands!” She pumped her fist in the air. “To freedom!!!”

The crowd exploded into thunderous applause and cheers, and Calypso laughed as she was suddenly swept into the impromptu celebrations.

She’d try not to make a habit of it, but it was pretty fun to play the hero, sometimes.

Chapter Text

Koala had been many things in her life—a child slave, a freedom fighter, a karate student, a secret spy… But rarely, rarely, had she ever been upstaged—and certainly never quite like this.

The town of Highgrove, a once-beautiful seaside haven nestled between cliffs and the sea, had been a husk of its former self for years. King Albrecht, a greasy, self-obsessed man who loved the sound of his own voice more than the sight of his people starving, had turned the town into a fiefdom of fear.

The Revolutionary Army had marked it months ago as a place in dire need of liberation, but Koala herself had been the one to push for a more subtle infiltration. Too much force, and they risked retaliation from nearby Marine stations. But a clean, quiet kill? An elegant swap of power, with a prepared revolutionary cell stepping in afterward? That was doable. That was smart. And it was also a mean to sustain a new ground of operations on the long-term, which they lacked quite a bit of in the New World.

So, after weeks of research, planning, and preparations, the mission started.

She'd posed as an envoy from a nearby neutral nation, hidden in plain sight as the King’s favored guest. She’d worn that dreadfully gaudy dress, learned a whole new language to fake her accent, and endured his disgusting attempts at charm, all for the sake of getting close enough to assassinate him without anyone ever even suspecting foul play. Hack had also come along undercover, as her stoic bodyguard. And everything, absolutely everything, had been going exactly according to plan.

Until she showed up.

Koala had noticed her out of the corner of her eye during the King’s pompous address in the plaza. A girl, barefoot and windswept, with sea-salt curls and clothes that looked as if they'd been stitched together by dried seaweed and dreams. Koala had dismissed her at first—until the girl locked eyes with the King and started walking.

No fear. No hesitation. Just the kind of calm certainty that usually belonged to the most dangerous kinds of people.

And then, everything had gone to hell.

Koala hadn’t even had time to get to the vial of poison tucked into her corset. The girl took out the guards like they were a bunch of toy soldiers, weaving through their ranks like a dancer, striking with vicious precision. The townspeople started peeking out. Then watching. Then hoping. By the time the girl had made it to the King, Koala’s meticulous operation had been completely thrown out the window, and she could do little but watch the rest of the chaos unfold.

It all happened in a blur. Screaming. Shouting. Then the girl started dragging the King through the street like a sack of dirty laundry. They reached the docks, everyone following closely behind, holding their breath as they wondered what would come next.

She whistled. A Sea King came out of fucking nowhere. And just like that, the King of Highgrove was gone, swallowed in a single, slimy gulp.

And then she did her cute little speech, and suddenly everyone was cheering and clamoring for her attention.

Koala stood frozen in the shadow of a broken archway, her fists clenched at her sides.

"Well," Hack said beside her, quietly. “That was... unexpected."

Koala exhaled hard through her nose. "You think?"

Hack gave a slow nod, his gills twitching. "It seems the mission was completed, regardless."

Koala turned on him, whisper-hissing like a kettle on the verge of boiling. "This was supposed to be our mission. This town was going to be a crucial foothold in the New World for the cause. We had a plan! We had structure, a transition planned, a whole Revolutionary undercover cell ready to step in the moment the King died! And now? Now they’re worshipping some barefoot little girl with a death wish and a damn pet Sea King!"

Hack regarded her evenly. "She did save the town."

"She did it like a maniac."

Hack tilted his head. "Perhaps. But the people are free. That was the goal, was it not?"

Koala wanted to argue. She wanted to rage about all the wasted effort, the precise planning that had gone out the window, the hours spent listening to that pompous pig of a king talk about his favorite perfumes. But... she didn’t.

Because Hack was right.

The townspeople weren’t scared anymore. They were laughing, crying, hugging each other in the streets. Children were dancing in the plaza, and the remaining soldiers had thrown their weapons away. Doors were opening, windows flung wide, light and joy returning to the cracked and weathered bones of the town, its heart beating once more as the people were allowed to breathe again.

Koala looked back toward the dock. The girl—the strange, saltwater-stained girl with fire in her eyes—was laughing as one of the men lifted her onto his shoulders to better parade her around. She was full of life and colors and promises kept and for a very brief second, Koala’s breath got stuck in her throat.

The girl—Calypso—looked like she belonged in a storybook. Or a dream.

Then, the moment passed, and she scowled.

"I dyed my hair for this,” she huffed, admittedly whining a bit. Blonde really wasn’t her color, but she’d made greater sacrifices for the cause. “It took me hours.”

Hack offered her his water canteen. "Well, it does look nice."

She ignored him, crossing her arms and watching as the girl suddenly seemed to slink away from the celebrating crowd. Apparently, a few minutes in the limelight was enough for her. She leapt onto a colorful little raft that bobbed on the waves like a stubborn cork and, with one last glance back toward the town, the girl gave a two-fingered salute and sailed off, vanishing into the horizon in a matter of minutes. Her departure went completely unnoticed by the celebrating townsfolk. She came and went like a fever dream, and she’d be long gone by the time the civilians realized their impromptu savior was no longer there.

Koala let out a slow breath. The frustration was still there, but it was losing its sharper edge.

Maybe the Army wouldn’t get their foothold today. Maybe this wasn’t the clean victory they’d hoped for. But freedom was freedom. And that girl—this Calypso—had the power and strength to make people believe in it again.

"Come on," Koala muttered, tugging at her itchy hair. The dying product was killing her, seriously! "Let’s go. We’ll just have to liberate the next island the old-fashioned way."

Hack chuckled. "Who knows? Maybe we should look into taming a Sea King, too.”

Koala snorted. "Nah, that’s her schtick. But we’ll have to report this to Dragon.”

“Do you think he might try to recruit her?”

“He might. But… something tells me it’d be a waste of everyone’s time.”

Together, they disappeared down a side alley, melting into the shadows. As they left, though, the vision of the strange girl lingered in Koala’s mind.

She wouldn’t forget Calypso, and she had a feeling the rest of the world wouldn’t, either.

Chapter Text

The sun was barely cresting the horizon when Calypso woke, groggy but content. She stretched out on Skipper’s deck, only to pause mid-motion. Something felt off.

Too still.

Skipper, her ever-wandering, wave-dancing companion, wasn’t rocking. In fact, it wasn’t moving at all. She sat up sharply and looked out over the water—only to find a smooth, glistening expanse of solid ice stretching for miles in every direction. The Sea, her constant and ever-moving ally, was frozen.

“…You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Annoyed, she stood and stomped her bare feet against the deck. A dull clunk answered back. No give. No movement. The boat was completely stuck.

“Oh, what the hell?”

Of course, her little boat had no real mouth to reply. But Calypso could almost feel the boat’s annoyance echoing her own.

She shielded her eyes and squinted at the distance. There—an island. Not far, maybe a fifteen-minute walk, if she didn’t slip and busted her ass on the way. With a tired huff, she grabbed her trident and strapped it over her back, then got moving. The ice was terribly cold under her feet, but she tried to ignore it and walked quickly, but carefully. And every now and then, she glanced nervously at the vast white-blue nothingness surrounding her.

Only one person was capable of such a feat, after all.

When she finally reached the sandy shore, she almost immediately spotted him—a man snoring under the shade of a crooked palm tree, a long coat draped like a blanket over his form, an opened bottle of sake half-buried in the sand beside him.

Calypso stopped dead in her tracks. She’d been expecting it, but it was still a bit shocking whenever she came across a familiar face. The Marine coat, the justice epaulets, the lazy sprawl, the sunglasses, the bicycle laid against a palm tree just behind him, and the trail of frost lingering on the sand surrounding his form were unmistakable.

Admiral Aokiji .

But the moment was broken as her earlier annoyance resurfaced, because the man was taking a fricking nap, uncaring of the damage or trouble his powers could cause.

Her eye twitched as he snored. “Are you kidding me?”

He stirred at the sound of her voice and cracked one eye open lazily. “Huh… oh. Yo.”

“You froze my boat.”

A yawn. “Ahh… Did I? Sorry about that. I was training… Well, it doesn’t matter. I guess your boat just happened to be in range.”

Calypso crossed her arms. “You guess? Do you normally freeze miles of sea without checking if someone’s sailing through it?”

He sat up slowly, stretching. “Most folks stay out of this area, so I didn’t expect any company. Besides… it'll all melt and break away by sundown. Since I tried to spread it as far as I could, the ice is actually pretty thin. So… yeah.”

She glared. “That doesn’t help me now. I’ve got places to be.”

He blinked at her, then patted the sand beside his campfire. “Well… nothing to do ‘till then. I’ve got food, fire, and sake. You’re welcome to wait it out, little angry miss.”

She hesitated, then grumbled. “Fine. But I’m still annoyed.”

“I gathered.”

She plopped down beside him, unceremoniously pulling out a dried fruit bar from her bag. He offered roasted fish from a small pan she hadn't noticed before, and she begrudgingly accepted it. For a few minutes, they ate in silence, the wind rustling faintly through the trees, the low crackle of fire the only sound between them.

Eventually, curiosity won over irritation. Calypso tilted her head. “So… Admiral. What kind of training involves freezing an entire sea?”

He shrugged, sipping his sake. He didn’t seem all that bothered that she’d recognized him but, then again, he had a bit of reputation, and he was in uniform.

“Orders from the top. They wanted a full evaluation of my range, control, and environmental impact. It’s all part of a larger initiative. Something about ‘measuring strategic applications for battlefield deployment’ or something.” He shrugged. “I don’t really care. They asked me to train, so I’m training.”

Her nose wrinkled. “That sounds like a fancy way of saying ‘how best to weaponize nature itself’. It’s gonna be mighty useful for cutting off pirates’ escape routes, though.”

He hummed in agreement. “I suppose.”

“You sound… less enthusiastic about it than I expected from a Marine.”

That got a small, sideways glance. “Mm. I don’t really care about that stuff. I just follow orders—that doesn’t mean I necessarily enjoy it."

“Fair enough.” She leaned back on her elbows. “Name’s Calypso, by the way.”

At that, he paused. Looked at her again—closer this time. “Calypso,” he echoed. Then, slowly, he added: “The wandering sailor… barefoot girl with a trident. Pays in pearls, rides dolphins, surfs typhoons, and flies a flag no one’s heard about. That Calypso?”

She grinned. “The one and only. Didn’t think I had a reputation, though.”

He blinked again. “You’re… younger than I expected.”

“Yeah, I hear that one a lot.”

He seemed to chew on the thought for a while, then nodded to himself. “Huh. I’ve been hearing rumors—quiet ones. Some towns and islands in the New World have started putting up strange little marks, you see. Stickers, paint tags. Not flags, not openly. Just signs. A symbol. That rings any bell?”

She plucked a curled seashell accessory from her hair and set it down between them, revealing the spiral wave symbol carved into its center. “This one?”

He let out a low whistle. “That’s the one. A wind of change is blowing through the New World, and you seem to be the source of it.”

“Change always starts with whispers,” Calypso replied, her voice even. “The louder you shout, the more attention you get, but being loud doesn’t mean being right. So, I just talk normally, and people seem more willing to listen.”

“So that’s your goal? To change people?”

She shrugged. “Not really, no. But there’s a message the Sea wants me to pass along, so I’m just… doing my best not to let her down. Someone has to do it, and anyone could do it—it just so happens to be me, is all.”

Aokiji went quiet for a while, poking at the fire.

“You’re braver than most,” he finally said.

“I’m just free. Everyone is, but not everyone sees it, so I’m helping out with that.”

A small, rare smile tugged at his lips. He didn’t say anything else for a while, and they sat in companionable silence for a moment longer. Calypso watched the horizon, and Aokiji occasionally glanced at her, as if trying to figure something out.

“Everyone isn’t free,” he eventually said, his voice a little more subdued. “And not everyone is born equal, either. I fear you’ve undertaken a mission of change impossible to actually achieve, because people are inherently born different, and differences lead to conflicts, and conflicts lead to more defined social structures, firmer rules, and stricter ways of life. In a way, our innate differences directly undermine this freedom you’re so fond of.”

“That’s one way to see it,” she relented. “But maybe things are simpler than they appear.”

Aokiji scoffed, a bit derisively. “Such matters are never simple.”

“Sure they are. Respect each other’s differences, be free without impeding other people’s safety or own freedom, and be happy. It’s as simple as it can get, isn’t it?”

“You’re naïve.”

“And you’re embittered by your powerlessness in the face of the tyranical organization you’ve sworn yourself to. What’s your point?”

Aokiji’s eyes sharpened a bit, his shoulders grew a little stiffer. “Careful, little miss. I enjoyed this conversation so far, but don’t push it.”

“Hey, I’m just calling it as I see it,” she shrugged. “Prove me wrong—if you can. But truth of the matter is, things are only complicated because older people like you are too anchored in the old ways. Once you start letting go a bit, you’ll find that the newer generations are much more open to change than you might expect.”

“You talk of disturbing the very foundations of this world—the one thousands of Marines across all the seas have sworn to protect from people like you, who seek only to topple the natural order in which this world has functioned for the last centuries,” he accused.

Calypso stared him down for a moment, then snorted, giving up on the conversation entirely. There was no point when he wasn’t open to a bit of self-reflection, after all.

“Whatever. I told that other Admiral guy before and I stand by it: the Marines are a cult."

“We are not—!”

“Well, looks like you were right—the ice is melting away, and my ride’s here.”

“What…” Aokiji looked like he got whiplash from the sudden change of direction of the conversation. “Ride?”

She didn’t bother answering, and simply picked up her stuff before running off toward the edge of the water, where her boat had been carefully maneuvered through the miniature icebergs breaking off. She happily jumped onto it, eager to depart. She’d said what she had to say, and she’d rather not remain landlocked any longer.

Aokiji didn’t try to stop her. Hopefully, she’d given him something to think about.

Chapter Text

The first thing Calypso noticed about Elegia was how quiet it was.

Not peaceful quiet. Not the kind of gentle stillness you found when the wind died and the waves hushed into white noise. This was a dead quiet. A silence that clung to the bones of the once-grand city like dust, settling in the cracked stones and broken spires. Skipper had drifted in through the gaps of what must've once been a bustling harbor but now, only echoes of former grandeur lived here.

Calypso stepped onto the dock barefoot, as always. Skipper groaned behind her, nudging the splintering wood gently, as if reluctant to let her go. She gave the boat a reassuring pat.

"I'll be back soon, promise."

She didn't know much about Elegia. Just what little she remembered from that fuzzy, half-watched movie back in her old world. There had been music. A girl. A tragedy.

Uta.

She was the daughter of Shanks—not by blood, but by choice. A ward. A crewmate. A dreamer.

And she'd died.

But not yet, though. Not at all, if Calypso could help it.

She found the palace before noon. The streets leading to it were eerie in their emptiness, with murals of musicians and dancers fading along the walls, the color sun-bleached and chipped. There was something mournful in their eyes. The wind carried only the distant whisper of a melody, half-formed and lonely. The palace itself was largely intact, perched high on a hill that overlooked the ruined city. As she approached the gates, Calypso wasn’t surprised to find they opened without resistance—if anything, she was more surprised they were still standing at all.

A tall, hunched figure awaited her in the main hall—an older man with greying sideburns, and a patched-up skull that reminded her of Frankenstein. He watched her approach with a cautious but welcoming gaze.

"Welcome,” he said simply. “Who are you?”

Calypso inclined her head. "The name’s Calypso. And I’m just a traveler—I go wherever the sea takes me.”

The man studied her a moment, then nodded. "I am Gordon. King of Elegia. Or... what remains of it, I suppose.”

She didn’t ask. He didn’t need the reminder, and she already knew enough.

"You're welcome to stay, though there isn’t much left to offer." He glanced toward the staircase. "My ward, Uta, may be... interested in meeting someone new. We do not receive visitors often, you see.”

Calypso offered a gentle smile. "Sure, I’d love to meet her.”

He hesitated. "She has... her moods. She’s been through more than any child should. If she seems cold, do not take it personally."

Calypso simply nodded in understanding.

Uta stood in the palace library, the morning sun painting her dual hair in softer hues. She was beautiful, Calypso thought. Ethereal, like someone made of notes and dreams rather than flesh and bones. But her eyes—those were real. They were a deep purple, sharp and wounded. Uta turned as Calypso stepped in, and for a moment, they simply stared at each other.

Then Uta frowned. "Who’re you?”

"I’m Calypso. I’m just an adventurer passing through.”

Uta sniffed, going back to her book. “Then pass through and get lost.”

Calypso blinked. "Wow. That’s a bit rude, innit?”

"I don’t like visitors—especially not pirates.”

That caught her off-guard.

Calypso raised an eyebrow. "I’m not a pirate.”

Uta's mouth curled in something like disgust. "I saw you come into the harbor. You carry yourself like a pirate, you look like a pirate, and you smell like one, to boot.”

A bit perturbed, Calypso tried to subtly sniff herself. “I mean, I smell more like salt than anything else…”

“Look, I don’t care, okay? I hate all pirates, so just leave already!”

Uta angrily slammed her book against the table and wow, Calypso didn’t realize she’d shown up right in the middle of her angsty teenager phase.

“You’re all the same!” she snapped. “Freedom is all that matters to people like you—you don’t care about who you hurt or who you leave behind to achieve it!!!”

Calypso found her opening. She took a step forward. "You’re talking about Shanks."

Uta flinched. Her whole body tensed. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

"You know him?" she demanded.

Calypso nodded. "We met. I traveled with him and his crew for a bit."

Uta’s face twisted—anger, pain, betrayal all tangled together. "You really need to leave.”

Calypso didn’t move. "He talked about you."

That stopped Uta. Just for a second.

"Liar."

"He did," Calypso insisted, and she wasn’t lying. Shanks had never outright said Uta’s name, but he’d mentioned her a few times, during some of their late-night talks, when the stars were out and the alcohol loosened hi tongue. "He never gave details. But I remember how he looked. Like someone remembering a song they weren’t ready to sing again."

Uta’s shoulders shook as she turned her back to Calypso. "He’s a liar. They all are!!! They destroyed this island, killed everyone, and they left me behind!!!”

Calypso’s voice softened. "Why would they do that?"

Uta shot her a bitter glare, biting her lip hard enough to bleed. "Because they’re pirates. They never cared—not for me, not for anyone.”

Calypso didn’t argue. Not yet. She had a feeling she’d pushed her luck enough for the day so, with a simple nod, she left the library.

Her heart broke as Uta’s muffled sobs echoed behind her.

The next day, Calypso returned.

She brought freshly picked apples, a shell flute, and a story about a flying fish that mistook her for royalty and tried to marry her to its prince.

Uta stared at her like she was insane. But she didn’t kick her out.

The day after that, Calypso found her in the garden, humming to herself. She didn’t interrupt—just sat nearby and listened.

When Uta was done, she finally spoke. "Why do you keep coming back?"

Calypso shrugged. "Because you’re hurting, and I want to help.”

Uta scoffed. "Help? How? You don’t know anything about me.”

"Maybe not," Calypso admitted. "But I know what it’s like to be left behind. To be angry, with no means of fully expressing it. To wonder why the people you loved whole-heartedly didn’t stay." She cracked one eye open, studying Uta’s tense posture. “You wonder what you did wrong. What you could have done differently. Why you weren’t enough. And you don’t understand why a perfect stranger would care for you when your own family didn’t. Must be some sort of scam, right?”

“Isn’t it?” she spat back, not enjoying being read like an open book.

“I’m going to leave, too,” admitted bluntly Calypso. “But not for a little while. The Sea gets a bit lonely sometimes, and I’ve a feeling you don’t have many friends around here. So, let’s be friends! What do you say?”

Uta opened her mouth — to argue, maybe, to shout — but no words came. She turned and fled before Calypso could say anything more.

The days stretched. Calypso was relentless and, eventually, Uta stopped insulting her. Started asking questions. Where had Calypso been? What did the world look like beyond Elegia? Had she ever been to a Sky Island?

Calypso answered them all honestly, all-too-happy to see Uta finally opening up.

One evening, as the sky turned lavender, Uta asked quietly: “Do you think he ever regretted it?”

Calypso looked at her. Really looked. “Every day.”

Uta looked away. Her voice was barely a whisper. “You talk like you know him.”

Calypso smiled sadly. “Maybe not like you do. I didn’t get to spend as much time with him. But I do know he’s a good man.”

“He destroyed everything.”

“Are you sure?”

Uta hesitated. “I... It had to be them. The fire. The screams. When I woke up, the city was gone. And I watched them leave, cried for them to come back for me, and they didn’t."

Calypso was quiet for a long time, trying to find the right words.

“Memories are generally biased, interpreted through the lenses of our own feelings and experiences,” she eventually said. “And if your memories don’t match what you know of them, you need to ask yourself: which one is fake?”

Uta didn’t answer. But her fingers trembled as she reached for her pen, and started scribbling frantically in her notebook.

They spent a week like that. Gordon watched from a distance, a cautious hope blooming in his chest. Uta began composing again. She played music in the halls, and Calypso would dance or hum along. They didn’t speak of Shanks again—not directly. But the shadow of him lingered.

Until one night, Calypso found Uta in the grand hall, alone, staring at a faded wanted poster pinned to the wall.

"He smiled all the time," Uta murmured. "Their faces have faded for the most part, but his smile is still as clear as day. I hate him, I hate all of them. So why do I still care so much?”

Calypso stepped up beside her, gently squeezing her shoulder. “Because you need closure.”

“How?”

“By asking them.”

Uta stiffened, eyes widening slightly as she glanced at her. “You… You’re telling me to go? To leave Elegia?”

“I’m telling you to do what feels right for you. Shanks left when you were just a child. But you’re older now, and he’s not there anymore to tell you how to live your life.” Uta gritted her teeth, and Calypso delicately forged on. “If you’ve made your peace, then stay and pursue a career in music. But if your dream is still overshadowed by the pain they caused, then maybe… maybe you should deal with that, first.”

“I want answers. I want to know why. It’s been haunting me for years,” choked out Uta, tears brimming her eyes. “What did I do wrong…?”

“If you really want to know the truth, then you have to find it.”

Uta blinked back her tears. Her voice cracked. “And if the truth is worse than I remember?"

Calypso held her gaze. “Then at least you’ll know. And maybe you’ll start being haunted by other demons entirely, but you’ll know.”

A long silence passed. Then Uta nodded, and walked out.

That night, Calypso stood on the palace balcony, staring out at the ruined city bathed in moonlight. Inside, Uta’s music floated softly through the halls—no longer a mournful lament, but something more akin to a lullaby.

Hope was beginning to take root.

Chapter Text

The words clattered around inside Uta’s head, smashing into each other, cutting and bruising her from the inside out.

"It was you."

She sat slumped against the wall, knees pulled to her chest, staring blankly at the cracked marble floor. Her fingers curled into her sleeves, twisting the fabric over and over as if she could somehow anchor herself with the pain.

"You released the demon."

"You destroyed Elegia."

Her.

Not Shanks. Not his crew. Not pirates sweeping through the city like a tsunami of terror and senseless bloodshed.

Her.

The memories flooded back now that the truth had been unearthed — bright, searing flashes she had buried deep. The strange, dark melody hidden in the forbidden song. The way her voice had seemed to stretch and twist in the air when she sang it. The panic, the screaming, the devastation. And Shanks… He hadn’t destroyed the island. He had saved it — saved her — and left carrying a crime that wasn’t his to bear.

Uta pressed her forehead against her knees, her breath shaking. Rage warred with shame, terror with unbearable guilt.

"They lied to protect you," Gordon had said, voice low and heavy with sorrow. "We all did. We just did what we thought was best for you.”

She hated them for it. She hated herself more.

Somewhere, beneath the guilt and the rage, something dark stirred.

"It would be so easy," it whispered. "Finish it. End it."

The song still existed. She could feel it humming in the back of her mind, oily and sweet. The forbidden notes thrummed through her veins like a sickness she couldn’t shake.

"Just a few words," the demon crooned inside her skull. "A few notes, and you can make it right. Destroy the monster you’ve become."

Tears spilled hot and fast down her cheeks. She was broken. Poisonous. She didn’t deserve to exist. Not after what she had done. Her fingers dug into the stone, nails scraping uselessly.

A shadow fell over her.

“Uta,” came a soft voice — warm, familiar, unbearably kind.

Calypso.

Of course she was here. She was always here.

Uta squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could disappear into the stone. "Go away."

Instead, Calypso sat down beside her. The silence was thick, until it became unbearable.

"I found the song," Uta said hollowly, not lifting her head. "A forbidden one. I sang it when I was little. I thought… I thought it was just another lullaby." She laughed bitterly. "I destroyed everything. Everyone. And they made me believe it was someone else." She turned, finally, to look at Calypso — to make her see the monster she was. "You should hate me."

But Calypso didn’t flinch. Didn’t look disgusted. She simply reached out and took Uta’s trembling hands in her own.

"I could never hate you," she said quietly. "You were a child. You didn’t know."

"I killed them," Uta whispered, choking on the words. "I killed them all, Calypso."

"No," Calypso said firmly. "The demon killed them. You were tricked. Lied to. Manipulated. Just like you're being tricked right now."

Uta shook her head violently. "No one’s tricking me anymore!"

But even as she said it, she could feel it — the dark whisper slithering in the back of her mind, pushing, pushing—

"Sing it again," it hissed. "Sing it and let yourself be free."

"Listen to me, Uta," Calypso said, her voice cutting through the fog. She cupped Uta’s face gently, forcing her to meet her eyes. "That thing is lying to you. It’s using your pain. It doesn’t want to help you — it wants to finish what it started."

Uta trembled like a leaf in a storm. "I don’t know how to stop it."

"You don't have to do it alone," Calypso assured gently. "You have me. You have King Gordon. And you have Shanks and the others, even if they’re a little farther away.”

"But the song—" Uta gasped. "It's inside me, Calypso. It's part of me now."

Calypso smiled — small, sad, but determined. "Then let's tear it out together."

The old music hall was one of the few structures that still stood tall among Elegia’s ruins. Its stained-glass windows were shattered, and its grand piano lay in splinters, but the stage remained — a battered, weary survivor.

Uta stood on the stage, clutching the ancient sheet music that contained the forbidden song. The worn-out parchment trembled in her hands.

"You don’t have to do this," Gordon said from the foot of the stage, his voice thick with emotion.

"I do," Uta said, her voice stronger than she felt. "I have to end it."

Beside her, Calypso nodded. They had crafted some sort of counter-song together — a melody drawn from light and love and the stubborn refusal to fall to despair. It was simple, just a few, pure notes, but it should be enough – it had to be. After all, the demon had been imprisoned by music. Why couldn’t it be destroyed by it, too? And if anyone could do it, it would be Uta.

Uta closed her eyes.

She could feel the darkness stirring, recoiling in fury, sensing its end. It screamed and clawed inside her, urging her to flee, to surrender.

Instead, she lifted her voice.

At first it was only a whisper — shaky, uncertain. But Gordon was there – her mentor, her guardian, her family. And Calypso was there too, a stranger turned friend. Her first friend.

The forbidden song thrashed, twisting inside her like a wild beast caught in a net. Uta gritted her teeth, forcing the notes out, her body trembling with the effort. Light burst through the cracks of the music hall, filling the space with a radiance that burned away the shadows clinging to her heart.

The demon’s wail rose to a fever pitch — and then, with a final cry, it shattered.

The music sheet in Uta’s hands crumbled into dust, carried away on a sudden breeze.

It was over.

She collapsed to her knees, gasping, the weight of it all crashing over her. Relief, grief, exhaustion — a tide too big to hold back. And Calypso was suddenly there, steady and sure, gathering her into a fierce hug.

"You did it," she simply whispered. "You’re free, now."

For the first time in what felt like forever, Uta allowed herself to believe it.

They sat together at the top of the hill overlooking the bay, watching the sunset bleed gold and crimson across the sky.

"I have to leave," Uta said after a long silence.

Calypso turned to her, unsurprised.

"I need to find Shanks," Uta added, voice tight with emotion. "I need to see him—all of them, really.”

"You deserve answers," Calypso said gently.

"I’m still angry with them," Uta confessed. “There’s still hate. I understand, but a part of me still wants to rip them apart. Is that weird?”

Calypso smiled a little at that. “I think hate is just the heart’s way of shielding itself from pain too pure to handle. And like all wounds, it can fester if left untreated. It can still heal, but it’s gonna take a while longer, is all.”

Uta hummed in understanding. They sat in silence for a while longer, the breeze tugging at their hair, the sound of the waves below a steady heartbeat.

Finally, Uta turned to her, suddenly determined. "Will you come with me?"

Calypso’s face softened, but she shook her head.

"My journey’s different," she replied. "The Sea’s calling me somewhere else."

Uta bit her lip, blinking back tears. "I don’t want to say goodbye. You’re my first friend, and now you’re leaving me, too”

“Because we’re following our hearts, and they’re taking us in different directions, is all,” chuckled Calypso. “You have a dream, don’t you? I’m looking forward to seeing you achieve it.”

Uta’s lower lip trembled, and she suddenly pulled Calypso in an almost suffocating hug, which Calypso was quick to return. When they finally pulled apart, Uta wiped her face and managed a watery laugh.

"Fine, but I’m stealing your flag. It looks cooler than anything I’d come up with, and I don’t want people to mistake me for a pirate, either.”

"That’s okay. It’s the Flag of the Sea—it doesn’t belong to me.”

Uta laughed again — a real laugh this time — and it felt like a heavy stone finally rolling off her heart. She rose to her feet, slinging a battered travel bag over her shoulder, one King Gordon had prepared for her a little earlier with a knowing look in his eyes.

"Thank you," she said simply. “I’m glad you washed up here.”

Calypso grinned up at her, the wind ruffling her wild hair. "Me too. Tell Shanks and the others I said ‘hi’ when you find them.”

Uta grinned, determined, then set off down the broken path toward the docks, where a ship waited—one King Gordon had apparently repaired and been holding onto knowing that, one day, Uta might want to leave.

It was strange, truly, to be the one waving goodbye from the shore. Calypso understood a little better why people cried when they waved her goodbye, now. But she wasn’t sad, not really—because this may be the end of another leg of her journey, but it was the grand beginning of two others, hers and Uta’s.

Chapter Text

The Calm Belt was eerily still—too still—but Calypso was used to that. Skipper glided forward with quiet confidence, cutting across the placid water while barely making a ripple. The great Sea Kings beneath the waves stirred lazily in her presence, massive eyes blinking at her as she passed, some even swimming along beside her in silent camaraderie. She smiled at them, fond and warm. Out of all the seas, the Calm Belt was the most peaceful to her—free of the constant chaos of pirate and marine alike, since they avoided it like the plague.

Unfortunately, she’d underestimated just how much the Sea wanted to screw with her this time around.

She blinked when the horizon ahead was suddenly eclipsed by something metallic and massive, rising from the mists like a wall of death. A fleet, no—an armada—bristling with weapons and clad in black and steel, flying a banner she recognized with a groan.

"Oh, come on! The Power Ranger Parade, really?”

The massive “66” symbols, emblazoned proudly across the flags, were impossible to miss.

Germa 66.

“Ugh, they’re gonna kill me…”

She got some salty water splashed in her face, effectively shutting up her whining.

Calypso scowled as the alarm blared and several sleek mechanical ships turned in her direction. Within minutes, her boat was surrounded. She considered slipping into the water and disappearing, but before she could act on it, a clawed mechanical arm shot out and plucked her right off Skipper’s deck.

"Hey! Watch it, you almost knocked my mast over!”

Her scowl only deepened when the currents promptly carried Skipper away, effectively abandoning her to her fate as she was unceremoniously hauled aboard and dropped onto a metal-plated deck.

She’d get the Sea back for that one. She didn’t know how, but she definitely would.

The self-important, angular frame of Vinsmoke Judge wasn’t as impressive as she’d expected. Probably because she distinctly remembered him crying like a child when he realized Big Mom had double-crossed him—it had been a pretty pathetic sight. Of course, it was still four years too early to mock him for that, but she definitely wouldn’t forget it.

Beside him stood his infamous quartet of genetically enhanced offspring, each standing in color-coded smugness. Red. Blue. Green. Pink.

Judge, towering and cloaked in authority, wasted no time.

“Girl. Who are you and why were you attempting to infiltrate the Germa Kingdom?"

Calypso stared at him, deadpan. "Sorry to break it to you, pal, but your guys kidnapped me. I was literally just sailing and minding my own business when you suddenly showed up.”

“She’s obviously lying, father,” huffed the red one, Ichiji. “Our traveling route is top-secret, and no one just sails through the Calm Belt.”

“What would you know? You're just a breathing Ketchup advertisement with delusions of superiority," Calypso fired back, rolling her eyes a bit.

"How dare you speak to me that way! I am the eldest son of the Germa Kingdom!"

"Wow, congratulations on being the fastest sperm. Must be real lonely, having that as your only personality trait."

Further in the back, Yonji leaned closer to Reiju and whispered: “What’s Ketchup?”

Reiju just shrugged—she had no clue either.

Niji chuckled. "Feisty. I like 'em wild."

"And I like my trash in the bin—care to throw yourself out? Preferably from that fifteen-story window over there.”

"Why, you—"

Judge raised a hand to silence them all, his expression colder now. "You seem quite sure of yourself, girl. I ask again—what are you doing here? Are you affiliated with the World Government? A rival kingdom? An overambitious pirate crew?"

Calypso rolled her eyes. "None of the above. I told you, I was just passing by. Your oversized Roomba of a ship dragged me in before I could get out of the way, is all.”

Calypso blinked – and suddenly she was on the floor, pain exploding in her arm as Yonji mercilessly snapped it in two.

A heavy silence befell the room. But Calypso didn’t cry out in pain, only let out a ragged, shaky breath, before tilting her head back to look him in the eyes.

A shiver ran down Yonji’s spine.

‘CRA-A-A-ACK’

Everyone jumped a bit as thunder suddenly rumbled outside, dark clouds gathering at an almost impossible speed. Even for Grand Line weather, this was rather unusual. And suddenly, the very roof above their heads exploded, lightning streaking and flashing and striking Yonji directly. The blue-haired jerk collapsed with his mouth falling open in a silent scream, his entire body fuming and blackened.

“Huh.” Calypso slowly sat up, nursing her broken arm as she stared down at the spasming body beside her. “That’s new.”

She’d always felt a peculiar connection to the weather, but it was the first time it had actively responded to her. Maybe her powers were growing stronger? Or maybe the Sky had taken a liking to her like the Sea had.

One way or another, it was pretty cool.

“Devil Fruit?” asked sharply Judge, his eyes now narrowed with contemplation.

“Nope.”

Calypso said nothing else. The air around her almost shimmered with electric tension. The Sky had responded to her fury, her disgust—for the self-importance, the casual cruelty, the entitlement. It was obvious she was somehow behind the unexpected storm, and the odds of a lightning bolt strong enough to pierce through an iron roof striking Yonji yet not even singing her hair were, well, rather impossible to calculate.

Judge scrutinized her for a long moment, then barked an order: "Reiju. Take her to the guest quarters. And Ichiji, Niji! Stop laughing at your brother and bring him to the medbay to get him fixed.”

"Guest quarters?" Calypso muttered, pushing herself back to her feet. "How generous."

Reiju stepped forward—unlike her brothers, her expression was calm, thoughtful, while Ichiji and Niji were falling over themselves laughing at their brother, even though that kind of shock could have very well killed him.

They really were another kind of monsters entirely. Not their fault, Calypso knew that much, but still.

“This way,” Reiju said softly, gesturing for her to walk.

Calypso shrugged, and followed her lead. She obviously wasn’t leaving tonight, but she had a feeling Vinsmoke Judge might want to get rid of her sooner rather than later.

Because thunder crashed again outside, and the ship groaned under the weight of the storm, and there would undoubtedly be hell to pay if they hurt her again.

Calypso smirked to herself at the thought.

The Sea might have screwed her over with this one, but she still had her back.

Calypso deeply missed Big Mom's hospitality.

Say what you will about the homicidal candy matron of Totto Land, but at least when she called you a guest, you got a room with a bed, unending trays of desserts, and maybe a singing teacup or two to keep you company.

Here in the Germa Kingdom, however, a "guest room" apparently meant a damp, cold metal chamber with restraints and a drain in the center of the floor—never a good sign.

She'd been interrogated all night by two guys who probably didn't even have names, just serial numbers. They'd tried actual torture at one point, which was adorable, because the moment they touched her, the sea had burst through the reinforced glass like an angry parent late to an unscheduled PTA meeting. Calypso hadn’t even lifted a finger. That was the best part. The Sea was protecting her! About time, too. It had dragged her here, after all. And thankfully, it had also healed her arm while it was at it.

So, when the Vinsmoke family arrived that morning to find her completely unharmed and their men bruised, wheezing, and half-drowned, still clinging to the walls like soggy laundry, she greeted them with a big, sarcastic smile.

"Morning, boys. You know, I hate to complain, but your hospitality sucks.”

Ichiji narrowed his eyes. "What the hell happened here?”

“What, this? I felt up for a bath, is all. Don’t think your guys enjoyed it as much as I did, though. Is that one over there even breathing? You should probably check.”

Niji narrowed his eyes at her. "You think this is funny, you mouthy little stray?"

Calypso tilted her head. "Well, you do look like an electric toothbrush that mated with a fire hydrant, so... yeah, a little."

Yonji snarled, stepping forward. He was fully back to normal, and he certainly didn’t look like someone who’d been struck by lightning the day before, surely thanks to their enhanced healing abilities. But Judge raised his hand to silence his sons, which was honestly impressive, given their collective ego. He then turned back to her.

"You will tell us the truth, girl. No normal human can summon such storms.” His eyes lingered on her healed arm. “And they certainly don’t heal this fast, either. Are you one of Vegapunk’s?”

“Ah, he wishes. No, Old Man Apple couldn’t crack my case, either,” Calypso said, stretching as much as she could in her restraints. "But no Devil Fruit. No genetic enhancements. No tricks. The Sea just really, really likes me. I’m delightful, you know?”

Niji apparently had had enough. He stepped forward and raised a hand to slap her—

A sudden geyser of seawater exploded through the broken window, grabbed him like a toy, and slammed him so hard against the wall it left a body-shaped dent. There was a collective gasp from the peanut gallery as Niji groaned and slumped to the ground, bones audibly snapping into place with his accelerated healing.

Calypso blew a strand of wet hair out of her face. "Oops. Guess I forgot to mention: the Sea's a bit overprotective, too."

Judge looked at her  with wide, calculating eyes, now. She could practically hear the gears turning in his oversized skull.

"To command the Sea itself... Do you realize what that means? To control you—”

"You can't," she cut in. "Because I'm not a tool, or a soldier, or a little science project you can poke and prod until it bleeds data. And because Sea would never listen to people like you. You’ve got no heart. What would Sora say, honestly?”

Judge stiffened, paling just the slightest bit. Speaking of his dead wife apparently struck a bit of a nerve. She doubted her ever actually loved her, not with the way he’d treated her and disrespected her memory, but he certainly didn’t appreciate her bringing up his personal history as if it was common knowledge to the rest of the world.

Ichiji stepped forward, fists clenched. "You think you’re untouchable?"

"No. But I do think you’re very punchable," Calypso said. "Does that count for anything?"

Judge growled, losing what little patience he had. "Enough! If I can't get answers out of you here, then maybe I’ll send you inland. Deep. Somewhere the Sea doesn’t reach.”

And that’s when she lost it.

Her laughter filled the cold room, wild and loud and full of something that sounded just a little too close to hysteria. Everyone stared, thrown off by the shift in mood. She looked up at them, eyes glinting with something manic and almost ancient.

"Somewhere the Sea doesn't reach?" she echoed, chortling like the mere thought was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. “Are you all really that fucking stupid? Where the Sea doesn’t reach!? The world is gonna fucking sink, and you think there’s anywhere it won’t be able to reach?”

Silence.

Judge blinked. Reiju stiffened. Ichiji looked at his brothers, clearly unsure whether to scoff or raise an eyebrow. Yonji shrugged, spinning his finger near his temple in the classic depiction of ‘she’s fucking crazy’. Niji groaned as his last bones snapped back into place.

"What do you mean, girl?" Judge finally demanded.

Calypso blinked, calming down a bit. “Wait, what did I say?”

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Then Judge turned to Reiju. "Take her to the lowest cell, and double the security."

Calypso stretched as Reiju hesitantly grabbed her restraints and led her away. As the door slammed shut behind her, she heard the brothers break out into an argument with their father, though she couldn’t hear the actual words.

Calypso smiled lightly. She'd blanked out a bit during her rant but, whatever she’d said to freak them out, it had clearly worked.

Chapter Text

The cell was cold.

Not in the physical sense—though it was a bit damp and musty—but in that emotionless, sterile way that could only be born from a place never meant for living things. The faint scent of rusted metal, salt, and antiseptic lingered like a ghost in the air. Chains clinked softly against the chair as Calypso shifted. She wasn’t shackled as tightly anymore; after last night’s “incident,” they’d realized it didn’t matter what they used to restrain her. The Sea would not tolerate her being harmed.

She’d slept better than expected, all things considered.

It was sometime past the dead of night when the door creaked open, a sliver of neutral hallway light casting the silhouette of a lone figure. Calypso squinted, tilting her head. The gleam of soft pink hair was unmistakable, and the quiet, almost hesitant step only confirmed it further.

“Reiju,” she said, voice raspy but calm. “Come seeking answers, too? I’m afraid I don’t have more to say to you than I did your father and dumbass brothers.”

Reiju didn’t answer. She stepped inside slowly, the door clicking shut behind her. Her arms remained folded behind her back, gloved fingers interlocked, and her expression unreadable—or at least, saved for the troubled glint in her eyes.

“I want to know the truth,” she said eventually, voice low and cool. “About the world. About it sinking.”

Calypso blinked. “Oh. Is that what I said? Sorry, that’s a pretty big spoiler.”

“Is it true?” Reiju asked, stepping a little closer. “Is the world really… ending?”

Calypso’s gaze turned somber, the smirk fading. “Not ending. Sinking. Different thing.”

Reiju frowned, clearly not following.

“It happened once. And it’s going to happen again, in a few years from now.”

“Why?” Reiju asked, her brows furrowing.

“It’s manmade,” Calypso replied with a small shrug. “Engineered. Or maybe ignored into reality. Either way, it’s not too late to stop it—if enough people make the right calls. Have you ever wondered how a full century of history could simply be erased?”

“You’re talking of the Void Century—” Reiju seemed to choke a bit. “That is forbidden! Even Father isn’t stupid enough to go against the World Government and research it!”

“I mean, it’s not researching if I’m just telling you, is it? But it doesn’t matter, it’s not like I know everything. But I do know it wasn’t erased—not outright. It was lost. Swallowed by the Sea.”

Silence stretched between them. Calypso let her words linger before continuing.

“Why do you think the Celestial Dragons live so high up?” she asked, lifting her chin. “It’s not just about looking down on people. If they wanted isolation, there are a million remote islands more luxurious than that dump in the sky. But they’re up there because that’s probably the only place the Sea won’t reach, once it starts rising again.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you asked?”

“My Father asked you questions, too,” replied Reiju, clearly distrusting.

“Yeah, and I answered them too, even if he’s an asshole.”

Reiju’s mask of composure cracked ever so slightly. Her fingers tightened behind her back.

“Why are you still here?” Calypso asked, her voice now gentle, almost coaxing.

Reiju blinked. “I’m… interrogating you.”

Calypso laughed softly. “No, silly. I meant here—with Germa.”

That took the older woman by surprise. Her lips parted, then closed again. After a moment, she finally replied: “They’re my family.”

“Are they?” Calypso asked. “Or are they just people you happen to share blood with?”

Reiju hesitated.

“You don’t owe them your life just because you share a last name,” Calypso continued. “And you certainly don’t owe them loyalty they would never return.”

“I don’t expect you to understand,” Reiju said, voice tight. “Family is—complicated.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Calypso replied. “You get to choose. You get to be someone outside of what they made you. If you want to leave, then leave. Start fresh. Choose your own people.”

“And go where? To do what?” Reiju asked bitterly. “Be hunted like prey? You don’t know what they’d do if I tried. If they found out…”

“But they’re not the only family you have left. Sanji made it out, didn’t he? You helped him.”

Reiju went completely still. The silence was thick. She looked like she’d been punched.

“How…”

“The Sea likes to share some secrets, sometimes. He’s okay, if you’re wondering. Made it all the way to the East Blue, makes a living as a chef. He’s pretty damn good, too.”

“You know him…?”

“I know of him. And I know you helped him escape because despite all the genetic modifications, you still have emotions. Muted, maybe, and harder to understand, but there’s still compassion. Love.”

“Weaknesses,” she spat out.

“They don’t have to be.” After a beat, Calypso smiled lightly: “You should go to him.”

“I can’t.”

“You can,” Calypso said, sharper now. “You’re strong, Reiju. Hell, you’re probably stronger than any of them—you just don’t want to hurt them. But you’re not a kid anymore, and you’re not a prisoner. You’re alive. By definition, that means you’re free.”

Reiju opened her mouth, but Calypso cut her off.

“If you’re only in this world to live for someone else, to suffer in silence and play a role in someone else’s play, then what’s the fucking point?” Calypso’s voice cracked, passion swelling in her words. “Grow up already! Take your life and do something with it! Don’t rot here waiting for their approval, because they’ll never give it.”

Reiju flinched. She looked like she wanted to scream or cry or run. Maybe all three. Calypso slumped a bit, letting the weight of the moment settle. She didn’t press further. Instead, she leaned her head back against the wall.

“You’re free, Reiju. Whether you believe it or not.”

For a long time, neither of them spoke. Then, without a word, Reiju turned and left the cell. The door clicked softly behind her… but Reiju didn’t lock it. And, without warning, the chains restraining Calypso just loosened and clattered to the floor. Calypso exhaled, staring at the damp stone ceiling. She didn’t know if her words would stick, or if Reiju would ever find the courage to leave, but she understood why the Sea had brought her here, now.

To plant that seed of doubt. To give Reiju a choice.

And now that that was done, it was time to go.

Calypso’s escape from the Germa Kingdom wasn’t really one for the history books.

The storm that had been following the fleet for the few days she’d been kept prisoner had grown more dangerous and more unpredictable, sinking a few of their ships and dealing a great amount of damage to the rest of the armada. At this point, most of their manpower was focused on just keeping the fleet afloat and making it through without further losses.

Calypso quite literally just walked out of her cell and found her way upstairs. She quickly made it to a door leading outside, and she took a moment to breathe in the comforting, salty air tinged with static.

Thunder rolled in the background.

“Hey, isn’t that—”

“The prisoner! She’s escaped!”

“Get her!”

Calypso swiftly climbed onto the railing and turned to face the incoming soldiers. Her eyes instinctively flickered up, and she found Vinsmoke Judge observing her from his balcony a couple of floors further up.

With a laugh, she flipped him off and let herself fall backward.

The soldiers’ shouts were promptly drowned out as the Sea rose to catch her, and she vanished under the raging waves without another look back.

Chapter Text

The steady creak of wood and the rhythmic slap of water against a wooden hull roused Calypso from sleep.

She jolted upright with a gasp, disoriented. The sky stretched overhead in a gentle sprawl of blues and golds, the salt-stained air whipping around her. She was lying in a hammock tied between the mast and a post on a small fishing boat. Around her, nets hung drying in the sun, and the smell of freshly caught fish filled the air.

"Easy there, girl," said a voice.

Calypso twisted around to see an old fisherman sitting at the helm, a pipe tucked into the corner of his mouth and his hands lazily resting on the wheel. His face was tanned and weathered, with deep crow’s feet framing his eyes.

"I found you adrift," he said casually, as if he fished half-drowned girls out of the ocean every day. "Washed right up against my boat like driftwood."

"I—" Calypso paused, frowning. “Right…”

She remembered escaping from Germa. She remembered the Sea greeting her like an old friend. And then… nothing. Only darkness and salt.

She ran a hand through her tangled hair and blew out a sigh. "Thank you, for pulling me out."

The fisherman grinned, revealing a few missing teeth. "Happy to. The Sea brought you to me—it wouldn’t have been right to ignore it. You’re a stubborn one, ain’t you?”

Calypso blinked. "Stubborn?"

"Only the stubborn ones fight that hard to stay afloat even when unconscious," he said with a chuckle.

She smiled weakly, but her heart twisted. Skipper. Where was her boat? Her beloved little patchwork vessel? She hadn’t seen it since she got caught by Germa 66. The Sea would have brought it back around by this point, right? She hugged her knees to her chest, whispering a prayer to the currents that Skipper would be okay — that the Sea would protect it until she could find it again.

The fisherman noticed her glance toward the horizon and chuckled again. "Don't worry. I know these waters. We'll keep an eye out for your ship, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

She nodded, swallowing thickly. Gratitude burned behind her eyes. It was then that her gaze caught something — a mark, carved carefully into the wood of the ship’s rudder.

Her heart skipped a beat.

It was her symbol. The one she had drawn, half as a joke, half as a vow — the swirling crest that represented the Sea itself: freedom, mystery, and promises.

She swung her legs off the hammock and crossed the deck in a few quick strides, staring at the carving. It wasn’t crude. It wasn’t accidental. It was precise, deliberate — clearly done with care.

"You know that mark?" the fisherman asked, raising an eyebrow.

Calypso ran her fingers over it, feeling the grooves under her touch. "Where did you get this?"

He shrugged. "Superstition, mostly. Among us sailors, they say bearing the Sea’s Crest brings luck. Protection. As long as you love the Sea and treat her right, she’ll guide you home, and maybe bring you some gifts, too.”

"And if you don't?" she asked quietly.

The fisherman grimaced. "Those who carry it with greed or disrespect... well. The Sea don’t take kindly to that. Storms come out of nowhere. Hulls rot. Log Pose needles spin wild. Some boats just outright vanish, even." He spat over the side at the mention. "Serves 'em right, if you ask me. That mark ain't a joke."

Calypso stared at him, stunned.

The symbol she’d painted as a quiet rebellion — it was spreading. It had meaning before, to her, but it now seemed to hold meaning to others, too. It wasn’t just her own faith anymore. It was growing, shaping itself into something that touched the hearts of strangers. She felt lightheaded, unsteady, like the whole world had tilted under her feet.

"Got something else for you, if you’re interested in that symbol," the fisherman said, rummaging under a coil of rope. He pulled out a slightly damp newspaper and tossed it toward her. “Picked it up in town before heading out.”

Calypso caught it and flipped to the front page — and froze.

The headline screamed at her in bold ink:

" ‘ BLACK ARM ’ ZEPHYR GOES ROGUE —

NOW SAILS UNDER MYSTERIOUS FLAG!"

Beneath it was a grainy photo — a massive warship, unlike anything she'd ever seen, bearing the Sea's Crest on its flag and main sail.

Her knees buckled, and she sat down hard on the deck, the newspaper trembling in her hands.

Zephyr.

She remembered him vividly — the towering former Admiral who had briefly arrested her under suspicion of pirate activity. She remembered the bitter weight in his voice, the anger and sadness, the way he had stared at her as she’d explained the meaning behind her flag, as if she was absolutely crazy.

“If the pirates aren’t good, and the Marines aren’t just, and the Revolutionaries aren’t right, it can all be summarized by a single reason: their ambitions.”

She didn’t really think her reasoning had reached him. And more than just him, if the news were anything to go by—him and his entire crew had gone rogue. But why?

“But I have no ambitions to rise to, no dreams to strive for. I belong to the Sea, and the Sea guides me. It provides and it takes, it is not right or wrong, it is neither good or evil, and it is always just and always unfair. So I follow her and her alone, and do what feels right when the opportunity presents itself.”

He had left the Marines. Not to destroy the world, as she'd once feared he would, but to sail under the same flag she did.

Calypso's chest felt too small to contain everything inside it. Pride, awe, fear, hope — all tangled together in a dizzying rush.

She quickly read over the first page’s summary:

"Eyewitnesses report that ‘Black Arm’ Zephyr, former Marine Admiral and instructor, took his leave from the Navy following ideological clashes with the World Government. He now commands a ship named ‘The Promise’, and sails under a flag bearing the Sea’s Crest, a symbol quickly growing in popularity among coastal communities.

Sources claim Zephyr has taken up protecting those who sail under the Sea’s symbol, intervening against pirates, slavers, and even former colleagues.

Though the Marines officially brand him a rogue, many in the New World now hail him as a new kind of hero — a warden of the waves who is seemingly determined to do what is right, rather than what is just. Could this be the beginning of a new faction of power entirely? What does this mean for the already precarious balance between the Seven Warlords and the Four Emperors?

More on page 1-2-3.”

Calypso pressed a trembling hand over her mouth. Her simple little hope wasn’t hers alone anymore. It had seeded itself into the world while she wasn’t even looking.

The fisherman leaned over her shoulder, squinting at the photo. "Saw that ship once, y'know," he said. "Came right past my village. Pirates had been raiding the coast for weeks, and the Marines did nothing. But this one — he came storming in like God’s divine judgement itself. Drove 'em off. And he didn't ask for payment after that, either. Just raised that flag of his, saluted the Sea, and left, claiming the currents had other places to take them.” He patted the wheel fondly. "That's when I carved the mark into my rudder. Figured if it’s good enough for a great man like that, it's good enough for me."

Calypso wiped her eyes quickly, embarrassed. "I'm... glad to hear that. Do you have any idea of where the symbol comes from, though?”

"Can't say I do," the fisherman replied with a small shrug. "Some rumors say it’s from a mermaid, others from an old, forgotten God. I also heard tales of a girl who likes paying in pearls and blessings, and some say the Sea herself sent her." He laughed. "Sounds crazy, eh? Don’t mind my rambling, girly.”

Calypso smiled, quickly blinking back her tears, her heart swelling to the point of aching.

"Yeah," she said, her voice thick. "Crazy."

They sailed in companionable silence for a while, the waves lapping gently against the hull. Calypso looked out over the endless expanse of water, the horizon blazing with the fire of a setting sun. Once, she had been alone — just a strange girl in a strange world, clinging to a battered boat and a wish too big for her hands to hold.

Now?

Now there were fishermen carving her mark into their ships. Towns whispering about her in awe. An ex-Admiral raising her flag like a beacon.

She turned to the fisherman with a sudden grin. "What's your name?"

"Me? Call me Jorah."

"Thank you, Jorah," she said.

"For what?"

"For saving me. And for showing me this. It means a lot to me.”

He gave her a lopsided smile. "Anytime, girl. The Sea takes care of her own."

Calypso chuckled in agreement and climbed up onto the rail, balancing effortlessly even as the boat rocked beneath her. Ahead, a pod of dolphins leapt from the water, silver flashes in the dying light. Gulls circled overhead, crying out like heralds.

Calypso threw her arms wide to the sky, the wind catching her hair as she laughed.

Chapter Text

The island rose up before them like a watercolor painting, soft greens blending into browns, framed by the endless glittering blue of the sea. Calypso leaned over the side of Jorah’s small boat, excitement buzzing under her skin. It had been too long since she’d set foot on solid land, and she was quite curious to find what awaited her there.

Jorah caught her eagerness with a chuckle. "Welcome to Lunora," he said proudly, steering toward the bustling port. "Small island, big heart."

Calypso grinned. "Looks lively."

Lunora’s port city sprawled out ahead of them — a lively maze of docks, warehouses, and colorful buildings stacked like patchwork up the hills. Sailors and merchants bustled up and down the piers, their shouts and laughter mingling with the cries of gulls. Beyond the port, winding dirt roads snaked off into the countryside, leading toward scattered villages tucked between hills and forests. From what Jorah had told her during the journey back, Lunora was like a quilt stitched from dozens of small communities, all connected by trade and friendship, gathering here at the port city like rivers flowing back out to sea.

The boat bumped gently against the dock, and Jorah threw a line over one of the worn posts. Calypso hopped onto the planks with the grace of someone born on the waves.

"Thank you again," she said, turning to him.

He waved her off with a bark of laughter. "Bah! Anyone with a soul woulda done the same. Take care of yourself, girl."

Calypso smiled — then dug into the pouch at her side. She pulled out three small pearls, each one smooth and glistening in the sunlight, and pressed them into his rough palm.

"For your kindness," she said simply.

Jorah's brows furrowed in confusion — until a flicker of recognition lit in his eyes. He looked at the pearls, then at her — really looked — and his mouth parted slightly in realization. Before he could say anything, however, Calypso had already melted into the crowd, her bare feet light against the worn wood of the dock.

Jorah watched her go, gratefulness stuck in his throat as he belatedly realized just who exactly he’d rescued. And then, he simply tipped his hat toward her retreating form, a slow smile stretching across his weathered face.

Calypso plunged into the chaos of Lunora’s port, breathing it in like fresh air.

Vendors hawked exotic fruits and shining trinkets. Sailors argued good-naturedly over crates. Children darted between legs with mischievous grins, and the tang of salt and smoke filled the air. She wandered, savoring the feeling of being small in a big, loud, living place.

Her mind, of course, was never far from Skipper. But even so, she couldn't help but let her curiosity guide her feet.

She wove through the market square, admired the handwoven sailcloth, tasted strange new fruits offered by grinning merchants. She even helped an old woman lift a heavy crate onto a cart — earning a handful of sticky, sweet candies as thanks. Eventually, though, her steps brought her to the shipwright’s row — a line of docks where small vessels bobbed in the water, each one marked with a price sign. Calypso squatted down to examine a tiny sailboat, no bigger than a fishing skiff. It had a chipped hull and a single patched sail, but it looked seaworthy enough. Maybe it could carry her until she found Skipper again.

She ran a hand along the wood, considering.

And then, the air shifted.

Something instinctual prickled down her spine. She straightened slowly, her fingers tightening. There — movement. Shadows converging at the edges of her vision. Heavy-duty boots marching in rhythm, the clicking noises of riffles being armed. She turned, and suddenly found herself surrounded.

Marines. A full squadron. Rifles leveled. Faces grim.

The world narrowed sharply as their leader came into view. At their head, walking through the wall of white uniforms like a blade carving through flesh, was a man she recognized instantly.

Admiral Akainu.

Huh. Looks like I’m three for three.

Calypso’s heart thudded painfully.

He looked just like she remembered from the story — broad-shouldered, imposing, his white coat draped around his massive form, the mantle of a violent justice. His face was carved from stone, his jaw set, his mouth in a hard, unforgiving line. The brim of his cap cast a deep shadow over his burning eyes.

The dock seemed to fall silent around them, save for the slap of water and the distant caw of a gull. For a long moment, Calypso simply stared, her hands loose at her sides, her mind working furiously.

This was no random patrol. They were here for her.

"‘Daughter of the Sea’ Calypso," Akainu said, his voice rough and cold as molten rock. She barely even had the time to register her brand-new title. "You are under arrest."

The Marines tightened their circle, guns glinting in the sun.

Calypso tilted her head slightly, forcing her voice to stay calm. "On what charges?"

Akainu’s lips curled downward in something almost like disgust.

"Collusion with criminal elements. Inciting rebellion against the World Government. Aiding the illicit revolutionary movement. The creation of an unauthorized symbol designed to undermine Marine authority." He took a step closer, smoke sizzling faintly at the edges of his clenched fists. “You have committed crimes of sedition, disturbing the peace, and infiltrating Marine-affiliated entities, as well. And you are the prime suspect in the cold-blooded murder of King Albrecht. Do you dare deny these charges?”

Calypso stared at him, unblinking.

They were talking about the Sea’s Crest. Her mark. The tangible proof of the changes she’d managed to achieve in barely over a year of being in this world. She felt a jolt of something fierce and hot in her chest — anger, yes, but also a strange kind of clarity. She squared her shoulders, refusing to back down, and she met Akainu’s burning gaze head-on.

“All I’ve ever done is sail. Help where I can. Protect what matters." She paused, furrowing her brows a bit. "I mean, I vaguely remember feeding a royal jerk to a Sea Beast, but does it count as murder if I didn't outright kill him?"

A muscle in Akainu’s jaw ticked.

"You've corrupted countless innocents," he growled. "Led them to question the order that keeps the world from tearing itself apart."

Calypso laughed, the sound bright and strong and completely out of place in the face of someone who could and would kill her without hesitation, with or without orders.

"Order?" she echoed. "Is that what you call it, when you claim to protect innocents yet blatantly support their enslavement? When you let Celestial Dragons burn entire islands down for sport?” She took a step forward — tiny against his looming figure, but somehow, the space seemed to shift with her. "You think me a threat, but I think you a fool. They call you the World Government’s dog, but you’re really just one of Imu’s bitches.”

For a heartbeat, the only sound was the crackle of lava curling at Akainu’s fists. The Marines around her tensed, ready for battle, but very visibly confused by the name she’d just unceremoniously dropped—even Akainu seemed briefly thrown by it, and she belatedly remembered that he wasn’t the Fleet Admiral just yet, he didn’t actually know who occupied the throne in Marie Geoise.

Oops, spoilers.

Calypso’s mind raced. She couldn’t fight her way out of this. Not here, not against Akainu — not without endangering the civilians around them. She needed a plan, and fast. But before she could move, Akainu spoke again, voice cutting through the thickening tension.

"You will be tried," he said coldly. "And when you are found guilty, you will be erased."

The words fell like stones into the heavy air.

Calypso felt the tremor run through the crowd — the sailors and merchants frozen at the edges of the square, watching with wide, fearful eyes.

She forced herself to breathe evenly.

Think. Think.

Stalling for time, she shrugged lightly, a small, reckless smile tugging at her lips.

"Erased, huh? Like all those stories from the Void Century?”

Something flickered in Akainu’s expression — something she couldn't quite place. Fury, perhaps. Or contempt. Or maybe he was happy she’d given him just enough to justify her immediate execution, after all.

"Seize her," he snapped.

The Marines surged forward.

Calypso moved — fast, ducking low and rolling under a lunging Marine’s outstretched arms. She vaulted over a stack of crates, scattering fish and ignoring shouting vendors, and sprinted for the alleys beyond the docks. Shots rang out. Bullets whistled past her. Heat seared the air as a plume of magma exploded against the ground where she had stood seconds before. She didn’t look back. Her bare feet slapped against the cobblestones, dodging between startled townsfolk and darting through narrow side streets.

I’ve gotta lose him, she thought, weaving deeper into Lunora’s labyrinthine back alleys. Or at least get him away before he burns the town to the ground...!

She could hear the Marines thundering after her, their shouts echoing off the walls. But Calypso had spent the last year growing up through chaos and narrow escapes. She was a dancer, a wingless bird, a New World veteran, and she'd be damned if she let the erase the story she'd only begun writing.

Chapter Text

The rocking of the ship was steady, almost hypnotic, the perfect lullaby after a long night of bailing water and repairing torn sails. Portgas D. Ace lay sprawled across the deck of the Spadille, his hat pulled low over his face to block out the bright midday sun. His breathing was slow and even, the faint salt tang in the air soothing. He might've stayed like that all afternoon if not for the sudden, sharp crack of gunfire — followed by a low, distant boom that rattled the wooden boards beneath him.

Ace bolted upright immediately, his instincts flaring awake before his mind could catch up.

"What the hell—?" he muttered, pushing his hat up and scanning the horizon.

Around him, his crew was already reacting, scrambling to decks, peering toward the island that loomed nearby. Lunora, if he remembered correctly — some sleepy little trade island tucked away far from any major Marine routes, though they’d still decided to be careful and had dropped anchor on the opposite side of the island to avoid attention.

But what the hell was causing that racket?

"Deuce!" Ace called out. “What’s happening over there?”

His second-in-command, face hidden behind his ever-present mask, jogged up, a coil of tension in his shoulders.

"It's coming from the port city," Deuce said grimly, jerking his thumb toward the column of smoke just visible over the little hills and patches of trees. "It looks like Admiral Akainu is in town.”

Ace stiffened. “The Magma Mutt? The hell is he doing on this backwater island?”

"I don’t know, but we should go," Deuce said, voice urgent. "Now, Captain. The Spadille isn’t in a good-enough shape for a full-scale fight with an Admiral, let alone him.”

Ace grit his teeth, glaring at the smoke in the distance.

"I’m not picking a fight," he said, eyes narrowed on the horizon. "But if that bastard’s here, causing problems... He’s real close to Pops’ territory, and I want to know why." He adjusted his hat with deliberate care, then nodded, making up his mind. "We’re under Whitebeard’s flag, now. The Admirals don’t get to pick fights with Emperors without consequences—even he knows that."

Deuce didn’t look convinced. "That's hardly going to stop him."

"Maybe, but I still need to check it out. I’ll go alone," Ace said firmly. "Prep the ship for a hasty departure. You need to be ready to take off at a moment’s notice.”

Deuce gave a sharp nod, then turned around and started shouting orders to the rest of the crew. As they all scrambled to obey, Ace didn’t wait any longer, knowing he could trust his First Mate with the task. He was already vaulting over the side, flame sparking at his heels as he landed on Striker below and quickly undid the knots tying it to the Spadille. With his flames powering its engine, he shot across the water like a burning comet, heading straight for the thickening plumes of smoke.

He reached the outskirts of the port city in minutes.

The shoreline here was shallow, the water lapping quietly at the sand — an eerie contrast to the chaos unfolding further inland. Ace slowed Striker down as he reached the shore, hitting the sand a bit roughly. He'd arrived just behind some big rocks, and he took a closer look at the situation from there.

The Marines had swarmed the beach just outside the city, forming tight formations  with rifles and swords. Smoke curled from splintered docks where Akainu’s attacks had missed their mark, and all civilians seemed to have disappeared at the first sign of trouble. And there — at the center of it all — was Akainu himself, a mountain of rage and lava. He was facing off against a single figure.

Ace squinted, heart thudding strangely. It was a girl — barefoot, soaked, defiant even as she stood alone against the Admiral.

Something about her...

Ace’s gut twisted sharply.

He knew her. He knew her. Flashes of memory surfaced — whispered stories, half-forgotten words around a campfire. Sabo’s voice, soft but certain:

"There was a girl. She helped me remember. Helped me come back.

Her name’s Calypso.”

Ace’s breath caught painfully.

“You’ll know it’s her. The moment you meet her, you’ll know.”

He hadn’t understood at the time—hadn’t really cared much to, really, when his long-lost brother had seemingly returned from the dead. But now, as his eyes just briefly met hers, Ace knew this was the girl to whom he owed Sabo’s miraculous return.

He started moving forward — but he was too late.

Akainu moved like an avalanche, fist transforming into a molten hammer of death. The girl tried to dodge, she really did, but she was exhausted, slowed by wounds Ace hadn’t noticed until now. Her ankle twisted in the sand.

And then—

The blow landed, with a sickening, wet crack.

Ace saw it all, the way her body arched, the way her eyes widened in shock, the way a spray of blood painted the shallow waters behind her red. Akainu punched straight through her chest. No hesitation, no mercy. The girl collapsed, her body crumpling into the shallows like a broken doll.

The world seemed to stop. For one heartbeat — Two — Three —

Ace couldn’t breathe.

He stared at her still form, horror anchoring his feet to the ground.

She wasn’t moving.

She wasn’t breathing.

He’d been looking for her for almost a year. She’d brought Sabo back. He wanted to find her so he could thank her properly, like he’d thanked Shanks all those years ago for saving Luffy. And now he’d found her, he’d finally found her and—

He was too late.

The Sea itself seemed to mourn her, the tide lapping gently against her body, the rocking waves growing stronger by the second, and something inside Ace snapped. He exploded forward, fire roaring to life around him. Akainu turned at the last second, only to catch a full-force fire punch to the face that sent him staggering back a step, surprise flashing in his eyes. Ace then swiftly planted himself between the Admiral and the fallen girl, flames curling protectively around him.

"You bastard," Ace snarled, voice low and shaking with fury. "You killed her!”

Akainu wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth, his expression hardening.

"She should never have been born," he said simply, as if that excused everything.

Ace’s vision blurred red.

"This was the girl who saved my brother," he said through gritted teeth. "She brought him back to us. She didn’t deserve this."

Akainu sneered. “A mistake finally erased, is all she was.”

Ace’s fists clenched so tightly his knuckles cracked. He didn’t care much about the consequences of picking a fight with a Marine Admiral anymore. All he knew, all he cared about, was that this girl, who had given him so much without even knowing it, at least deserved to be avenged. He didn’t care about strategy. Didn’t care about odds. He was going to make Akainu pay, no matter what it cost.

But, just as he was about to launch himself at the Admiral again, something in the air… shifted. A murmur rippled through the surrounding Marines — gasps, sharp intakes of breath, weapons clattering to the ground in shock. Ace faltered, mid-stride, confused. His narrowed gaze instinctively flicked sideways, toward the fallen girl.

And then —

"Ugh... that one hurt..."

A voice. Raspy, weak, but alive.

Ace’s heart jumped into his throat. He turned fully, barely daring to believe what he was seeing. The girl — the one Akainu had punched a hole clean through — was moving. First her fingers twitched in the sand. Then her arms pushed against the muddy sand, trembling but determined. Slowly, painfully, she dragged herself upright, sitting back on her heels in the shallow surf.

Ace’s mouth went dry.

He could see the damage Akainu had done, could still see the ragged hole in her chest where molten magma had torn through flesh and muscles and bones. It gaped open grotesquely. But something even more impossible happened: the wound began to knit itself back together. Seawater clung to her like living threads, stitching her body closed at an unnatural speed. Blood and salt shimmered under the midday sun as the gap in her chest sealed itself, the skin smoothing over as if it had never been breached in the first place. By the time the last drop of water fell away, a mere few seconds later, she was whole again.

Alive.

Breathing.

Standing.

Ace couldn’t move. Could barely think.

Around him, Marines gawked, frozen in disbelief. Even Akainu took an unconscious step back, eyes narrowing in sudden, cautious calculation.

The girl staggered a little on her feet, then squared her shoulders, glaring at Akainu with a fury so potent it made the air crackle. Her wet hair plastered to her face, her arms trembled slightly, but her voice, when she spoke, was steady and full of quiet wrath.

"My turn, you pathetic little murder-hobo.”

She raised one hand — almost lazily — and snapped her fingers.

The Sea answered. With a deafening roar, the waters surged forward.

A massive wall of ocean rose up behind her, higher than any ship’s mast, dark and trembling with barely restrained power. For a moment, it hung suspended, casting a shadow over the entire dockyard. The Marines around immediately tried to make a run for it, but they couldn’t possibly outrun a literal tsunami.

Ace instinctively braced himself, but the water didn’t touch him. Instead, the wave slammed down over the Marines with crushing force.

Screams and shouts were swallowed instantly as the tidal surge swept the soldiers off their feet, sending them tumbling helplessly like driftwood. Even Akainu was knocked back, unable to anchor himself against every Devil Fruit user’s greatest weakness. Ace watched, half-stunned, half in awe, and still very much dry, somehow, as the girl directed the water with a flick of her wrist — precise, deliberate, sparing the nearest buildings, sparing him — as if the sea itself was obeying her command.

When the wave finally receded, the beach was in absolutely ruins. Most of the Marines were unconscious or worst off, drowned and sprawled out across the flooded beach. Akainu’s form laid further back, blood trickling down his head, though Ace couldn’t say for certain if he was dead. Then, the girl, Calypso, turned toward Ace, her eyes locking onto his. Ace’s breath caught in his throat, a slight chill running down his spine. It felt as though he was looking into an abyss, the darkness almost ready to swallow him whole at the simplest movement.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then, her knees buckled. Ace cursed and darted forward just in time to catch her as she collapsed again, her body slack with exhaustion, but still very much breathing once more.

"Got you," he muttered, carefully hefting her up.

No time to waste.

Without another word, Ace rushed back to Striker and settled the girl carefully in the small boat. It was a bit awkward, it wasn’t exactly made for more than one person, but they needed to escape quickly before Akainu regained his senses. The engine roaring back to life with his flames, and they promptly took off toward the Spadille.

As soon as he climbed back aboard, carefully carrying the girl with him, he was met with absolute chaos. His men crowded the railings, shouting and waving frantically.

"Captain!"

"What was that gigantic wave!?”

"Did you actually fight Akainu!?”

Ace ignored them all, focused only on the fragile weight in his arms.

"Clear a path!" he barked, leaping onto the deck.

The crew scrambled back instantly, stunned into silence by the sight of the unconscious girl he carried.

"Skull!" Ace called out. “Get Deuce to the medbay—now!”

One of his ever-loyal top three officers, Skull, hurried off to find the First Mate with wide eyes and a sharp salute.

Ace quickly carried the girl toward the infirmary himself, ignoring the way the crew stared after them in open-mouthed astonishment. They probably thought he’d kidnapped a kid at this point, which—fair, he kind of did, but it was to save her life!—but he’d deal with explanations later.

As soon as he reached the medbay, he laid her carefully on the medical cot, brushing damp hair out of her face. Up close and finally able to take a moment to breathe again, he could see how young she really was — no older than Luffy, that much was certain. Her features were roughened, her sun-tanned complexion dangerously pale beneath the patches of sand drying on her skin. She honestly didn’t look like much, but…

She had stood against Akainu, and miraculously survived a definitely lethal blow.

He understood a little better why Sabo had had such a hard time describing her.

Masked Deuce, a man of many talents as he also happened to be the crew’s doctor, came bustling in a moment later. He froze when he saw the girl, though, the first words of a harsh scolding dying on his tongue—he’d obviously been expecting to patch up his reckless Commander.

"What in the hell...?"

"I’ll explain later," Ace assured. “Just… Check her over? Akainu almost killed her. She doesn’t look hurt anymore, but she collapsed again, so…”

Deuce, to his credit, didn’t ask any further questions. He set to work immediately, muttering under his breath about the World Government lapdogs now attacking defenseless kids—he obviously hadn’t caught onto the fact that she was the one behind that tsunami. Ace watched for a moment, then headed back out, knowing she was in good hands. His crew was waiting for him, clustered anxiously around the mast.

Mihar stepped forward first, arms folded tightly across his chest.

"You want to tell us what the hell just happened, Commander?”

Ace ran a hand through his hair. “Sure, but not now. We need to leave right away. There’s no telling if Akainu’s gonna come after us—”

“You mean after that kid you brought back,” sharply pointed out Teach.

The imposing man’s statement sent a ripple of murmurs throughout the crew, and Ace stared him down, a bit unimpressed. There were many things he admired about Teach, but he knew the man was a bit of a coward at heart, and always prioritized the easy way out, even if it wasn’t always the right one. He probably figured that handing the kid over in would allow for a smoother escape, but Ace certainly wasn’t about to agree to that.

“This is the girl who brought my brother back.” A heavy silence fell upon the group—they all distinctly remembered that particular reunion. “I’m not leaving her to die at the Magma Mutt’s hands. Got it?”

“Aye, Commander,” immediately relented Teach, knowing better than to question his authority any further. “Well, you heard him, boys! Get moving!”

Orders were shouted soon after. Sails unfurled rapidly. The ship groaned as it swung away from the island, picking up speed with the wind. Ace returned to the infirmary, arms crossed tightly over his chest as he sat in the chair near the cot where she laid, heart still hammering from the chaos of it all.

“How is she?”

“Perfectly fine,” assured simply Deuce, putting away his supplies. “It looks like she passed out from exhaustion—nothing a few hours of rest and a good meal can’t fix.”

“Good,” sighed Ace, relieved.

“We’re headed back for the fleet?” then asked Deuce.

“Yeah.” The thought of returning to the rest of his newfound family brought a smile to Ace’s lips. “I’ve got a feeling Pops is gonna want to meet her, too.”

Chapter Text

The world was still. The kind of stillness that only existed on the open ocean in the dead of night, when even the wind dared not disturb the slumbering waves.

Calypso sat perched on the railing, bare feet dangling above the sea as the occasional spray of saltwater kissed her ankles. Each splash sent a soft jolt up her spine — cool, grounding. Real. She needed that. She craved it, even, because a part of her didn’t feel fully there, like a limb gone numb after being still for too long.

The deck behind her was dimly lit by a hanging lantern swinging gently with the ship’s slow movements. The creak of wood and distant snores of sailors filled the silence like white noise. But she couldn’t sleep. Hadn’t tried, really, not since she’d woken up in an unfamiliar bed an hour ago, with her head swimming and her heart strangely hollow, like something vital had been scooped out of her and tossed into the sea.

She remembered everything. The magma. The pain. The hole in her chest. And then — nothing. Only darkness, and the mind-numbing cold.

Her fingers ghosted over her sternum, expecting at least some ridged scar, some evidence of what had happened. But her skin was unblemished. Soft. Warm.

No mark. No wound.

She hadn’t died, that much she knew. But she’d come terribly close to it. And the Sea had brought her back but in giving, it had also taken something. She just didn’t know what. And that strange, empty feeling clinging to her bones — that wasn’t the same as a physical injury. It was like something had been… washed out. Like the sea inside her had receded, just a little. Not gone, but quieter. Dormant. The echo of a storm lingering.

She sighed and let the next splash of seawater hit her toes, letting it distract her, soothe her.

“I’d been wondering where you’d gone to.”

The voice, casual and unfamiliar, cut through the night like a blade. Calypso jumped and lost her balance with a startled yelp. Her arms flailed instinctively, but before she could tip over the side, a firm hand caught her by the back of her torn jacket and hauled her back like she weighed nothing.

"Whoa there, easy," the voice added with a chuckle.

She was carefully deposited back on her feet, and she turned to face her unexpected visitor. She was a bit embarrassed, and half laughing from the shock of it.

"Sorry, you startled me," she muttered, brushing hair out of her face.

She wasn’t entirely surprised to find Portgas D. Ace standing before her, one eyebrow raised, a faint grin tugging at his mouth. She’d recognized their telltale moustached-skull flag they were sailing under, and she’d been expecting to run into him before long.

But still…

He’s going to die. How strange, to see a dead man walking.

"I’m guessing you’re the one who saved me from Akainu?” she guessed lightly.

“I mean, you pretty much saved yourself,” he replied in a knowing tone, though she wasn’t quite sure what he was referring to. “But yeah, I figured it’d be best if we got out of there as quickly as possible.”

“Well, thank you, then. You didn’t have to do that.”

But he shook his head. “No, I really did. You probably don’t know this, but I actually owe you a great debt.”

“A debt?”

“Yes. My brother, Sabo, practically returned from the dead a couple of months ago. He’d lost his memories many years ago, and we’d believed him dead all this time… but you miraculously returned his memories! He said something about you flying off a dolphin’s back…? It didn’t make much sense, honestly.”

As Ace awkwardly tried to explain the situation, Calypso finally started connecting the dots. She vaguely remembered having landed on a smart-looking gentleman a while back, and she did think him familiar at the time, but she hadn’t realized it had been Sabo himself!

“… so yeah, he came back thanks to you,” concluded Ace, offering her a small grin. He then bowed deeply. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” she replied, before extending her hand. “I’m Calypso.”

“Ace.”

They shook hands. Calypso couldn’t help but notice that his hand was extremely warm—or maybe hers was too cold, if the frown that graced his features was anything to go by.

“Are you… doing okay? I mean, you almost died…” he suddenly recalled.

She hesitated. “Physically? Yeah. I think. I mean, I’m standing, so that’s something. But... there’s this weird fog in my head. Like I lost something. Like I’m here, but not all the way.” She couldn’t help but glance back to the water stretching behind them, a strangely deep longing almost making her wish she could dive under and never come up for air. “A- anyway, I think it’ll just take me a moment to bounce back, is all.”

Ace nodded slowly. He clearly didn’t understand what she was trying to say, but she could hardly blame him for it. She barely understood it herself.

“Well, however you pulled that off, it was very lucky,” Ace replied. “Rare are those who face the Magma Mutt head on and live to tell the tale.”

Calypso simply shrugged, unsure of what else to say. She could feel the push and pull of the currents underneath her feet, the rolling of the waves in her ears, like when you listened through a seashell. If she closed her eyes and focused just enough, she could almost feel the blood rushing through her veins, every single heartbeat matching the rising of the tide—

"Where are we headed?" she asked, shaking it off with a light shake of the head.

"To rendezvous with Whitebeard’s fleet,” answered Ace. “I figured it’d be safer if Akainu somehow got into his head to chase after us.”

“Oh, that’s smart.”

“Wait, why do you sound surprised!?”

She laughed lightly. “The Strongest Man in the World… I’ve heard tales, but does he really live up to them?”

“He’s incredible,” immediately assured Ace, visibly proud. “But you know, we’ve been hearing tales ‘bout you, too. He’s just as curious about you.”

“He is? Whatever for?”

But Ace simply shrugged. “Not quite sure, honestly. But you’ve been making waves in the New World, and you have been traveling around without a care for whose territory you were intruding, so…”

At that, Calypso couldn’t help but scoff. “Territories? The Sea belongs to all. I’ll go where I please, thank you very much.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” simply laughed Ace. “I think Pops’ gonna like you. We should get there in about five days, give or take.”

Calypso looked out at the stars, her expression unreadable. "Five days, huh?" She nodded, then pushed away from the railing, stretching her arms. "Guess I better try and get some more rest while I can. Just because I feel like a ghost doesn’t mean I should look like it.”

Ace snorted, then bid her goodnight. He watched her go, mind full of questions. Everything about Calypso seemed completely unnatural, quite frankly. He’d though speaking with her would alleviate that feeling of otherworldliness, but it only aggravated it.

His grin faded into a quiet, thoughtful line.

That girl had stared down an Admiral. Almost died, then got back up. And then, she controlled the Sea like it was an extension of herself. And now fully awake, she still didn’t look entirely there. Her eyes kept straying back to the horizon, as if something out there was calling out to her alone. And she walked, her fatigued feet unsteady, yet the ship always rocking just right to keep her standing.

And her eyes…

He’d heard once that eyes were the windows to the soul. But hers? They weren’t windows, but mirrors, and they reflected the world in its rawest form. It was a mix of moonlight and wilderness and storms, and they scared the fucking shit out of him.

He would forever be grateful to Calypso, for bringing Sabo home. But a part of him, one he’d never dare admit out loud, was genuinely scared of her.

She was life and death wearing a girl's skin, and doubts began creeping.

He had a bad feeling about the incoming days.

The second day aboard Ace’s vessel dawned with a sense of unease. Calypso wandered the ship, her thoughts adrift. She felt hollow, still, but worse than the day before. She could feel a ripple underneath her skin, a crawling urge to return what was given.

It wasn’t a gift, but a bargain.

The Sea had given her life, and it now required something else in return.

She was still trying to make heads and tails of this strange situation when she suddenly encountered the boogeyman himself—Marshall D. Teach, that is. Tall and broad and reeking of booze and future betrayal. He offered her a friendly grin that didn’t reach his eyes and extended a hand in greeting.

"Ah, good to see you back on your feet, kiddo. Heard you gave Akainu a run for his money—good on ya!" he said jovially. "Name's Teach. Welcome aboard!”

Calypso met his gaze, her eyes narrowing as a chill ran down her spine.

Death stood before her, asking for a handshake.

And she understood.

“A storm is coming,” she simply said, looking Teach right in the eyes.

Teach's smile faltered for a moment, but he quickly recovered, chuckling as he awkwardly pulled his hand back. "Always is, out here on the sea. That’s the life we pirates signed up for, ain’t it?”

Calypso didn’t spare him another word. She simply turned and walked away, leaving Teach staring after her, his mask briefly cracking to reveal a much more somber expression.

That night, the sea turned unexpectedly violent. Winds howled, and waves crashed against the ship as the tempest of the century bore down upon them. The crew scrambled to secure sails, rigging, and supplies, their shouts barely audible over the storm's roar.

Calypso waited in the shadows, until it was time to strike.

The Sea had given Calypso everything – now, Calypso needed to give back.

“What—!”

Teach didn’t even see her coming. Hidden by the violent rain, isolated from view, Calypso swiftly kicked Teach right overboard. The moment she heard that satisfying ‘SPLASH’, she swiftly slinked away, so as to avoid any suspicion.

The storm kept on raging. A minute passed, then another.

And then, the void that had been consuming Calypso’s chest abruptly faded away.

She smiled, relieved, then went out to help the rest of the crew.

As dawn broke, the storm subsided, leaving a calm, eerie silence in its wake. The crew gathered on deck, surveying the damage. Suddenly, a shout rang out.

"Something's floating over there!"

“What—”

“Damn it!”

They pulled the bloated, battered body of Marshall D. Teach aboard, laying him gently on the deck. Calypso stayed in the back as they all cried for their fallen brother. They blamed one another for not noticing his disappearance, for not realizing he’d been swept overboard, for not helping him when he needed them…

They mourned a monster who would have seen them all dead and buried if it so suited his fancy. Ace, in particular, was struck with grief, the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders as the Commander.

At some point, he wandered over to her side, eyes dark with grief.

“Did you see him fall?” he asked tightly. “Could you have helped him?”

“I didn’t,” she answered, the lie rolling off her tongue with ease. “But I don’t think I could have helped him even if I had.”

“Why not!?”

“You may think I control the Sea, but I’m really just her messenger. If the Sea took him, then it must have been for a reason beyond our understanding.” She carefully squeezed his shoulder. “A choice was made. I’m sorry.”

Ace gritted his teeth and stormed off without another word. A few looks were thrown their way, some lingering a little longer on her. It was only natural that they’d be suspicious, but Calypso didn’t really care. It’s not like she’d be sticking around for much longer.

And, like Teach himself said, that was the life they signed up for, wasn’t it?

Chapter Text

The sea was calm.

It wasn’t a rare thing in the New World, but it felt different, this time around—like the ocean itself was holding its breath. Whitebeard stood at the bow of the Moby Dick, his naginata resting against his shoulder, the scent of salt ever-present in the wind. His eyes, sharp and weathered by time and battles fought, were locked on the approaching ship.

Ace’s division was returning.

But this wasn’t a routine homecoming.

There’d been a shift—something in the tides, subtle but persistent. It had started a few days ago. He hadn’t been able to place it then, and he still couldn’t place it now. But he’d already heard news of one of his sons’ untimely passing, and he knew the two were connected, even if he couldn’t say how just yet.

“You feel it too?” Marco landed beside him, voice low. “The sea’s... quieter today.”

Whitebeard didn’t look away from the ship. “Aye. But not peaceful. It’s one wrong word away from taking us under, I say.”

Marco crossed his arms, clearly wary. “Ace picked up a girl. The one who brought his brother back. Her name’s Calypso.”

There was an unmistakable shift in the air as Marco uttered her name.

A name he’d heard before, from the mouths of civilians and Marines and fellow Emperors alike. A name he’d dismissed at first, until he’d realized just how deeply it had anchored itself in the hearts and minds of those who sailed these treacherous waters. A name that carried power, that inspired faith.

A name he could finally associate to a face.

When the ship docked beside the Moby Dick, the usual chorus of greetings was muted. There was no shouting, no wild laughter. They didn’t care as much for the new face joining their midst as they did for the old one they’d never see again. News of Teach’s death had already spread across the entire fleet, and they mourned. And Whitebeard had mourned as well, but such were the risks of a life on the waves—sometimes they carried you to safe shores, and sometimes they took you under. He’d made his peace with that truth decades ago, and he’d unfortunately lost countless friends and children to the whims of the Sea before.

But this was different. Because Calypso, that girl, that name, had been there. And the part of him that still hurt, that still grieved, wondered if she was to blame for it all.

She stood at the rail.

A girl—no, something more than a girl. Barefoot, sea-worn, and bright-eyed. A sun-bleached bandana held her hair back, little pieces of colorful shells and corals weaved in thin braids through the windswept mess. She was small, so terribly young, and yet her presence felt too tall, too old, too much.

Whatever Ace had brought back, it wasn’t just a girl.

Their eyes met, and Whitebeard’s heart thundered in his chest. He understood better why Shanks had had such a hard time describing her, back when they’d run into one another and decided to share a few drinks. He’d spoken of a wild heart set loose on the New World, but Whitebeard knew there and then that’d she could be this world’s downfall if she set her mind to it.

The sea whispered around her. He couldn’t really understand it, but he’d developed a keen enough sense after an entire life at the mercy of the waves.

She’s mine, the Sea seemed to chant as she carefully stepped foot onto the deck of the Moby Dick, Ace following closely behind her. My heart, my will, my kin. She is everything.

She came to stand before him. She was ridiculously small, having to crank her head all the way back to look him in the eyes.

“Hello,” she greeted, and he could almost hear the thunder rumbling under her voice. “My name is Calypso.”

“Calypso,” he greeted evenly. “Join me inside. We must speak.”

She smiled and nodded, unfazed. She followed him inside, moving like someone born to ship and sea. Marco made a move to follow them, but Whitebeard gestured for him to stay back. He wanted to speak with her alone and no matter how peculiar she appeared to be, he still doubted her to be a threat he couldn't handle.

(A part of him knew they’d all be dead already if she wanted them to be.)

“Calypso. You know who I am, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Then you also know I consider my crew family.”

“Yes. I greatly admire that.”

She sounded sincere enough. Before he could ask, though, she spoke again.

“I didn’t kill Teach.” She looked him in the eyes as she spoke, confident. There was not a shred of guilt to be found in her expression or voice. “The Sea took him because it required balance. Even with my powers, I couldn’t possibly save him.”

“Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”

“Both,” she admitted, startlingly frank. She tiled her head, eyes wandering to the window to the side. “The Sea shares many secrets. Things that were, things that are, things that will be. And Teach may have been your son, but he would have become your downfall. So, even if I’d tried to save him, the Sea wouldn’t have let me.”

“Do you claim he’s been punished for a crime he hadn’t even committed, then?”

“Something like that. It’s hard to explain, I’m sorry. But I did try to warn him, if that’s worth anything. He simply told me that such was the life pirates signed up for.”

At that, Whitebeard finally allowed himself to relax a little. She was making very little sense, but he’d heard those very words from Teach plenty of times before, so there was at least a layer of truth to the nonsense she was spouting. Deep down, he knew blaming a child for the whims of the Sea was unfair. There was no way to know if Teach would have survived that storm if she hadn’t been there. He was just a grieving father looking for someone to blame.

And even if she was to blame, he could hardly risk the rest of his family to prove it.

She offered him a deep, respectful bow.

“I’m sincerely sorry for your loss, sir. The Sea gives and the Sea takes. How and when and why… I’m not privy to her every whim and judgement, even if I’m able to listen more closely than most. In the end, I’m only the messenger—I may pass the sentence, but I do not swing the sword.”

“Then what message to you carry now? What sentence shall you pass?”

“A message of hope, and a sentence of peace.”

She pulled out a small, wooden token from her pocket, and carefully handed it over. It took a moment for Whitebeard to recognize the awkwardly carved symbol on it, one he’d started seeing more and more off around the islands under his protection.

“This is the Sea’s Crest. I understand it may not mean much in the face of the loss you’ve suffered, but consider it a blessing, of sorts. If you carry this symbol and remain true to yourselves, then the Sea will carry you safely, and she shouldn’t take any more of your sons.” She shrugged. “Of course, I can’t make promises on her behalf, but this should help.”

“… thank you. How long do you intend to stay for?”

Her eyes wandered to the window again, as if she was trying to listen to a message only she could hear.

“… a few days, probably. I’m not quite sure. But I can always find my way to the nearest island if you want me gone,” she assured. “I don’t wish nor mean your crew any harm, and this is your home—I’ll abide any rule you deem necessary.”

Whitebeard stared her down for a long moment, weighing everything she’d said and everything she didn’t say. He knew she was involved in Teach’s death, but also knew she couldn’t fully be blamed for it, so the matter was settled in his eyes. But now, he needed to ensure no harm would befall any of his other children if she stuck around.

But beyond the eyes too deep and the smile too bright and the heart too open, Whitebeard saw a spark—the spark he’d seen in every single one of his children, when he first took them in. The spark of survival, of deep-rooted loneliness and the longing for something more, something real.

She was a child. And she may be a wanderer at heart, but that was because she’d never been given anywhere to stay.

And Whitebeard had never turned away a wandering soul, and he wasn’t about to start now—even if that wandering soul felt as old as the abyss itself.

“Welcome aboard, Calypso,” he said, his voice a little warmer, his stature a little less imposing. “Try not to drive my sons too crazy.”

She laughed, bright and loud.

Whitebeard hadn’t even noticed the ocean had been completely still up until now—he only noticed once the ship began rocking once more underneath them.

An intriguing and dangerous guest he’d just welcomed in their midst.

He’d have his Commanders keep an eye on her.

The ocean whispered when it was angry. It shouted when it mourned. But when it was curious—it watched.

Whitebeard leaned back against his chair on the Moby Dick’s upper deck, the sun warm against his scarred chest, a half-full sake cup in hand. For nearly a week, now, the girl had wandered his fleet and crew, buzzing with life and unending curiosity, reaching out to every single person she came across yet pulling back whenever someone tried the same.

She spoke with sailors but never about herself. She sang with the waves but never really told anyone what the sea sang back. She never asked for anything, though, only took what was offered, always repaid in kind, never overstepped or overreached or took more space than what she deemed necessary.

She was a walking contradiction—a ghost full of life.

So, one by one, he called upon his Commanders, to try and make a bit more sense of the girl he’d welcomed in their midst. He trusted their eyes and their judgement.

Vista was the first to report. Reliable. Quiet. A man of rhythm and swords.

“She doesn’t posture,” Vista said simply, adjusting his hat. “Most people want to prove something, especially when they walk among giants. Not her. And yet, she carries herself with a confidence befitting the greatest of warriors. It is most peculiar.”

“A strong fighter, then?”

“I wouldn’t be able to say. She is not afraid, but she’s not arrogant, either. When I suggested a spar, she politely declined. She said she’s not a warrior, and she does not wish to be one.”

“Hm.”

Vista continued, thinking back to the sole conversation he’d had with her. “A pacifist with a steel edge—that’s what she is. She’ll not fight unless given reason to. But if she does fight… I doubt she’ll ever show any mercy. She is a breathing, walking extreme.”

Kind one moment, merciless the next.

Haruta came next—vibrant and chatty, a whirl of energy and insight that belied a sharp intuition.

“She doesn’t like big crowds,” Haruta said, spinning a yo-yo absently. “Not for extended period of times, anyways. But she’ll watch them, kind of like a cat in the rafters. Always on the edge, never in the center.”

Whitebeard chuckled. “A cat who likes the water, then?”

Haruta laughed along, then became a little more pensive. “She talks to everyone, though. Did you know that? The cabin boys, the cooks-in-training, the nurses… Everyone she comes across; she strikes a conversation with. Not always for long, but it’s like she makes a point of hearing everyone’s stories.”

“I see. And does she share her own?”

“Not really, no.”

“Then what does she say?”

“Outlandish tales, mostly. One guy said she told him about a whale that sings lullabies during full moons. Another swears she pulled a handful of pearls out of her mouth and just gave them to him.”

Whitebeard exhaled slowly. “Parlor tricks, then.”

“Maybe. But she only ever leaves after they’ve smiled, like their happiness is the only thing that mattered to her. That’s a bit strange, isn’t it?”

Connected to everyone, yet always distant.

Namur arrived shortly after sunset, hair still damp from a recent plunge.

“She’s lost,” he said simply. “She doesn’t fully belong to the world above anymore.”

“How do you mean?”

“It is difficult to explain. But Fishmen have a particular connection to the Sea, as you well know. And she…” He obviously struggled to put it into words, and Whitebeard patiently waited for him to finish. “She feels like home, Pops.”

“Home?”

“The deepest abyss, the strongest current, the bluest wave… I can’t shake off the feeling that it is wrong for her to be out of the water, like a part of her very soul is missing entirely.”

Whitebeard frown, a mild twinge of worry in his heart. “I’m not quite sure I understand. Is she sick? Or does this pose a threat to her?”

But Namur shook his head. “It is simply how she exists. There is no helping how one is born. But if, one day, the Sea decides to take her under… then not even the fastest or strongest Fishman will be able to bring her back to the surface.”

She was neither good nor evil—she just was.

Izo entered, graceful and composed, folding his fan with a sharp snap. It seemed new, covered with sewn-in pink pearls and pale seashells.

“She’s guarded,” he remarked. “But not in the way a liar or a troublemaker is. She’s used to being alone, wary of kindness. She sees everything as an equal exchange.”

“The fan?”

“I tried gifting her a kimono top, seeing as her shirt is rather worn out and full of holes. She thanked me profusely—and the next day, I found this fan on my nightstand. In her eyes, every gift has strings attached, and every favor is a debt to be repaid.”

Whitebeard tilted his head. “Lonely, then.”

“Most assuredly. And yet, she’s eager to leave.”

“Is she, now?”

“Aa. Her gaze always wanders back to the horizon, like there’s something more pulling her forward. I think she’s simply resigned herself to following it because there’s nothing and no one to hold her back.”

“So you don’t think she’ll stay.”

“She won’t. I asked, and she said she simply hadn’t found the right place.” He slightly scrunched up his nose. “Said she’d almost found it with Big Mom, of all people. I truly question the girl’s judgement—though I can appreciate her good taste.”

He spread open his brand-new fan again. Whitebeard hadn’t noticed the first time around, but the pearls had been sewn in a very specific shape—the Sea’s Crest.

Always just toward others and unfair toward herself.

Thatch came in the next day, all swagger and laughter. Others sometimes took him for a fool, but Whitebeard knew him to be one of his most insightful children.

“Honestly? I like her,” he said as he finished setting up their breakfast. “She doesn’t eat much, but she appreciates good food. Asked for fish I ain’t even heard of, though. And she told me something weird, too.”

“Weird how?”

“Well… She told me that she doesn’t dream anymore, when she sleeps. That she hasn’t dreamt since that whole drama with Akainu went down, and that she wasn’t really sure what it meant.” Thatch’s face twisted—he obviously didn’t like whatever she’d said after that. “She said that she thinks it’s because dreams are for people who still have a shot at achieving them.”

“And she doesn’t believe she does?”

“She laughed it off and told me to forget about it. I don’t think she really understood what she meant herself, honestly. Sometimes, it feels as though something else speaks right through her.” Thatch sighed, shaking his head a bit. “She tried so hard to change the subject after that. Started asking me about my dream. I laughed and told her she wouldn’t remember it, since she’d asked pretty much everyone else on the ship so far.”

“And?”

“She argued that even if she didn’t remember every single one of them, she’d always carry them in her heart, and the Sea would help with the rest.” He rolled his eyes, obviously having grown a fondness for her gentle eagerness. “She’s a really good kid, Pops. I’d hate to see anything happen to her.”

She had no dreams to strive for, so she tried to carry everyone else’s.

Marco came in sometime during the day. He’d been watching her longer than any of the others, keeping his distance for the most part.

“She respects the ship,” Marco began. “The crew. Never oversteps. But she walks like a visitor in a shrine. Always outside, never quite stepping in. Even if she talks with every single damn person she comes across, it’s like she’s keeping a wall between her and the others.”

“Yes, Haruta mentioned something similar,” recalled Whitebeard.

“She’s completely disconnected from reality. Or maybe she lives through another reality entirely, who knows?” Marco ran a hand through his hair, obviously a bit frustrated by his inconclusive observations. “Remember the storm a couple of nights ago?”

“Aye.” He’d been worried at first, but it had turned out to be just a common Grand Line storm. “What of it?”

“She stood out in it for hours. She said she was listening. And when I went to check on her, she asked me a question.”

“What was it?”

“‘Have you ever felt like the sea misses someone?’”

Whitebeard sat back, thoughtful. “And what did you say?”

“I said no. I had no clue what she was even talking about. But she just looked disappointed, like she’d been expecting my answer yet hoped for another one.” Marco let out a deep sigh. “She seems nice enough, but I just… I can’t shake off the feeling that there’s something deeply wrong about her, Pops. Whatever happened when she almost died at Akainu’s hand… it didn’t leave her whole.”

She was given life, but she had lost something else in return.

Ace stood before him, arms crossed, lips tight. He was nervous. Or maybe troubled.

“That night,  with Teach… I asked if she could have helped,” he eventually said.

“And?”

“She said no.” He hesitated. “She said that ‘a choice was made’.”

A long silence passed between them.

“You think she killed him?” Whitebeard asked finally.

“No,” Ace said, jaw tight. “Not exactly. But I think... There’s this feeling in my guts, Pops. I think that it wasn’t just Teach’s life on the line, that night. And that the Sea had to choose, and she helped it decide.” Ace gulped. “I can’t help but think it should have been me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. There’s just this weird feeling in my chest. Like, I can breathe fully, now. Or my heart’s beating just right. Or the sky seems just a bit clearer, the air just a bit lighter… I hadn’t even realized how wrong everything felt until Teach died.” Ace’s expression twisted. “That’s horrible to say, right? It must be all in my head, but I… I really think it was between him and me. And I think Calypso chose.”

Whitebeard studied his son’s face. The guilt. The unease. The loyalty.

“Do you trust her, then?”

Ace hesitated. “I trust that she’ll do what she thinks is right.”

“That’s not the same as trusting her.”

“No,” Ace said. “But it’s something.”

She would commit every wrong if it meant making things right.

Whitebeard looked out over the moonlit deck, where Calypso had just quietly vaulted over the railing.

He watched as she set off on a poor-looking raft, with nary a glance back for the fleet that had welcomed her for the past week or so.

She’d left letters. A whole bunch of them, in the mess hall, for his boys to find in the morning. He didn’t know if she left like a thief in the night because she didn’t care for their goodbyes, or because she wouldn’t have the heart to leave if they asked her to stay. But, as he watched her sail away into the star-filled horizon, something settled in his chest.

Peace. And resignation.

What was Calypso? This question had been weighing on his mind ever since she’d arrived, it was why he’d asked all of his Commanders currently around to keep an eye on her, why he’d inferred their judgement and thoughts. And yet, none of them had been able to come up with a single, proper answer.

But now? Now, Whitebeard knew exactly what Calypso was.

She was the Sea itself, simple as that. And how could she possibly stay, when the Sea belonged to everyone?

Chapter Text

The wind was barely a whisper, and the sea laid glass-smooth beneath a cloud-free sky. The Calm Belt lived up to its name, as usual—no current, no breeze. Just silence, and peace. Calypso stood at the bow of Skipper, running a loving hand along the battered wood of her rickety little raft of lashed wood, faded sails, and fraying ropes.

The Sea had returned it to her like a faithful dog returning a lost glove. It always came back. And she, too, always returned to the water.

Still, something had changed. She could feel it—a current beneath her feet, not in the ocean, but in the shape of the world. Something unseen had shifted.

Whispers. She couldn’t really make out what they were saying, or if they were even words, but she could hear them, still, carried by the currents, echoing in the splashing of waves, weaving through the breezes. They were muffled when in the Calm Belt, becoming a strange chant instead, one that pulled at her heart and drove her slightly insane. She’d been trying to make heads and tails of them ever since she’d left Whitebeard’s fleet, a few weeks ago—and so far, she’d yet to come up with an answer.

A shape suddenly moved on the horizon, dragging her out of her thoughts.

Her eyes narrowed. A ship. Fast, sleek, cutting through the water with speed unbefitting the Calm Belt, and blood-red sails offering a stark contrast with the vastness of blue surrounding them. They moved with the grace of hunters and the confidence of queens.

The Kuja Pirates.

They’re on the wrong side of the Red Line, aren’t they?

Calypso was curious. She knew the Kuja Pirates roamed the Calm Belt, but she’d expected them to stick to Paradise.

Soon enough, they reached her. The ship pulled alongside Skipper without so much as a ripple. Warriors in serpent-themed armor flanked the railing, bows drawn but not yet aimed. Their expressions were curious, almost bemused, but not hostile. Calypso briefly considered grabbing her trident, but ultimately decided against it—if they meant her any harm, they’d have tried to sink her already. Then, on the middle deck, a tall woman stepped forward, her pirates giving her a respectful and reverent berth. Her beauty was impossible, almost painful to look at—flawless skin, cascading black hair, and a presence that made the world seem to hold its breath.

Boa Hancock.

Calypso leaned on the mast and tilted her head, offering her a smile. "Hello, there. I can’t say I expected royalty this far from home.”

Hancock’s eyes narrowed with mild interest. “And I didn’t expect a slip of a girl sailing alone through the Calm Belt. The rumors of it being your favored territory must be true, then.”

“You’ve heard of me?” blinked Calypso, surprised.

Hancock stared her down for a moment, before gesturing for her to come up. A rope was thrown to help her, but Calypso decided to show off a bit—honestly, how many times in her life would she get the chance to impress the ‘Pirate Empress’? She stepped off Skipper, right on the water. It became almost solid underneath her bare foot, and she confidently marched forward, the water rising to create a steady staircase. Calypso couldn’t help but flash a wink at the nearby Kuja Pirates, who’s jaws had dropped at the display.

She swiftly leapt onto their deck, the water staircase promptly falling back the moment she got off. Boa Hancock now sat on her throne, regal and beautiful and terrible, and stared her down with mild amusement.

“Heard of you indeed. Rumors, mostly. Though, honestly, I didn’t care much for them up until yesterday.” She leaned against her hand, ever so graceful, though now bearing an expression of mild annoyance. “You see, I was summoned by the World Government, along with all of the Warlords they could get their hands on, and they declared that whichever one brought them your head would be granted some notable privileges.”

“Wow, it’s an all-hands-on-deck kind of situation? I didn’t think I’d made that bad an impression,” blinked Calypso, admittedly a bit surprised.

“You single-handedly took down an Admiral, did you not?” replied Sandersonia.

“Kind of? But only after he almost killed me.”

The air of reverence and awe reserved for the Boa Sisters now seemed to shift slightly as the Kuja Pirates realized just who exactly they were dealing with.

Marigold then moved forward, handing her a rolled-up piece of parchment. “Your bounty,” she said, forked tongue briefly flicking out. “Issued just this morning.”

She held it out. There was no image, surprisingly enough—only the Sea’s Crest. Calypso was very surprised until she realized they were also using it as a mean to outlaw the symbol altogether, by directly affiliating it with a wanted criminal.

Beneath it, the number was obscene.

‘Daughter of the Sea’ Calypso

B 580,000,000

Calypso whistled. “Holy shit. Who’d have thought Akainu would be such a sore loser?”

“Indeed. He’s been asking for your head on a spike and for your body to get strung on the Gates of Justice itself,” mused Boa Hancock. “Strangely enough, however, he and the rest of his men could not seem to recall what you looked like, hence the missing picture. He described you solely as a ‘monster in human skin’.”

That was a bit strange. Surely Akainu would have recalled the basics of her physical appearance, or one of his men would have snapped a picture or something. Maybe they’d hit their head too hard? Or maybe the Sea had washed away their memories along with their dignity…

Calypso looked up at her with a slow smile. “So here you are. Queen of Amazon Lily, the Pirate Empress, Captain of the Kuja Pirates and one of the Seven Warlords. You tracked me down like a good little hound, is that it?”

Something flickered in Hancock’s gaze—cold, like a blade unsheathed.

“I am not their dog,” she bit out.

Calypso smiled. “Yeah, I figured as much.”

Marigold immediately frowned, clearly worried. “Sister, we were ordered to bring her in. If we return empty-handed, they might retaliate—!”

“Let them try,” Hancock interrupted sharply. “I follow no orders. I decided to find her because I was intrigued, and my curiosity is now satisfied. And if the Government doesn’t like it, they’re free to swim after her themselves.”

Her sisters spluttered, at a bit of a loss, though it certainly wouldn’t be the first time Hancock would do as she pleased and failed to follow the World Government’s orders. The rest of the Kuja Pirates finally put their weapons away, understanding there would be no fighting today.

She turned her gaze back to Calypso. “You are no threat to me or my people. I seek no quarrel with you. And you should count yourself lucky, girl, for the other Warlords who answered the summon had more important matters to deal with than chasing a ghost.” She gracefully gestured to the brand-new bounty poster. “But the way the world bends around you… that’s what makes you dangerous. That’s why they’re afraid.”

Calypso’s hands tightened slightly. “I’m not looking for war. I don’t want people to be afraid of me!”

“You don’t get to choose,” Hancock said without an ounce of sympathy. “Not anymore. You have power and infamy, and both come with a price, and responsibilities. Many will begin seeking you—to use you, to follow you, to destroy you, to revere you. You are a storm waiting to be unleashed, and the world is now watching, waiting to see who you’ll take to the top, and who you’ll drag under.”

“This feels taken way out of proportion,” chuckled awkwardly Calypso. “I’m just a girl with a knack for adventures, really. I was just at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Spare me the false modesty, girl,” scoffed Hancock. She then pointed a perfectly manicured nail at the picture on her bounty poster. “You created this mark, yes? This… Sea’s Crest. You decided to create a new faction because this vast world felt too narrow for you. As such, what happens now is entirely on your shoulders.”

Calypso didn’t have a proper answer to that, because she knew her to be right.

She certainly didn’t have such grand ambitions when she'd first created her flag, but there was no taking back the waves of changes she’d set into motion, now.

Oh gosh, did I accidentally start a cult…?

“Sisters!” suddenly called out Hancock, clapping her hands twice to regain their attention—not that it had strayed much from her all along. “Let us welcome our guest properly. Surely you won’t say no to regaling us with tales of your great adventures, will you, ‘Daughter of the Sea’?”

Surprised by the unexpected invitation, Calypso then grinned. “Sure!”

The Kuja Pirates' ship was unlike anything Calypso had seen before—a sleek, serpent-shaped vessel with sails dyed in deep crimsons and golds, the hull adorned with carvings of fierce women and coiled snakes. And, as the sun dipped low into the sea, painting the Calm Belt in a soft orange glow, Calypso found herself seated at a long table right next to the Pirate Empress.

The women of the crew were fierce and curious in equal measure. They passed around gourds of palm wine and platters of seared fish. Laughter rang across the deck like bells in a temple, a rare, warm sound. It had been a long time since Calypso felt this at ease—surrounded by warriors, yes, but also by women who had carved out their freedom in a world that constantly tried to cage them.

“Well, go on!” one of the younger warriors urged, leaning in. “You sailed with Whitebeard’s fleet, didn’t you? What was he like?”

“Like a mountain that can vaporize you with a single tap,” Calypso replied with a grin, raising her drink. “But his heart is bigger than most islands I’ve set foot on, that’s for sure.”

A round of laughs echoed. Marigold smirked from across the fire. “And what about Akainu? I really want to hear what you did to piss him off that badly.”

“I existed, I guess? He was pissy even before the fight started. But then he punched a whole right through my chest, almost damned killed me. But the Sea had my back, and we almost drowned him and his men.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Sandersonia burst out laughing. “She’s mad! I like her!”

Even Hancock, perched at the far end with her chin resting on her knuckles, allowed herself the smallest, secretive smile.

The night rolled on, filled with tales and drinking songs, the kind of bonding Calypso hadn’t realized she’d missed so dearly. The Whitebeard Pirates had been kind enough, but they’d mostly been wary because of the whole thing with Teach. No, the last time she’d felt this kind of companionship was with Uta, most probably.

Wow, how long has it been since we last saw each other? Feels like a lifetime already…

But, come morning, the deck was still.

Most of the warriors were sleeping off their drinks, curled up in hammocks or beneath the awnings, or just outright lying awkwardly on the floor. The sky was a pale gray-blue, the air damp and cool. Calypso, having just woken up herself, quietly climbed the rigging of the ship, barefoot and light as a bird, until she reached the crow’s nest. She sat cross-legged, the wind tousling her wild hair, her arms wrapped around her knees as she watched the horizon blush pink, then gold. The sun was just beginning to rise—an ember reborn on the edge of the world.

Peaceful.

But not alone.

Footsteps approached, light but sure, and then Hancock's voice, low and calm. “I wondered where you'd slipped off to.”

Calypso didn't look away from the horizon. “Didn’t think you’d be awake this early.”

“I sleep lightly.”

The Empress joined her in the crow’s nest, moving with the ease of someone who had no equal. She stood for a long moment, arms crossed, eyes fixated on her.

“You're strange,” Hancock said at last, quiet but pointed.

“I’ve been told.”

Hancock tilted her head slightly. “You don’t look at me the way others do.”

That made Calypso turn to her, her brow raised. “How do others look at you?”

“Like they’ve been struck. Paralyzed. Overwhelmed by my beauty.” Hancock’s tone was matter-of-fact, as if people almost dying from joy at the mere sight of her was just a natural occurrence. “Men and women, soldiers and pirates, even the animals—no one can help but love me and adore me.”

“Huh,” Calypso murmured, thoughtful. She then smirked “So you tried using your powers on me and they didn’t work, did they?”

Hancock clicked her tongue. “It doesn’t usually work on children. But you… you’re not quite a child anymore, are you? You should be old enough to feel something. Attraction. Jealousy. Envy. Desire.” Her gaze was penetrating now. “But you just… don’t.”

Calypso paused at that, brows furrowing slightly. “I… guess I don’t. I mean, don’t get me wrong, you are very beautiful. But I don’t know you—I can hardly love you.”

Hancock’s frown deepened, like the confession irritated her more than she expected. “Why?”

A breath of wind stirred Calypso’s hair as she turned back toward the sun. She took a moment to really think it over. She supposed it was strange, in a way. Hormones should have really kicked in at this point in her growth, after all. But there was no lust, no desire, no need for any of this stuff.

She just was. She didn’t need anyone else to make her feel whole.

“Because my heart belongs to the Sea,” she finally answered.

Hancock scoffed lightly. “Poetic nonsense.”

“Maybe.” Calypso gave a soft laugh. “But it’s true.”

Silence stretched. The sunrise bloomed, golden fire reaching across the horizon, licking the tips of the sails and gilding Hancock’s dark hair. Calypso leaned forward on her knees, smiling to herself, eyes reflecting the light.

“You’re beautiful,” she repeated after a beat. “But there’s something more beautiful than even you.”

That caught Hancock off-guard. Her tone cooled. “Is that so?”

Calypso only smiled more mysteriously and gestured toward the horizon, to where the sky met the sea, and the world blazed with light.

“The sun rising over a free world. Nothing’s more beautiful than that, I think.”

Hancock stared at her.

No clever retort came. No dismissive remark. The truth of it—the quiet, aching truth—cut deeper than any blade.

The Empress turned her gaze back to the sunrise, her arms falling to her sides. And in her silence, Calypso felt something shift—like a chord struck deep inside the older woman’s heart. Hancock rubbed her wrists absentmindedly, and though they were unblemished and long-since healed, Calypso knew of the shackles that used to tear their flesh apart.

It lingered. Haunted.

Hancock’s voice was softer now, stripped of its haughty armor. “It is a beautiful sight.”

Calypso didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

“But it’s not a person,” Hancock added quickly, turning her chin up, recovering herself in a hearbeat. “So it doesn’t count.”

That made Calypso grin again. “Says who?”

“Says I, the Most Beautiful Woman in the World.”

The pride in Hancock’s voice had returned, like muscle memory. But it was gentler, now, almost playful.

“Then I suppose it’s a good thing I don’t follow the rules, Your Highness—even yours,” Calypso replied, rising to her feet and stretching her arms wide to the wind,

Hancock rolled her eyes. “Cheeky girl.”

Calypso looked back at her, wild and unbowed, silhouetted by the rising sun. “No, I’m just free. We both are.”

For a long time, neither of them spoke. The wind whispered over the sails. Below, the Kuja ship stirred with the sounds of waking warriors.

Then, softly, Hancock sighed. “You’ll make enemies. More than you already have.”

“I’ll make waves,” Calypso replied simply. “Enemies just come with the tide.”

And to that, the Pirate Empress offered no argument—only a small, knowing smile.

The sun rose higher, and they took a moment longer to bask in its new light.

Chapter Text

The waters lapped gently at the sides of Skipper as it drifted listlessly over a vast, glassy sea. Though she’d left the Calm Belt and the Kuja Pirates behind many days ago, now, the waters were calm. The sun beat overhead, merciless and uncaring, and Calypso sat at the edge of the raft, her legs dangling over the side.

Her hands trembled slightly, pressing against her ears to try and muffle the noises, in vain. She hadn’t slept in a full day. Maybe two. Her head hurt.

The whispers never stopped.

They wound around her ears like strands of seaweed, soft and relentless—never loud enough to make out, never silent enough to ignore. They had started faint, like background noise, a trick of wind and waves. But over the last few days, they’d grown even more persistent than before.

The whispers were maddening.

And Calypso, Daughter of the Sea, couldn’t ignore her mother’s voice any longer.

“Come on,” she muttered under her breath, pressing her palms against her ears. “What are you trying to say?”

But the whispers only grew more entangled, more chaotic. Sounds without shapes. Desperation without clarity. She stood abruptly, nearly tipping over as the raft shifted under her weight. She looked down into the water—deep and bottomless, stretching infinitely in every direction. The sky above was bright and the water below, darker than night.

“…Fine,” she muttered. “If you won’t talk up here, I’ll come to you.”

She stepped off the raft, and the Sea welcomed her like a child returning home. Water wrapped around her skin, cool and embracing. She sank slowly, allowing gravity to do the work. Her eyes shut. Her limbs went limp. She gave herself to the current.

She listened.

At first, it was the same—fragments, echoes, scattered murmurs brushing against her ears. But with each meter deeper, the whispers shifted. Louder. Sharper. The jumbled sounds stretched into syllables. Then into words.

Then into prayers.

“Bless our voyag e!”

“Thank you… thank you…!”

“ I beg of you, protect my child from the storms.”

“Please let them come back to me ... .”

“ Let them drown… Let them all drown!”

Some were barely more than breaths. Others cried out with the weight of whole lives behind them. They came from ships and islands and seafloor graves. From humans, fishmen, pirates, marines, adults, children. So many voices. Too many. Her pulse quickened. Her lungs ached.

But she didn’t surface.

She went deeper.

The Sea guided her, cradled her, opened its arms wider.

And then—

A voice, clear as sunlight piercing through the depths, completely silencing all the others.

“Please… please let me be free…”

It was a girl’s voice. Gentle, but full of longing. A soft plea carved from sorrow and hope. It didn’t blend in, instead quieted the entire chorus. There was an undertone of great power to it, one that made Calypso’s heart thump almost painfully into her chest.

“I don’t want to be trapped in the palace anymore… I don’t want to- to be afraid anymore…! I want to be free, so please… please…”

It reached for her.

And Calypso reached back.

But before she could grasp it—

The Sea seized her.

Like a tide crashing without warning, the currents wrapped around her body and threw her upward. Water surged in her ears. Her eyes stung. Her chest convulsed.

She broke the surface gasping for air.

Calypso choked, spluttering as the Sea hurled her unceremoniously onto her raft. She coughed violently, limbs flailing, the taste of salt and fear thick in her throat. For several moments, all she could do was breathe, heaving great gulps of air as the sky spun above her.

She hadn't even realized she'd been drowning.

“…Thanks…” she croaked out between gasps. “That was a close one…”

The Sea lapped gently at the edges of the raft, soothing. Calypso laid there, shivering despite the heat. Her body felt like lead. Her heart pounded like a drum against her ribs.

But the voices were gone.

Only silence remained.

No—not silence.

Memories. And that voice.

“Let me be free…”

It echoed still, not in her ears, but in her bones.

Calypso slowly sat up, brushing hair from her eyes. The sun was rising higher, gilding the horizon in gold. Her hands, still trembling, settled over her heart.

“…That girl,” she whispered. “I know that voice.”

She searched through her memories, through the whispers and songs and rumors passed between pirates and sailors. Through knowledge of the world before, and the world to be. But she only really clicked when the Sea tilted her boat a bit suddenly, and one of her garlands came loose, the pale pink catching the light.

“Shirahoshi…?”

The Mermaid Princess of Ryugu Kingdom. The youngest child and only daughter of King Neptune. A living legend locked away in her coral palace. Kind, naïve, hidden, and very powerful. No wonder her voice had reached her beyond all the others, what with being the current incarnation of the Ancient Weapon Poseidon.

But most importantly, she was a girl who begged the Sea for freedom.

Calypso’s fingers curled into fists.

The Sea had carried that prayer to her.

Not just whispers. Not just madness. A message.

She stood slowly, every muscle in her body still aching, and stared out across the endless ocean.

“I hear you,” she murmured, her voice hoarse but sure. She fell to her knees, heart thundering in her chest as the prayers echoed within her. “I hear all of you…!”

The Sea knew her will.

The currents bent for her, whispered to her, bled for her.

And now, they hunted for her.

Calypso plunged her hands into the water, outstretched as deep as they could reach. Eyes closed, hair damp and tangled from salt and wind, she focused. Her breathing was slow. Steady. Below her, the ocean churned in unnatural spirals. The raft groaned beneath her feet, but she didn’t falter.

This wasn’t a request, or a prayer—it was an order.

“Bring him to me.”

The one who poisoned her voice. The one who shackled her spirit. The one who made Shirahoshi hide in silence and fear. She’d heard his name whispered in those sunken prayers, felt the weight of him like a parasite polluting the depths.

Vander Decken IX.

He didn’t live in a kingdom or aboard a grand ship. He lurked in wreckage and shadows, far beneath the surface, with his madness wrapped around him like armor. He was a coward, and cowards always believed themselves untouchable when hidden from view. But the Sea would not hide what Calypso wished revealed.

Calypso exhaled slowly as the waters answered.

The currents surged far beyond the horizon, a power winding through the trenches and ruins of the deep. She felt them drag through sunken ships and kelp forests, through forgotten graves and predator dens, deeper and farther than Calypso herself would ever reach.

It took time. Hours, maybe more. She barely moved.

Until—

A ripple.

A thrash.

A roar of water splitting beneath her raft.

Water exploded skyward like a geyser. A twisting column of seawater burst from the deep and collapsed into itself—and tangled in its heart was a thrashing figure, flailing and screaming. Vander Decken IX was flung like seaweed onto the raft’s edge, coughing and sputtering, limbs flopping like a stunned fish.

“You!” he shrieked, seawater trailing from his barnacle-ridden coat, eyes rolling wildly. “What did you do?! Where am I?! WHERE’S MY SHIP?!”

Calypso stared down at him, unimpressed.

He was shorter than she imagined. Thinner. Yellowed eyes, gnarled fingernails, waterlogged gloves. Not monstrous. Not regal. Just… pathetic.

“You’re far from your pit,” she said simply.

Her voice was quiet, but it cut through his hysteria like a knife.

He scrambled up on all fours, glaring at her. “You—! You did this! You’ll regret it, girl! Do you know who I am? I’m the ninth of my name! My blood is royalty! I have the power to—!”

“To throw things,” Calypso interrupted, tilting her head. “With your stupid mark. That’s your big trick, isn’t it? Cursed hands. You made a child live in fear of her own shadow. You haunted her for years. You forced her into hiding.”

Decken froze.

His lips curled in a nervous twitch. “What—? What child? What are you—?”

“Shirahoshi.”

The name struck like thunder.

Decken’s face contorted. First into confusion. Then fury. Then obsession.

“Shirahoshi…” he hissed, almost dreamily. “My bride… My beautiful, elusive—”

Calypso’s bare foot slammed down hard on the raft, silencing him.

“You don’t get to say her name—not anymore.”

The Sea rose around the raft in a swirling cradle. It didn’t rock the vessel. It held it. Guarded it, guarded her.

Vander Decken’s face twisted in horror. “W-What is this? What are you—some kind of witch?!”

She leaned forward, her eyes aglow with something ancient.

“I am Calypso,” she said. “Daughter of the Sea. And you have committed terrible crimes.”

“You can’t—! Who are you!?”

“You stole a life,” Calypso continued, unperturbed, and lifting her trident from where it rested on the deck. “You stole years of a life. Forced her to be kept locked away, for her own safety. Made her a prisoner in her own home. You terrorized her with every breath you took. I deem you guilty.” Her eyes narrowed. “Everyone is a child of the Sea, but you are poison.”

She raised the trident. He screamed.

“I-I was chosen! She’s mine! You don’t understand! She needs me—!”

Calypso’s voice was calm. Cold.

“You wanted to take her life. So now, I take yours. That’s only fair.”

Vander Decken lunged in a last, desperate attempt to snatch the weapon right out of her hands, but the Sea reacted faster. A tendril of living water whipped up and snatched him by the torso, suspending him midair like an offering to Mother Nature itself.

He howled. He begged. He swore.

“Please! PLEASE—!”

Calypso didn’t flinch. With one smooth movement, she plunged her trident straight into his chest. There was a gasp, sharp and wet, his last words drowned in blood. Then… silence. The Sea went still, its hunger for retribution sated. The tendril lowered Decken’s limp body slowly back to the surface. Blood spread from the wounds like ink in the water—dark, swirling, dissolving. The Sea did not reject it. It accepted the offering. Calypso dropped to her knees, gently whispering to the current.

“Take him back,” she said softly, her hands shaking as she dropped her weapon. “Let the Royal Family find him. Let her know she’s safe. Let her be free, at last.”

The current obeyed.

Vander Decken’s body vanished beneath the waves without a splash. Just… gone. Carried away, down to where his crimes were known. Down to where justice could be seen, and acknowledged for what his death truly meant.

The waters rippled gently around the raft, then settled.

Calypso sat in silence, trident resting across her lap, her breath trembling. The air was different now. Cleaner. Like the Sea itself had sighed in relief.

She looked out over the horizon.

“Be free, Princess,” she murmured, closing her eyes. “Your life is yours to live, now.”

Chapter Text

‘THUNK’

Calypso jerked awake with a sharp inhale, her fingers twitching around the haft of her trident.

Skipper had stopped moving.

That was the first thing she noticed—her boat, usually cradled and guided by the Sea itself, was utterly still, rocking gently in place. She blinked the sleep from her eyes and slowly sat up, brushing strands of wind-tangled hair from her face. A pale dawn hung low on the horizon, fog curling across the waves like lazy ghosts.

And in front of her—

A wall.

No.

A leg.

Her breath caught.

She stood slowly, barefoot on the creaking wood, and stared down over the side of the raft. She had bumped into something. Something impossibly large. So large her brain refused to fully register it for a moment, like her mind couldn't hold its entire shape at once.

It wasn’t a mountain.

It moved.

Salt spray misted her cheeks as she took it in—the endless wall of wrinkled, barnacle-encrusted skin. The shape of it was unmistakable. It was a leg. A mammoth elephant’s leg, rising impossibly from the ocean below.

Calypso’s mouth opened, just a breath, just enough for a stunned, awed whisper to fall out:

“…No way.”

The Sea was quiet beneath her feet. Not ominous. Not a warning. Just reverent.

And slowly, her gaze tilted up.

And up.

And up.

The shape of the great elephant Zunesha towered above her, impossibly massive, lost in mist and cloud and sheer distance. From the ocean’s surface, she could not see its eyes, nor the slope of its back—but something tugged at her soul as she felt its presence. Ancient. Gentle. Enduring. She reached out and pressed her palm against the elephant’s leg.

Warm. Solid. Alive.

“Incredible…”

She closed her eyes, listening. She could feel it, its heartbeat, like the pulse of a mountain. Slow. Measured. Steady as the tide. And on that pulse rode another feeling—high above, Zou, a city on the back of a walking myth.

Calypso’s heart began to pound.

The thirst for adventure tugged at her limbs like a tide pulling her forward. She took a step, then another, until she stood on the water itself. With a breath, she lowered her trident, letting it trail in the sea as she grinned with barely no little amount of anticipation.

“Help me up, won’t you?”

The Sea answered. A geyser erupted beneath her, a spiral of foaming, spiraling water, lifting her upward like a coiled serpent straight from a legend. She rose higher and higher, the wind whipping her hair behind her as she climbed, full of wonder. The raft vanished below, the clouds approached. She laughed as the air thinned around her, her breath stolen not by the altitude, but by awe.

The world spread around her like a canvas.

And then, she breached the clouds—

And saw it.

Zou.

A hidden paradise resting atop the great elephant’s back, its lush forest canopy spreading like a green crown. Towering trees swayed gently in the high-altitude breeze. Stone pathways wound through hanging vines and winding roots. Smoke curled from wooden huts built into the curves of the landscape. Strange calls of birds and other animals echoed faintly in the air.

The great nation of the Mink Tribe.

She stepped lightly onto solid ground, her feet sinking slightly into soft moss, and then she turned around, to look behind her. Her breath hitched again, as she saw the world. From here—truly, she saw it. The endless ocean stretched in every direction like glass under morning light. Cloudbanks rolled and broke against nothing. Sunlight spilled across the Sea like gold dust poured over silk. Islands were just specks now, kingdoms reduced to shadows.

She could see everything.

A laugh burst from her lips—bright, loud, almost delirious. She threw her head back and laughed until her ribs ached, because it was ridiculous. How small she was. How tiny her raft had been against the leg of the elephant. How brief her life was against the sheer memory of this beautiful creature.

No matter the changes she brought, she was still naught but a stone thrown into a pond—a single girl in a vast, vast world.

She laughed.

“I love this world!” she shouted to no one and everyone.

Zou was unlike anywhere Calypso had ever seen. Even after all her travels—after sailing with pirates and parleying with Warlords—this mountaintop jungle city teemed with a kind of life and rhythm that felt wholly its own. The Mink Tribe had welcomed her warily at first. Spears were lowered but not thrown, and she’d been politely but firmly asked to state her business.

“I'm traveler,” she had said with her hands open, her trident now strapped to her back. “Nothing more. Just chasing the edge of the world and a few thrills, is all.”

It wasn’t the most conventional answer, certainly, but something in her eyes must have struck a chord with the warrior-guards at the gate, because after a few long seconds of quiet, they simply stepped aside and let her pass.

Their caution melted into curiosity as the day passed. The young and the old alike stared with wide eyes at the barefoot girl who walked on water and drank like a seasoned sailor despite her size. Even the animals seemed to regard her with fascination. By nightfall, the city was alight with soft lanterns, fires crackling in large communal pits, and the sound of music and laughter echoing through the trees. Calypso sat among them, cross-legged on woven mats, a half-finished drink in hand and her cheeks warm from laughter.

She had just watched the two Dukes—Inuarashi and Nekomamushi—descend into yet another squabble over who once caught the bigger Sea King, with Minks and children alike shouting commentary from the sidelines. They’d reenacted the battle with exaggerated gestures and props, and Calypso had nearly fallen over laughing when Nekomamushi accidentally tossed Inuarashi into a soup cauldron.

When peace eventually returned and the stars scattered across the sky above Zou’s canopy, the fire had burned low and most had drifted to their homes to rest. Calypso lingered, staring up at the stars, tracing constellations with her finger.

She didn’t hear them approach until they were nearly beside her.

Inuarashi’s voice was low, gentle. “You-gara have brought smiles to our people tonight.”

“Not many strangers do that so quickly,” Nekomamushi added with a lazy yawn, his big paws resting on the hilt of his sword. “A reckless child you-gara are, though.”

“Guilty,” Calypso grinned, not denying it.

They exchanged a look.

“There’s something we’d like to show you-gara,” said Inuarashi after a beat. “If you’re willing.”

Calypso’s curiosity stirred. “Of course.”

The forest grew quiet the deeper they went, the only sounds being the rustle of leaves and the faint creak of branches underfoot. The moonlight painted the jungle in silver, and fireflies blinked like wandering stars. Eventually, they reached a clearing—no path, no markers—just a ring of ancient stones and half-buried ruins swallowed by moss and vine.

The sight brought Calypso to a halt.

“This place...” she whispered, almost afraid to speak too loudly. “What is it?”

“A relic,” Nekomamushi said quietly. “Older than our very community. We do not usually bring outsiders here, but we thought you-gara should see it.”

They stepped aside, letting her approach the largest of the crumbling stone walls. It was covered in carvings. Faded, weatherworn—but still discernible.

Calypso took a slow step forward.

There were figures. Men and women with tridents, standing in the sea, their arms raised to towering waves and tidal surges that seemingly obeyed their command. Symbols like spirals and currents wound through the imagery. One mural showed a woman riding a wave across a shattered battlefield. Another depicted a child holding a shell with a star inside. There was a man sitting with a Sea King, and another seemingly calling down lightning.

Her hand trembled as she reached out to trace the carvings.

“They’re… like me…?” she breathed.

“Perhaps,” Inuarashi said gently. “We cannot say for certain. Our records from that era are sparse—these ruins are some of the few remnants left. They predate even the Void Century.”

“But why here?” she asked. “Why Zou?”

Nekomamushi folded his arms. “We suspect this island has always had ties to the sea’s mysteries. Zunesha has walked the world for a thousand years or more. Perhaps those like you-gara once sought him out, as you have.”

The idea struck her like lightning. Not a coincidence, but a path. Maybe the Sea had brought her here not just for a reprieve or simple adventure—but to learn.

“To think others like me once lived…” she murmured, her heart thudding. It made very little sense, considering where she was actually from. Could this mean other people from her world had come before? “Why did they vanish?”

Inuarashi’s ears drooped slightly. “We don’t know. But if their legacy still lingers, it may be through you-gara.”

Calypso stood in the moonlight, surrounded by ancient whispers and sleeping stone. The murals stared back, silent and proud. She couldn’t help but smile softly, pressing her palm against the cold stone.

She didn’t know what it meant, but she couldn’t wait to find out.

Back at the edge of the forest, before the trees fully gave way to the city lights, she turned to the two Dukes. She’d discovered the reason why the Sea had brought her here, and it was time for her to move forward.

“Thank you, for trusting me.” She offered them a bow. “I must go, now.”

Inuarashi bowed his head. “May your travels lead you-gara to the answers you seek, child.”

She hesitated, then figured she might as well share some knowledge, too. It was only right, after they'd welcomed her with open arms and shared their food, stories, and knowledge with her.

“… the Nine Shadows will begin gathering before long.” The Dukes stiffened as her words echoed Lady Toki’s prophecy. “But do not trust the painter. Kurozumi Kanjuro is a traitor.”

“How do you know…?” Inuarashi gasped.

“What—Kanjuro is a dear friend! A loyal retainer of Kouzuki Oden—!” snapped Nekomamushi.

“He is a spy. He helped bring about the death of the Kouzuki clan, and he will try to do so again on the 20^th year.” She sighed, knowing there was very little she could say or do to convince them. “In a few years from now, one of your own will come seeking refuge. And shortly after, a boy with a straw hat will come, too. He will be the key to Kaidou’s downfall.” She began walking away. “Remember my warning, then.”

“Wait—!”

But she didn’t wait. Without another word, she turned and melted into the jungle shadows, and neither of the Dukes tried to follow her. Soon enough, she reached the edge of Zunesha’s back, and she took one last moment to take in the view.

Then, without hesitation, she let herself fall forward with a heartfelt cheer into the thousand miles of void, ready to embrace the Sea once more.

Chapter Text

It had been weeks since she left Zou behind, but Calypso still hadn’t shaken the weight of what she’d learned on the giant elephant’s back.

The murals, the figures who wielded the ocean like an extension of themselves—like she did. They should have filled her with a sense of belonging, a reassurance that she wasn’t the only one. But instead, a quiet dread had taken root in her chest, twisting tighter with every passing day.

Because she was tired.

Not the sort of tired a nap could fix. No, this exhaustion seeped into her bones. She slept only in fragments, if at all. Her limbs ached. Her chest burned with sharp, stabbing pains that struck when she reached too far, when she laughed too loud, when breathed too deep.

She dove deeper every day.

The Sea called her. That wasn’t new. But now it demanded her.

The voices—prayers—never stopped. Not even for a moment. A thousand hopes, fears, dreams, and cries for salvation rolled in her ears like storm-surge waves crashing endlessly against a rocky shore. She tried to answer them. She always tried. And it drained her. She would pull ships off reefs, guide lost sailors to safe currents, disperse storms that hadn’t yet reached the shores. She saved and she drowned, she took as much as she gave.

Her gifts had once felt like breathing—natural, effortless. Now, they clawed something vital from her with each use. Her fingers trembled when she raised her arms. Her eyes burned with salt and sleep-deprivation. She spent more time beneath the sea than above it now, because the only time the chaos of the voices lessened was in the comfort of the depths.

But even that escape was beginning to betray her.

This morning, Skipper rocked gently on the open sea. It was early, the sky still dim with fog. Calypso knelt at the edge, her hair unbound and tangled in the wind. Without ceremony, she slipped into the water. Her body hit the waves with a quiet splash, her breath slow, practiced, and down she went.

Deeper.

Deeper.

The pain in her chest dimmed, the roaring whispers of prayers thinned to a murmur. She’d learned to tune them out, for the most part. The cold wrapped around her like a blanket, the pressure of the deep compressing her aching body in a way that almost felt like comfort.

For a moment, she let herself drift.

It was quiet here.

She let the currents cradle her, eyelids fluttering shut. But, just as her mind began to clear—

‘ BOOM ’

An impact like thunder crashed into her ribs, and she had only a split-second of awareness—a flash of metal, of golden floodlights, of rivets and steel.

Then pain. Blinding, cracking pain.

The water exploded around her.

She didn’t even have time to scream before darkness swallowed her whole.

She didn’t know how long she was unconscious for. Time meant very little when you were adrift in the ocean's belly, limp and sinking. Eventually, however, she felt air fill her lungs again—and wow, that hurt almost more than drowning had.

Salt on her lips. The taste of it was sharp enough to make her gag. Her lungs burned like fire, her chest spasming as she coughed up water, every inhale like knives. A voice, distant and muffled, cursed in a panic. More voices followed—frenzied, unfamiliar.

"Is she breathing?"

"Where the hell did she come from?!"

"Get her to the infirmary, now!"

Strong hands lifted her onto a cold surface. Metal, she realized. A floor. A ship?

She managed a groan, eyes fluttering open briefly to catch blurry shapes—figures in white coats, flashes of yellow, a man with a white spotted hat sharply barking orders…

And then she passed out again.

When next she woke, it was quieter. Dim lights buzzed overhead, and she was lying on a padded cot, still damp and wrapped in blankets. Her head throbbed. Her side ached with a dull, bruising pain. Her vision cleared slowly, enough to make out the clean, steel-lined room around her. There were books strapped to a shelf by rope netting, a few odd gadgets she didn’t recognize, and an IV dripping something cold into her veins.

Calypso tried to sit up—and immediately regretted it.

“Easy there,” a voice said nearby. Calm. Gruff. “You're not dead, but it was a close call.”

She blinked, turning her head. A tall, young man leaned against the doorway. Tattooed arms, a spotted white hat, golden rings in his ears, and a long, thin sword strapped to his back. His eyes were sharp, calculating, staring her down like a puzzle he couldn’t solve.

“You’re the moron who hit me with a submarine,” she rasped, her voice hoarse.

“You’re the moron who got hit with my submarine,” he replied evenly.

“I was there first!”

He didn’t argue, only appearing a bit bemused. Instead, he walked over and checked the IV line, before helping adjust the bed and pillows so she could sit instead.

“You’re lucky,” he then said. “Could’ve been worse, but only your arm’s broken.”

“Feels way worse,” she muttered, leaning back with a wince.

He paused, studying her. “Who are you?”

She let out a tired sigh. “Calypso.”

“Just Calypso?”

“Just Calypso. And you’re…”

“Trafalgar Law,” he replied simply. “Captain of the Heart Pirates.”

There was silence for a moment. Then Law folded his arms, eyeing her with a frown.

“You were deep,” he said. “Far deeper than any normal human can survive. What were you doing down there?”

Calypso glanced away. “Listening.”

“To what?”

She looked back at him with dark-ringed eyes and the solemn expression of someone far older than she looked.

“To everything. It hurts less that way.”

Law didn’t press further, though he obviously still had questions. Maybe he thought her delirious. He stood still for a long while, then sighed and walked out, calling over his shoulder.

“Rest. You’re severely sleep-deprived.”

Calypso, too tired to argue, let herself sink back into the cot. But even now, even in the quiet hum of the submarine, she could feel the sea still calling—tugging at her ribs, whispering more prayers, more needs, more demands.

And she knew it wouldn’t stop. Not until she figured out what was happening to her.

The last thing Trafalgar D. Water Law expected on a routine course correction dive was to run someone over.

The Polar Tang wasn’t exactly subtle when surfacing—it displaced a lot of water and made a lot of noise—but somehow, she had been right there, like she’d appeared from the blackened deep out of nowhere.

Swimming in the waters of the North Blue was a death wish by all accounts, the water much too cold to bear for more than a few minutes. And, frankly, she should have been torn apart or crushed by the pressure, let alone the impact. Instead, they’d found her unconscious, barely breathing, with only one broken arm and a few cracked ribs.

Law hadn’t wasted time. He got her stabilized in his infirmary immediately, all while trying to make sense of the sheer impossibility of it all. Human physiology just didn’t work that way. Pressure at those depths could implode a submarine hull if it was thin enough—let alone a teenage girl’s ribcage.

He’d scanned her body three times. No gills. No Fishman traits. No cyborg augmentations. No Devil Fruit markers in her blood. She was, for all intents and purposes, completely human. Normal heart, normal lungs. A little underweight. Sleep-starved. But nothing that explained what he’d seen.

She’d woken up, introduced herself, and also accused him of being an idiot for running her over with his sub. He let that one go, though. She looked half-dead, and he wasn’t about to pick a fight with a half-drowned girl with bruised ribs and clear delusions. But still, something about her didn’t sit right. There was a hum to her. A feeling. Something ancient, like a storm rolling in behind clear skies. The only other time Law had felt something similar was standing too close to a Seastone weapon—something that pulled at the world’s natural balance.

So he did what he always did when the world stopped making sense.

He did his research.

Law had just finished reviewing her bloodwork again—completely clean, other than signs of extreme fatigue—when Bepo walked in, large paws clutching a weathered bounty poster.

“Captain,” the mink called out. “You should see this.”

Law took the paper with a frown. It wasn’t a poster he’d seen before. It lacked the usual layout, namely a picture. There was just a symbol, one that tickled his memory without really bringing anything to the surface. And a name, and an absurdly high number:

‘Daughter of the Sea’ Calypso

B 580,000,000

Law’s breath caught in his throat.

“What the hell…?”

Bepo shifted beside him. “I remember hearing some stories. And I’ve seen this symbol a couple of times before, in some of the ports we visited. They were always hidden, though.”

That made something click in Law’s mind. He did remember spotting this very symbol a couple of times, as well as hearing a few rumors of what it represented—while outlawed by the World Government, this symbol was still carried and spread throughout the entire Grand Line, and had even begun spreading to the Four Blues.

And it all seemingly started with her. Calypso.

“She wasn’t just down there,” Law murmured. “She lives there.”

Bepo tilted his head. “Huh?”

Law dropped the poster onto the desk and crossed the room to check the readouts again. Her oxygen saturation had normalized. Heart rate steady. He’d administered a mild sedative disguised in her IV, and she hadn’t stirred since—she really needed some serious, or she’d keel over before long.

“She's been diving for a while now. The levels of nitrogen in her blood are unusual—she's been adapting to the pressure somehow. And her blood oxygen doesn’t dip like a normal human’s would.” He furrowed his brows. “There’s something about her…”

“But she’s not a Fishman, or a mermaid,” Bepo pointed out, puzzled.

“No.” Law’s brow furrowed. “She’s something else. And whatever it is... it's old.”

He looked down at the poster again. Daughter of the Sea. The bounty wasn’t the result of a crime spree. It wasn’t political, or justice-motivated, or even to save face for allegedly attacking a Marine Admiral and living to tell the tale. No, this was the sort of bounty the World Government placed on anomaly. On fear.

They didn’t know what she was, so they made her a target.

And they fully intended on erasing her, too.

Suddenly, he understood a little better her bone-deep exhaustion. She was being crushed under the weight of something ancient—something relentless. Whatever powers she carried, whatever connection she had to the sea, it wasn’t just magic.

It was a burden. A calling.

Maybe even a curse.

That night, Calypso stirred again. She woke slowly, groggy, blinking at the soft lights overhead. Law was waiting at her bedside, still pouring over her medical file.

“Welcome back to the living,” he remarked lightly.

She groaned, shifting. “You drugged me.”

“I helped you sleep,” he corrected.

She didn’t argue. “Thanks, I guess…”

Law gave her a few more minutes to regain her bearings. She certainly looked more rested, now, but she still looked in pain, and something told him it didn’t have anything to do with her broken arm.

Law tilted his head. “What were you doing down there, Calypso?”

She stared at the ceiling. “Listening.”

He waited. After a moment, she spoke again.

“They pray to the Sea, you know,” she murmured. “People, all over the world. Not just sailors, too. People lost. People hurting. They whisper to the waves, to this symbol I’ve made, and the Sea... it listens. And so do I.” Law said nothing. The gravity in her voice held him still. “I try to answer them. Little things, mostly. But now they’re louder. More desperate. I can’t keep up. They don’t stop, not even when I sleep.”

She turned her face toward him, and he saw it in her eyes—the fatigue, the pressure, the weight of thousands of voices crushing a single soul.

“And still, you keep listening,” Law said.

“Someone has to,” she whispered.

He nodded once.

“I saw your bounty,” he added.

Calypso blinked at him.

“Ah,” she muttered, almost sheepishly. “I forgot I even had one.”

“They’re scared of you,” Law said, not unkindly. “That’s why it’s so high.”

She snorted, curling deeper into the blanket. “They’re scared of the hope I bring, of the alternative I offer. I carry a message they don’t like hearing, is all.”

Law leaned back, arms folded. He didn’t know what Calypso truly was, not yet. But he knew enough. She wasn’t a monster. She wasn’t a threat. She was just a girl drowning in a power too great for one person to carry.

Calypso then exhaled slowly. “I’ve been trying to work it out, you know. What’s wrong with me, I mean.”

Law raised a brow. “You think something is wrong?”

“I feel like I’m hollowing from the inside out,” she replied bluntly. “I’m not... me anymore. Not fully. I can’t sleep. I can’t breathe properly. My chest hurts constantly. I’m so tired I can’t even hold a rope without my hands starting to shake.”

He stayed silent, waiting for her to continue.

“I used to dive once a day, to clear my head,” she continued. “Now it’s every two, three hours. Otherwise, I feel like I might suffocate, and my insides start burning. But the deeper I go, the harder it is to come back. It feels like I belong down there now... like the surface is what’s unnatural.”

Law's gaze sharpened. "You think it’s physiological, then?"

“I hope it is.” She gave a weak chuckle. “Because if it’s my brain, then I’m losing it.”

Law didn’t laugh.

She looked over at him, eyes dark and sunken. “You’re a surgeon, a doctor. A good one. If there’s something wrong with me—if it’s my heart, my lungs, my blood, whatever it is—you’d find it. You can fix it. Right?”

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he stepped forward, pulling on his black gloves with practiced ease.

“Lie down,” he said, voice flat.

Calypso did as told. Law held his fingers out, poised, and activated his power.

“Room.”

Silence.

Nothing happened.

No blue shimmer. No translucent dome. No pulse of the Op-Op Fruit’s power.

Law frowned. He tried again.

“Room.”

Still nothing.

He blinked, drawing a sharp breath. “That’s not possible.”

Calypso sat up slightly, eyes wary. “What?”

“My powers aren’t working,” he said quietly, flexing his fingers as if they’d gone numb, brow furrowed. “I can’t make a Room.”

Calypso stared. “...Is that a joke?”

He didn’t answer. He simply walked to the far end of the room, tried again. Still nothing. He tried conjuring a scalpel, then tried Shambles on a bottle on the shelf. Nothing moved. Nothing responded.

Calypso’s mouth went dry. “That’s... not supposed to happen, right?”

“No,” Law muttered. “It’s not.”

He looked over at her slowly, brow furrowed. There was no external force suppressing his Devil Fruit ability. No Seastone nearby. The Polar Tang was clean, airtight, and sealed. But something was off. Very off.

“It started when I brought you aboard,” he said. “I didn’t notice it until now, but my stamina’s dipped. Headaches. Loss of focus  Like I’m catching your exhaustion.”

“Is that even possible?”

“It shouldn’t be,” he said. “Unless...”

Unless what? Even Law didn’t have an answer. He stared at her, then moved closer. Not to touch her, but to observe her. She didn’t radiate heat or cold. Her skin was pale, but not sickly. Her breathing was shallow, but even. There was no aura, no color to what was happening to her. It was like being around her was dampening something in the room. Like she was a pressure point in the fabric of reality, pulling the world down with her.

“Your presence is doing something to me,” Law said. “I don’t know if it’s your power or your condition, but if I stay near you long enough... I’ll probably start suffering from similar symptoms.”

Calypso looked down at her hands. They trembled faintly. “So... it’s contagious?”

“Not in a traditional sense,” Law murmured. “But it’s like being around you is draining.”

“Then go,” she said suddenly. “Let’s go back to the surface, and I’ll leave—”

“No.” His tone cut her off immediately. She blinked, startled. “I’m your doctor, and I haven’t given you a clean bill of health yet. You’re staying until I’ve figured this out.”

She couldn’t help but smile faintly at that.

The next day, Law felt worse.

Nothing dramatic. Just a slower gait. A dry tongue. His Room still didn’t work. He caught himself spacing out during a routine charting task—Law, who could operate for eighteen hours straight in a warzone without blinking. He ran his own vitals: slightly elevated heart rate, cortisol levels high, fatigue indicators climbing. His stamina was declining in lockstep with hers.

Something in her was draining him.

When he told her, Calypso only sighed and stared out the small porthole beside her cot.

“I think the Sea’s trying to reclaim me,” she said softly. “Piece by piece.”

Law sat across from her, silent.

“It keeps pulling,” she went on. “Even when I sleep, I feel the waves calling me back down. Like the deeper I go, the better I'll feel. Like I’m... not supposed to be on land anymore.”

“And yet you’re still human,” Law said.

“Am I?” Her voice was bitter. “I can’t sleep. I can’t rest. I don’t even know if I can die. I mean, I almost did, back when Akainu came after me. He punched a hole clean through my chest, you know? But the Sea… It stitched me right back up. It won’t let me die.”

Law rubbed his temple. He didn’t want to admit it—but there was something inhuman about the pattern he was observing. This wasn't a disease. It was closer to an environmental effect—like pressure, or gravity.

She was becoming a force, not a person.

And he was starting to fall under its weight.

The infirmary was quiet that morning. Just the low hum of the submarine’s systems and the occasional beep of a monitor echoing in the sterile air. Law moved about with his usual clinical precision, clipboard in hand, checking Calypso’s chart before finally stepping to her side. She sat up, hair still damp from a restless half-sleep, her bruises visible in the dull lighting. Her eyes followed his movements, but she said nothing. There was a strange stillness to her today—a kind of calm that unsettled him more than her mild delirium had.

Law reached out, intending to check the bruises along her ribcage, fingers brushing lightly against her skin.

And then—he collapsed.

No warning. No dramatics.

Just dropped like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

Calypso blinked in surprise. “...Law?”

She leaned over slowly, brushing her fingers against his arm—

He stirred with a sharp inhale, flinching as if waking from drowning. His eyes flew open and he jerked away from her touch.

“Don’t—” he panted, eyes wide. “Don’t touch me.”

She stared at him. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“No, don’t touch me,” he repeated, more grounded now, sitting up and bracing a hand against the wall as his head spun. “I... I passed out.”

She frowned. “You’ve been tired for days.”

“That wasn’t fatigue,” Law muttered, rubbing his temples. “It was... draining. Like the sea.”

Her eyes met his, slow comprehension dawning behind them.

He stared at her, all the pieces finally clicking into place. “It’s you.”

Calypso tilted her head. “Me?”

“You’re... Sea-touched. Or something. Whatever’s in you—whatever you are—you’ve got the same effect on me as Seastone or seawater. That’s why I can’t use my Devil Fruit near you. Why I feel weaker the longer you’re close. Why I collapsed just now.”

She was quiet for a long moment, then slowly began to laugh. Not out of amusement, not cruel. But in that stunned, breathless way someone laughs when the answer is so obvious, they feel like a fool for not seeing it sooner.

“That’s it?” she managed between soft giggles. “That’s what this is? Gods, I was thinking it was some horrible curse, or I was rotting from the inside out—turns out I’m just radioactive to Devil Fruit users.”

Law scowled, rubbing his face. “It’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

He looked at her through his fingers, deadpan. “You are essentially a walking piece of Seastone in human skin. Do you know how insane that is?”

“I did say the Sea keeps pulling me back.” She smiled faintly. “I guess now we know why.”

Law shook his head. “That still doesn’t explain the exhaustion. Or the dives. Or why this is getting worse.”

Calypso stood from the cot. Her steps were steadier than they’d been in days. “No. But I think it’s because I was fighting it.” She turned to face him. “You helped me understand what I am, Law. I’m not sick. I’m just... changing. The Sea doesn’t want a messenger or a champion anymore. It wants a vessel. It’s been reshaping me. And I’ve been resisting it this whole time.”

“That’s not—" Law stopped himself, exhaling. “You don’t know that’s what it wants. You’re making dangerous assumptions.”

She smiled, walking to the door.

“I am dangerous,” she said lightly. “You said so yourself.”

He stepped forward, but the closer he got, the heavier his limbs felt.

“You shouldn’t be alone while this is happening,” he said. “You’re still changing. There’s no telling how much worse you’re going to get—”

“I won’t,” she said gently. “Because I’m not afraid of drowning anymore.”

Law clenched his jaw. “I didn’t give you permission to discharge yourself.”

“Too bad,” she said with a grin. “I’m a terrible patient.”

And in truth, there wasn’t much he could do to stop her, not without incapacitating himself just by reaching for her, frankly. So, with a scoff, he stalked off to go give the order to resurface.

When they finally did, the Polar Tang breaking the cold waters of the North Blue under a silver morning sky, Law walked with her to the exit ramp, arms crossed, head aching. They stepped outside, careful not to slip on the water-slicked hull. And there, bobbing peacefully beside the submarine, was a raft. More accurately, it was a weird raft. Seemingly thrown together from driftwood, bleached bones, coral, and sea glass, with a strange, jagged sail stitched from seal-skin and kelp. There was no oar, no rudder, no visible anchor.

Yet it stayed perfectly still.

Calypso’s eyes lit up. “Skipper!”

Law stared. “That’s… your boat?”

She turned to grin at him. “Yup!”

Law blinked slowly. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re grumpy,” she said cheerfully.

Before stepping off, she reached into the folds of her patched jacket and pulled out something small—flat and wooden, a thin disk no larger than a coin. She pressed it into his hand, mindful not to actually touch him. It bore her symbol, carved with a great lack of skill.

“The Sea’s Crest,” she said simply. “A little luck, from me to you.”

He closed his fingers over it slowly. “What does it do?”

“Maybe nothing,” she admitted. “Maybe everything. Depends how the sea feels about you that day, really.”

Law narrowed his eyes. “Vague. Unscientific. Irritating.”

She winked. “Perfectly on brand, then.”

He exhaled a quiet laugh despite himself.

Then, without another word, she stepped lightly off the deck and onto her bizarre little raft. The water didn’t even splash beneath her weight. She settled cross-legged, pushing aside what looked like a trident, and turned to look at him one last time.

“Thank you, Law,” she said, voice quiet. “I think you saved me without even meaning to.”

“I still think you’re making a mistake,” he replied.

“Maybe,” she said. “But it’s my choice.”

As if on cue, the wind caught her sail, and the raft began to drift, slow and steady, pulling away from the Polar Tang. Law watched in silence, the crest still warm in his hand, watching as she left.

She didn’t look back once.

As her silhouette grew smaller on the horizon, Law felt the pressure in the air begin to lift. His headache began to fade, his thoughts cleared, strength returned to his limbs. However, something else remained—a weight in his chest.

A quiet, gut-deep certainty that this would be the last time he would ever see the Daughter of the Sea.

Chapter Text

The sun stood at its highest, casting long shadows behind fishing boats and seagulls, bustling merchants and laughing children. The air held the scent of salt and smoked fish, and the steady murmur of the tide lapped at the wooden supports of the pier. Calypso sat with her bare feet dangling just above the rippling water, arms braced behind her on the sun-warmed wood. Her little raft, Skipper, bobbed gently a short distance away, never anchored.

She hadn't asked where she was. She hadn’t talked to anyone, really, but she didn't need to. For the moment, it was enough to simply be.

She watched. She observed the rhythm of life taking place all around her, knowing the beat of her own drum had long since stopped matching their pace. It was a strange feeling, really, knowing she used to be just like them and was now so very different. Her eyes followed the movement of the crowd moving along the port. Families gathered near market stalls, fishermen haggled with cooks, and someone played a worn flute from a rooftop not far off. There was life here. Real, full life. Calypso soaked it in.

"Mind if I sit?" came a gravelly voice behind her.

She tilted her head slightly, then turned. A man—older, broad-shouldered, and clearly strong even if past his prime—stood there, holding a greasy paper bag that smelled distinctly of fish chips. His grin was lazy, sun-worn, and oddly familiar.

"So," she said, shifting slightly to give him room. “They're desperate enough to send Garp the Fist after me now, are they?"

He let out a booming laugh and plopped down beside her, the wood creaking under his weight.

"You're sharper than they say, brat," he said, fishing a crisp from the bag and popping it into his mouth. "But I’m not here to drag you in. I mean, they asked, but I’m not gonna do that. And honestly, if I wanted to arrest you, you’d already be in cuffs.”

“Wow. Care to test that theory, old man?”

He barked out another laugh. "Brazen brat.”

Calypso turned her gaze back to the sea, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. "Well, what are you here for, then, if not to follow your orders?"

"Curiosity, mostly. Been hearin' your name tossed around more and more. 'Daughter of the Sea,' the one who almost killed that fiery brat, and who talks to the ocean like it listens. I just figured it was high time I met the girl who’s been giving Sengoku so many gray hairs.”

She shrugged, spreading her arms a bit. “Well, here I am. Disappointed?”

“I mean, you could use some more meat on your bones, but you look world-weary enough.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching a group of children leap from the pier into the waves below, shrieking with laughter. Calypso let herself smile faintly.

"Used to do that," Garp then said. "Me and a few other brats, back in my village. There was this old, crooked jetty. Felt like the biggest leap in the world when we were kids. Now it's barely up to my knees."

"Time does that," Calypso murmured.

He studied her sidelong. "How old are you really?"

She chuckled. “Hmm… I think I’m nearing sixteen? I’ve seriously lost track of time since I started my journey. I couldn’t say for certain.”

Garp snorted and leaned back on his elbows. "Fair enough."

Another moment passed.

"Why'd you join them?" she asked, not looking at him.

He didn’t need clarification. "The Marines? Because the world needs law. Order. Someone to punch the bastards who prey on the weak."

"But you know what they do in the shadows. The Celestial Dragons, the slavery, the Native Hunting… For some people, being born is a crime because they’ve decided to be racist fucks and literally forbade some races from existing. The corruption runs deep, we both know that. But… you’re a good man. So how can you still bear to sail under their colors?”

Garp was quiet. The waves below filled the silence.

"Because I want to protect people,” he finally said. “I know what the World Government does, I know the blood on its hands. I’ve seen the decisions made in back rooms and behind closed doors. But I also know the chaos that’d fill the gap if they fell. The world’s not ready for that kind of collapse. So, I’m staying. Trying to be one good man in a machine full of bastards. I save who I can. I train other Marines to be good, too. In the end, if there’s not a single good Marine left in the ranks, then we’ll be much worse off, won’t we?”

She nodded slowly. "So you pick your battles."

"Aye. I do."

“That’s… fair, I suppose.” She paused. “Is that why you’re so against your son leading the Revolutionary movement?”

Garp choked on his mouthful of chips, then shot her a look. “How the hell do you know that?” She simply quirked a brow, and he huffed out a laugh. “Well, if you know, there’s no point denying it. But my son’s a fool. He’ll force change through chaos and bloodshed. He could have made a much greater difference if he’d joined the ranks!”

“Or the Five Elder Stars would have seen him killed for it.” A slight cold washed over the pair, and she held his stare, unflinching. “They’re monsters, the lot of them. You know that, don’t you?”

“… you ought to be really careful with that kind of knowledge, girlie. Anyone else would have seen you killed for it already.”

“Right, because that’s the true Justice of this world, isn’t it?” she scoffed. “To silence those who threaten their lies.” A heavy silence ensued, and she shook her head. “It’s alright. I know you’re trying your best. And believe it or not, but they’ll all meet their God soon enough.”

“You?” huffed Garp, unimpressed.

“No. Something much more ancient than me, if you can believe it.”

Another silence followed, as Garp took in her words and tried to make sense of her cryptic talk. Calypso took this moment to close her eyes and just breathe, even though the air was starting to burn her lungs. The breeze was warm. The city behind them was full of sounds and smells and stories. The Sea before them rolled on, endless and patient.

"What's next for you, girl?" Garp asked at last. “Where are you headed now?”

Calypso stood slowly, stretching her arms overhead with a quiet yawn. She looked out over the ocean with a thoughtful expression. She inhaled deeply, then exhaled, as if letting go of something heavy.

She’d been asked this question many times before, but it was the first time she’d ever had an answer.

"Home," she replied with a simple, knowing smile.

Garp simply watched as she returned to Skipper and promptly set off, the old man giving her a simple wave goodbye with a thoughtful look on his face.

He didn’t know if letting her go was a mistake, but it was the right thing to do. That ought to be enough.

Chapter Text

The early morning hung in a hush, the kind that settled deep into the bones of the world. The sky was dark still, that murky pre-dawn gray that blurred sea and air into one formless mass. Most of the Red Force crew were still deep in a drunken slumber, the ship itself rocking gently in rhythm with their snores.

But Shanks was wide awake.

He shouldn't have been. He was at least half a bottle deep into something nasty and strong when he'd stumbled to bed last night, still laughing from Yasopp's slurred rendition of some old pirate shanty. But something had tugged at his ribs—like a string wrapped around his chest, gently but insistently pulling him toward the shore.

So he followed it.

His steps were loose, not entirely sober, but driven. The damp sand welcomed him like an old friend, cold against the soles of his feet. It wasn't until he rounded a bend in the shoreline, where the jungle broke for a view of the open sea, that he saw her.

Calypso.

Sitting on the sand, knees drawn to her chest, hair tousled and sea-salted. The wind toyed with the ends of it, brushing them across her shoulders. She didn't turn at his approach, but he knew she knew he was there. She always had a sense for such things.

"You're a long way from anywhere, Calypso," Shanks said, tone easy, warm.

She smiled at the horizon. "So are you, Captain.”

He chuckled and plopped down beside her, arms bracing behind him. For a moment, they sat in silence, the kind that only old friends about to part ways could share.

"How long's it been?" he asked.

"Two years, give or take."

"Heard about you, y'know," he added, grinning a bit. "Daughter of the Sea, huh? Quite the title. The Marines are pulling their hair out trying to figure out how to deal with you."

She hummed. "Let them pull. They were never meant to understand me." She paused, then grinned faintly. “Did you see Uta yet?”

Shanks almost choked. “What—how’d you know her?”

“Not yet, then. But I met her, a while back. She’s coming to find you.” She shot him a slightly reproaching look as he winced. “Do not make it harder than it has to be. She’s been chasing after your shadow long enough.”

“I… Fair enough.” Shaking off that particularly sobering news, he then glanced at her again, noticing something was… off. "You okay?"

She nodded, but her eyes didn't quite agree. They were distant. Not hollow, not broken—just far away. Shanks followed her gaze and saw the remains of her raft scattered across the beach. He let out a low whistle at the sight of it. A part of him was surprised it took so long for it to fall apart, honestly.

"Skipper took a serious beating, huh?”

“Yeah, I guessed I pushed it too far this time around,” she chuckled.

"I can help fix it up. We can make it seaworthy again."

She turned to him, smiling, but there was a softness to it. A finality. "Thanks, but there's no point. I won't be needing it anymore."

That gave Shanks pause. "You're done sailing? That doesn't sound like you."

Calypso laughed, but it was quiet and tinged with melancholy. "I’m going back at Sea… but I won’t be needing a boat anymore.”

Shanks tilted his head, studying her. There was something... ethereal about her now. Not in the poetic sense, though. Tangible. A shifting in the air, a whisper of saltwater with every breath she took, a faint thunder rumbling somewhere in the distant sky.

Dread twisted in Shanks’ guts.

"Where's your next adventure taking you, then?"

She hesitated.

"I don't know," she admitted, voice small. "And it scares me."

He leaned back into the sand, offering her a small grin. “That’s okay. The greatest adventures are usually the scariest, too.”

She breathed in slow, closed her eyes. "There's still so many people I haven't met. So many promises I won’t be able to keep. I wanted to visit all the islands, hear all the songs, see all the sights… There’s so many people I want to help, still…” Her voice caught in her throat. “I haven’t seen enough, done enough…! But I- I can’t keep going anymore…!”

Shanks was quiet for a moment. Then he leaned over and pulled her into a sideways hug. She tensed for a heartbeat, then melted into it, burying her face against his shoulder.

She cried. Silent tears, no heaving sobs, no shaking shoulders. Just a warm dampness against the fabric of his coat. And Shanks held her, not letting go even as she eventually sat up, rubbing at her puffy face as a few more sniffles escaped her.

"Thank you, Shanks,” she choked out. “For giving me a home to come back to.”

"Always,” he replied without hesitation. “You’ll always have a home with us, Callie.”

They stayed like that until the first streaks of gold started to stain the sky. Birds began to stir in the distance, calling out to the coming day. The air warmed, gently, wrapping them in the promise of sunrise. Then, as if hearing a song he could not, Shanks felt Calypso shift. She pulled away from him entirely, his arm falling limp at his side as she rose to her feet. The tide had come in now, lapping just shy of their toes. She walked forward, the water meeting her like an old friend.

He remained seated, watching. "You're really going, huh?"

She nodded, clearly torn, still.

“You don’t have to,” he assured her. “If you want to stay, just stay.”

Calypso paused, taking a moment to think it over. She looked down at her hands, her arms, her entire body, as if she’d grown estranged from it altogether, as if she couldn’t wait to shed a skin that no longer fitted quite right.

“Thank you,” she repeated, the last of her tears drying. “But… I want to. There’s still a lot I want to do, sure, and I really wish I could have had more time. But I don’t have any regrets. I’m really scared, I am. But also… I’m excited. You know how much I like the thrill of the unknown, riding typhoons and crashing onto random pirate ships and all.”

Shanks tried to laugh. It stuck halfway in his throat.

She exhaled shakily. “I wrote… a letter. It’s in my bag, still on what’s left of Skipper’s deck. Could you make sure it gets to the people who need to read it?”

“Of course.”

She turned to him and grinned—that big, bright, D-worthy grin that him feel like Fate itself was smiling down on him. Then, without hesitation, she turned and walked into the sea.

She was a myth in mortal shape, and it was time she returned to a state of legend.

She walked forward, the water quickly rising around her. She paused when it reached her waist, tilting her face toward the sun.

She closed her eyes, breathed deeply.

Shanks blinked—and suddenly, Calypso was gone.

No splash. No disturbance. Just gone, as if he’d just woken up from a dream. Shanks blinked again, staring at the empty space where she'd stood, trying to make sense of the fact that he’d just lost a very precious friend. A moment later, something touched his foot. He looked down and found a string of shells and coral had washed up at his feet, strung together with seaweed and soft sinew. He vaguely remembered it being tied into her hair.

A gift. A memory.

Shanks bent, picked it up, and held it close. He didn't cry. He simply sat there, facing the vast horizon, as the sun finally crested.

Calypso was gone.

But she was everywhere, too, now.

"Farewell, Calypso, ‘Daughter of the Sea’,” he murmured, grief settling into his chest.

She wasn’t dead, he knew that much. But she’d gone somewhere beyond, now, somewhere completely out of his reach. She was everything cruel and unfair in this world, everything beautiful and worth living for. A poisoned kind of gift, crashing into his world and making him care, and then leaving it just as suddenly. She was so young, still so full of life…

It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair.

He exhaled shakily as he heard the telltale noises of his crew in the distance, waking and obviously starting to look for him.

He had some hard news to deliver—to a lot of people.

But first, he’d take a few more minutes to bid her goodbye properly.

Chapter Text

Shanks repaired Skipper to the best of his abilities, then let the Sea take the little raft once more. If it would reach safer shores of if it’d wander aimlessly without Calypso, he didn’t know, but the resilient boat deserved a burial at sea, at the very least.

He’d read Calypso’s letter, too, and he knew exactly what to make of it.

Five days later, the weekly edition of the New Coos was printed and delivered all over the world – the Four Blues, Paradise, the New World. And on the very first page, published for all to see, was Calypso’s final message to the world.

“When I first set out, I had no grand plan. No lofty ambition. No dream of treasure or power. I followed the voice of the Sea — not out of duty, but because she called to me.”

The paper crinkled slightly in Rayleigh’s weathered hands as he leaned back in his chair, the sunlight streaming through the half-shuttered window of Shakky’s bar. His glasses caught the light, though his eyes weren’t reading anymore—they were remembering.

He let out a long breath, deep in thought.

“How peculiar,” Shakky said, coming up behind him with a mug of steaming coffee and a cigarette between her lips. “Someone you knew, then?”

Rayleigh chuckled, a rough sound edged with nostalgia. “Something like that. A promising young girl—it’s a shame our currents didn’t cross again.”

He tapped the newspapers against the bar, then looked out the window toward the shore, where the waves curled in soft white foam against the sand. The Sea was calm today, as if it were listening.

“She didn’t want anything. Just followed her heart.”

Shakky sat beside him, taking a slow drag from her cigarette. “And in doing so, left a mark bigger than most pirates who spend decades clawing their way to fame.”

Rayleigh nodded. “I’ve a feeling she started a new era of her own.”

He stared at the words again. They weren’t polished. They weren’t meant to impress. But there was clarity in them—honesty rare enough to soothe the heart of a man who’d seen the rise and fall of legends.

“She was a ripple that turned into a tidal wave,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Just the ticking of the clock behind the bar and the steady lap of waves outside.

“She’s gone, isn’t she?” Shakky asked at last, though she already knew.

Rayleigh didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. But he ripped out the letter from the newspaper’s front page, folded it with care, tucked it into the inside pocket of his coat, and smiled just a little.

“To follow the Sea just because it called…” he murmured. “Not many understand that. But I do.” He reached for his drink and raised it, and Shakky gentle toasted with him, their glasses clinking together. “To the Daughter of the Sea.”

“I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t even know who I was, not really. All I had was my name, and the best boat in the entire world.”

Jinbe sat cross-legged in his quarters aboard his ship, the dim lantern light casting a warm glow over the page as he read the printed words again, slowly. Carefully. The cadence of her last thoughts deserved to be honored in full. The paper rested gently between his massive fingers, the edges slightly softened from how many times he had reread it since the News Coo had dropped off the newspaper.

Her words didn’t try to be profound, but they were. That was her way.

“Foolish girl,” he murmured, but there was warmth in his voice, reverent and aching. “Brave girl.”

He remembered the first time she’d spoken to him, like an equal — no fear, no judgment. Her questions had cut to the heart of things, but never cruelly, always with purpose. She had been as wide-eyed as she was weary, looking for something to hold onto without ever trying to claim more than she needed.

She’d been his friend. And she was gone, now.

A low scoff echoed from behind him — from the barred cell Jinbe had never intended to use again, tucked near the hold where their darker regrets were sometimes kept.

“Still mourning that little human girl?” Arlong’s voice oozed derision, venom thick on every syllable. “You’ve fallen lower than I thought, Jinbe.”

Jinbe’s eyes didn’t lift from the page at first. He simply folded the paper with deliberate care and placed it beside a small, polished shell — one Calypso had gifted him, years ago, when they’d parted ways. Only then did he rise to his feet and turn.

“You don’t understand what she was,” Jinbe said, his voice quiet — dangerously so.

“She was human,” Arlong sneered, leaning forward through the bars. “They’re all the same, Jinbe. You forget the blood they spilled, the chains they forged around our kind? You, of all people?”

“I forget nothing,” Jinbe growled, and the air shifted in the room, thickened with the weight of his fury. “And I see more clearly than ever. That girl — that human — carried the Sea in her heart more surely than any creature I’ve met above or below it.”

Arlong laughed, sharp and biting. “She tricked you. They always do.”

“No,” Jinbe said, stepping closer until the bars cast long, warped shadows across his face. “She didn’t beg for understanding, she offered it. She didn’t preach of peace, she lived it. She did more to unite the currents of this world than you ever did while drowning in your own hatred.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Even Arlong, teeth bared, found no retort.

“She honored the Sea,” Jinbe said, quieter now. “She listened to it. Answered its call without asking for reward. And she reminded me — reminded all of us — that what we are matters far less than who we choose to be. That the divide between our people could be mended, if we just gave it a chance.”

He turned from the bars, unwilling to waste another word. The door clanged shut behind him as he returned to the letter. His hands trembled slightly as he unfolded it once more. And then, slowly, a faint smile found his lips — mournful, but proud.

“You never knew who you were?” he murmured aloud, his voice echoing softly in the stillness of the room. “You were Calypso, my friend. And the whole world shall know your name.”

“I raised a flag not to stake a claim or to wage war, but to swear an oath — that I would listen, that I would help, that I would try. And I did. I really did try.”

The fog rolled thick over Loguetown’s early morning streets, muffling the sounds of the harbor and cloaking the navy-blue rooftops in a dreamy haze. The day had barely begun, and yet the scent of salt and smoke already hung in the air, the latter courtesy of Captain Smoker’s ever-present cigars, burning low between his teeth as he leaned against the balcony rail of the Marine base.

The newspaper fluttered in his gloved hand, crinkling in the breeze.

He read the lines again. Slowly. Thoughtfully.

That flag.

He remembered the girl who created it. Why she created it. Of talks of factions and loyalties due. He’d let her go with a strange feeling in his guts, one he hadn’t understood at the time.

He hadn’t known her name, not until she’d started causing some actual trouble. But he’d come to know the symbol she’d created, the rumors that started floating all around the New World. Half-whispers of strange miracles and pirate crews swearing off plunder, of Sea Kings parting in eerie silence, of a girl who spoke to the tides like they were old friends.

He hadn’t believed most of it, quite frankly. But he believed she’d done exactly as she’d told him, and he could only respect that.

“Sir?” came a voice behind him — a bit hesitant, but clear.

He glanced over his shoulder. Tashigi, one of his newest recruits, stood just outside the doors, arms folded behind her back in the stiff posture of someone still trying to figure out if this new assignment would eat her alive.

“She’s the talk of the coast already,” she added, walking closer with careful steps. “That letter… everyone’s reading it. Some say it’s a hoax. Others — well, I heard someone call it a farewell from a goddess.”

Smoker let out a dry huff of smoke and handed her the paper.

Tashigi took it, eyes scanning the paragraph slowly. “Her name was… Calypso, right? Intelligence associated the symbol she signed that letter with to the bounty poster that started circulating in the New World. The ‘Daughter of the Sea’, right?”

“She’s not a goddess,” Smoker muttered, arms folding across his chest. “But she might’ve been better than most of us who act like we know what true justice is.”

Tashigi blinked at that, startled by the uncharacteristic bitterness in his voice. “You… knew her, Sir?”

“No,” he answered, but paused. “Maybe. Not really.”

He turned his gaze back to the sea, the light catching faintly on the rising sun and the edge of a familiar memory. A girl on a battered raft, water lapping at the wood, wind tugging her hair as she sailed excitedly into the unknown…

“I could’ve stopped her. Once,” he muttered. “Didn’t. Something told me not to.”

Tashigi looked between him and the letter, her brow furrowed. “Was she… dangerous?”

Smoker considered that.

“No,” he said at last. “But she mattered. And people like that don’t come around often.”

Tashigi nodded slowly, unsure. “Do you think what she wrote is true? That she didn’t want the power she gained in her travels?”

Smoker exhaled through his nose, smoke curling past his lips. “The ones who want power usually lie to get it,” he said. “She didn’t lie.”

He tapped a finger on the paper, on the emblem stamped at the bottom — the Sea’s Crest.

“She tried her best,” he said quietly. “That’s more than most.”

Then he turned and walked inside, leaving Tashigi standing alone on the balcony, the letter rustling in her grip as the sun rose higher over Loguetown.

“I didn’t always get it right. I was reckless. Naïve. Too bold and too scared all at once. I made mistakes, many of them. I probably hurt people I wanted to protect. I may have lost sight of the bigger picture, at some point.”

The Sea’s Crest fluttered high above the deck, pale and sharp against the bleeding sky.

'Black Arm' Zephyr stood below it, arms crossed, shoulders square. The wind tugged at his coat — not the white one he once wore with gold epaulettes, not the one that had proclaimed “Justice” to the heavens. That coat was long gone, left behind in a past he no longer bowed to. This one was dark. Simple. Worn from weather and salt, but clean. Honest.

Like her.

The girl who had stood on the bow of her pitiful little raft, battered by the weather and looked him in the eye, and challenged his entire worldview, and utterly shattered it.

He’d once been a man who’d lost too much and had been just about ready to destroy the world for it. But she hadn’t challenged him, hadn’t begged or groveled either. She’s just answered his questions with the honesty only a child untainted by the world’s cruelty could have possibly mustered.

“So what, you’ve decided to create your own side to stand on?”

“Well, why not?”

He hadn’t answered her that night. He’d walked away, fists clenched, and sent her off with a simple warning. But her voice had remained, her words echoing in his head. And so did the Sea’s Crest, the image of her flag burnt into his very soul. A symbol of peace, of freedom, of humanity. A flag not raised in war, but in promise.

Now it hung from his own mast.

‘Black Arm’ Zephyr — former Admiral, former Instructor of the finest Marines of a lost generation — now the Captain of The Promise with only the Sea’s call to follow.

He read the letter again.

“I didn’t always get it right.”

He scoffed, but not unkindly. Neither had he, not until she’d set him straight.

“I was reckless. Naïve.”

He turned his eyes to the horizon. “Aren’t we all, girl…”

His crew was loyal, driven by the same pain he’d been. When he’d decided to go leave the Navy, they’d followed him without hesitation. But when he’d explained why, when he’d told them of his new ambition, many had left, thinking he’d gone soft, thinking he’d lost sight of the pain that had united them all these years.

But they didn’t get it.

Calypso hadn’t softened him. She’d stripped him down. Laid bare the warped justice he’d clung to, the fury that had eaten him alive. She’d reminded him of the students he'd once believed in, of the era he’d tried to shape.

Of what he could still do, if he walked forward instead of wasting away trying to burn it all to the ground.

Zephyr ran a hand along the rail, scarred fingers dragging across salt-worn wood. Below deck, his new recruits — exiles, orphans, fellow Marine defectors, former pirates — were stirring. Young men and women who had nowhere else to go but still believed they could make something better of this world.

He hadn’t made it easy for them. But he hadn’t given up on them either. And in return… they’d raised the Sea’s Crest high, together.

Zephyr turned toward the sun, rising bold and gold across the water, and saluted the Sea, as he did every morning. But this time around, he saluted Calypso as well, the girl who’d inspired a new brand of Justice altogether.

“There are promises I won’t be able to keep. I’m sorry for that.”

Bonney dangled her feet over the edge of the small cruiser, her heels thumping against the painted wood with soft, erratic rhythm. The sea stretched out before her, blue and bright in the early morning light, but her eyes weren’t on it. They were on the letter. Again. Folded and re-folded so many times the creases had begun to fray, the page trembled in her fingers. The ink was smudged in places, not from the Sea’s water, but from her tears.

Calypso’s symbol—the Sea’s Crest—marked the bottom like a soft farewell.

Beside her, Kuma sat silently. Her father watched the horizon too, his hand gently resting on her shoulders in a silent show of comfort.

She glanced up at him, jaw tight. “She promised.”

Not accusingly. Just... quietly.

Kuma’s eyes flicked to the letter, then back to the sea. “I know.”

“She said she’d sail with us. She said that- that once I got better, then I should come find her so we could go explore the world together…!”

Kuma’s lips tugged into something soft and sad. “She meant it.”

Bonney sniffed, then huffed angrily and shoved the letter into her coat pocket. “She should’ve stayed. She should’ve waited. We would’ve found her. I’m better now! I’m not sick anymore, I… I…”

The silence that followed was gentle. Not suffocating. Kuma let her speak, let the Sea carry her anger and grief outward.

“I didn’t get to say goodbye,” Bonney whispered.

Her chin wobbled, but she’d cried enough. Now, she just felt tired, and angry, and hurt. Kuma hummed softly, gently stroking her hair.

“You don’t have to,” he then said.

Bonney looked up at him, confused. “Why not?”

“Because she’s not truly gone.” He gently poked at her heart. “We carry her in our hearts, still. We’ll keep her memory alive, and we’re sailing under her flag, aren’t we?” He pointed up to the flag they were now sailing under, bearing the Sea’s Crest. “We carry her will. We will go where the Sea takes us, and we’ll keep on exploring the world in her stead. And wherever she’s gone to, now, I’m sure she’s still watching over us.”

Bonney wiped her nose and gave a weak, watery smile. She then let out a shaky breath and rose to her feet, wiping the last of her tears away.

“Okay! We’ve got a whole world to explore, but we can’t do that on a nameless ship!” she pointed out, perking up a bit in spite of her aching heart.

“Good point,” smiled lightly Kuma. “What should we call it, then?”

“I know! Here, help me paint it on…”

It took some maneuvering and a whole lot of paint, but Bonney eventually managed to write out their ship’s name on the hull, grinning proudly as she finished. In the end, Calypso never belonged to them—she’d belonged to the Sea all along.

But so did Bonney and her father, now.

The Sea’s Jewel sailed on toward new horizons.

“But I also learned. I learned that strength doesn’t come from what you can destroy, but what you can endure. Be kind, and the world will be kind in return.”

The metal deck groaned beneath Killer’s boots as he stepped into the engine room, wiping sweat from the back of his neck. Somewhere behind him, the sea churned in an ugly gray line, and above it, the clouds hadn’t decided yet whether they were going to storm or just scowl.

The paper was already opened when he found Kidd.

Their captain was hunched on a crate, elbows braced on his knees, the latest edition of the world’s sole news carrier dangling from his fingers. Killer couldn’t see his face, but the grip on the paper was tight enough to crinkle it.

“She’s the one we met on Hagane Beach, isn’t she?” Killer asked after a moment.

Kidd didn’t answer. Killer folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe.

“She was just a drifter back then. Not even a proper ship. That little raft of hers looked like it’d fall apart if someone sneezed on it.”

“I remember,” Kidd said at last. His voice was flat, low.

“She said something that pissed you right off, too,” Killer continued, pushing a little.

Kidd looked down at the paper again. The letter filled almost half the page, bold lines signed with a single, unmistakable mark: the Sea’s Crest. He hadn’t thought much of it when he’d seen her flag, but he couldn’t deny how widely it had spread, at this point.

“She called me weak,” scoffed Kidd, gritting his teeth at the memory. “And a coward. Mighty big words for a brat who fucking croaked in the span of a year.”

Killer knew his Captain better than anyone else. Kidd was angry all the time because anger was his default state, but this time around, there was something more to it—annoyance, probably because he’d cared for that girl’s words much more than he’d dare admit.

Eustass Kidd had been looking forward to proving her wrong. But now she was gone, along with all the expectations Kidd wanted to surpass.

“She was annoying,” Kidd finally said. “Smiled too damn much.”

“She had guts,” Killer replied simply. “You don’t usually listen when someone challenges you like that.”

“I didn’t,” Kidd snapped. “I walked away.”

“You looked back, though.”

Kidd scoffed again. He threw the newspaper aside. The silence between them stretched, filled only by the distant rhythm of waves slapping against metal hull.

“She made her point, that’s for sure,” Killer then said. “The whole world’s reading this letter now. She may not have pretended to the title of Pirate King, but I’ve a feeling the world will remember her, still.”

“Ain’t that an annoying thought? She barely did shit.”

But Killer knew it was said in bad faith. That girl, Calypso, had done a hell of a lot more in barely a few years than most people did in their entire lives. Killer studied his captain for a long moment. Then he pushed off the wall and crossed the room, clapping a hand on Kidd’s shoulder.

“We all got our own way,” he remarked simply.

Kidd didn’t answer.

But later, when they raided a Marine outpost, he let the civilians leave before they brought the building down. He didn’t tell anyone why.

And he never forgot the girl who once told him there was more to strength than mere fury.

“I learned that achieving freedom is messy and chaotic and scary for a lot of people. But I also learned that even when the world is cruel, people still rise. They still laugh. They still love. They still hope.”

The sky was bruised with twilight, the sea beneath her vessel reflecting a thousand shades of violet and gold. Uta stood at the bow of her ship—her ship, something she never imagined she’d have—and held the crumpled paper to her chest like a prayer. The letter had arrived that morning, printed on the first page of a newspaper carried by a News Coo with ruffled feathers and a salt-crusted beak.

She’d read it once. Then again. Then again. And now the words echoed in her mind as her ship sailed a solitary path across the Grand Line.

Calypso’s words.

Calypso, who had found her when no one else had bothered to look beyond the songs and smiles. Calypso, who had asked gentle questions and waited patiently for the walls to crumble. Calypso, who had said “What do you really want, Uta?” and hadn’t laughed when the answer came out cracked and broken. Calypso had helped her find the truth. And then she’d helped free her. And then she’d given her the courage to chase down the ghosts of her past and find some much-needed closure.

That was the last time she saw her.

Now, under the deepening sky, Uta unfolded the letter again, her lips moving silently through the familiar line. “People still rise. Still laugh. Still love. Still hope.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks, and for once she didn’t wipe them away. She let them fall. Let them mean something. A part of her wanted to feel angry, because she was pretty damn tired of the people she cared about leaving her behind, but she knew, deep down, that she couldn’t blame Calypso for it.

She’d always been fated for further horizons, Uta knew that much.

So, instead of seeking blame, she began to sing—not a bright anthem or a catchy crowd-pleaser, but a soft, mournful requiem. A song shaped by grief, by memory, and by gratitude.

Her voice carried across the water, smooth as seafoam and heavy with feeling. A tribute for the girl who had listened. Who had understood. Who had changed the course of her life with just a few honest words. Who had made the Sea feel safe again. Who had given her the strength she needed to break free.

The stars blinked to life above her, like eyes watching over the world. Uta sang to them, to the waves, to anyone who might be listening.

She didn’t know how or when but, one day, Uta would sing for the entire world, and she’d use her stage to keep on spreading Calypso’s words.

“In the end, my message remains the same as it has always been: be free.”

“Not in the way they write laws or hang banners, but in the quiet way — the way that lets you wake each day knowing you belong to no one but yourself.”

The throne room was utterly silent.

Not even the rustle of silk robes or the shifting weight of weapons broke the stillness. Every warrior stood at attention, lining the great hall like stone pillars, awaiting their Empress’s command.

Boa Hancock sat unmoving on her seat of carved ivory and coral, eyes scanning the paper in her hand for what must have been the hundredth time. Her fingers, usually so poised and dangerous, trembled slightly—barely, but enough for her sisters to notice. At her feet, Salome coiled in quiet concern, the massive snake’s tongue flicking out nervously every few moments.

The paper bore no signature. Just a crest—a familiar spiral of waves.

Calypso’s final letter.

The Sea’s Crest. The Sea’s Voice. The Sea’s Will.

Hancock closed her eyes.

She remembered when the girl had first come into their sights—not as a guest, but as a target. The World Government had branded her a threat. A dangerous anomaly. The Kuja Pirates had been dispatched with the implicit promise of favor if they captured her. She’d expected a battle. Resistance. A cornered animal.

Instead, they had found a girl standing barefoot on a rickety raft, welcoming them with an eager smile and curious eyes.

Calypso hadn’t begged. She hadn’t run. She hadn’t tried to flatter or deceive. She had simply been—whole, unapologetic, and maddeningly free.

Hancock hadn’t taken her in. Not because she couldn’t, but because, in the quietest part of herself, she knew it would have been wrong. So she’d welcomed the strange girl into their midst instead, shared food and drinks and stories, and for a single night, they were all kin.

They watched the sunrise together. Hancock hadn’t felt this at peace in a very long time.

And now, as her island bathed in the pink hues of dawn, Hancock rose from her throne.

“My sisters,” she said, voice even and strong despite the emotion behind it. "The Sea has just lost one of its bravest daughters.”

There was a ripple of shock through the assembled warriors. She stepped forward, barefoot, regal in every motion. Her eyes shone with unshed tears; her voice tight as she tried her best to remain composed in the face of her people.

“I declare Amazon Lily in mourning for the next three days. We shall not feast. We shall not fight. We shall honor her in silence, in story, and in the sacred rites of our people.”

A collective breath, sharp and reverent.

“She was not one of us by blood,” Hancock continued, lowering the letter slowly to her side, “but she was ours, all the same.”

A mirror, perhaps, of the girl I once was. A reminder… of the woman I could still choose to be, she thought to herself.

The sunlight touched the edges of the balcony now, casting the throne in golden light. Outside, the first drums of mourning began to echo, slow and low—like the heartbeat of the sea itself. Boa Hancock walked to the edge of the dais and looked to the horizon, where the waters shimmered endlessly into the unknown.

“Farewell, ‘Daughter of the Sea’,” she whispered. “May your next journey take you to brighter and safer shores.”

“Follow your own current, even when it twists in ways you don’t understand. Be brave enough to make your own choices, and kind enough to let others do the same.”

The words bled softly in Reiju’s mind, looping like the last notes of a melody you don’t realize you’re humming until it falls silent.

The bar was quiet. Desert towns tended to wind down early, especially ones this close to war, or whatever type of conflict was winding up behind large dunes and political curtains. The only other patrons sat clustered at the far end, low murmurs and hollow clinks of ceramic cups filling the warm, dust-sweet air.

Reiju sat alone at a table near the window, elbows resting on the wood, the faint scratch of sand dragging along the sill. Outside, the sun had long since sunk beneath the dunes, and the stars blinked into view, sharp and watchful. She’d stopped counting them hours ago. In her hands, folded neatly and re-folded twice since dusk, was a creased sheet of paper. The News Coo had already run its course — some pages discarded, others tacked to walls or read into memory. But she kept this one. This page. This letter.

The Sea’s Crest glimmered faintly in the candlelight.

Calypso’s final message.

She read that one line again.

“Be brave enough to make your own choices…”

She remembered the day clearly. Not the storming halls of Germa’s floating citadel, nor the cold chrome laboratories or her father's omnipresent shadow — no. She remembered the cell. Quiet. Dim. A strange prisoner chained down and locked away, yet still freer than Reiju had ever been. Calypso hadn’t tried to escape, not at first. Like being their prisoner was only an inconvenience she was willingly suffering through. But beyond her strange powers and stranger predictions, it was her will that had puzzled Reiju the most.

“You’re alive. By definition, that means you’re free.”

Reiju had almost laughed. But it wasn’t mockery that had bubbled in her throat, then, but grief, and resignation. She hadn’t answered then. What could she have said?

But in the days that followed, her father’s lectures began to ring hollow. Her brothers' arrogance felt… smaller. Her purpose, the path Germa had laid out for her since birth, began to crack beneath the weight of a single possibility: she didn’t have to follow it. Not if she didn’t want to.

That was the day the change began.

Reiju unfolded the letter one last time, smoothing the creases with gentle fingers. She let her eyes linger on the words, like a quiet promise written just for her.

She didn’t know where Calypso was now. No one did. The letter hadn’t said. But Reiju still felt her presence, somehow. It lingered in the air, the wind, the waves. It remained in the choices she shed light upon, in the decision to walk away, in the courage she needed to turn her back on her family, in the freedom to sit in a dusty little bar and not wear the Germa name like a collar anymore.

“Hey.”

The voice startled her out of her thoughts. The bartender had approached, drying a glass with a faded cloth, gaze narrowing slightly. It was getting late, he was rounding up the rest of his customers, now.

“You don’t look like a local,” he said, brow lifting. “What’re you doing out here?”

Reiju blinked, then folded the letter again and tucked it into her coat.

“Looking for an inn,” she said, smoothly enough. “Somewhere I can stay a while.”

He hesitated. “You sure? Alabasta’s not exactly tourist-friendly right now. Things’re tense. Could be trouble.”

A small, enigmatic smile touched her lips. This one wasn’t fake. Wasn’t practiced. She’d found herself smiling at a lot of things ever since she’d left the Germa Kingdom behind.

“I’m not here for the sights,” she said quietly, brushing a strand of pink hair behind her ear. “I’m waiting for my little brother.”

“The Sea doesn’t demand your obedience, only your honesty. So be honest—with yourself, with each other, with the realities you blind yourself to and the future you wish to build.”

The control chamber at the heart of Egghead was silent, save for the low whir of machinery and the soft crackle of a worn paper being passed around. Vegapunk stared at it for a long moment, as if hoping the ink might rearrange itself and say something else. It didn’t. Around the table, five pairs of eyes — screens and visors and artificial lenses — were fixed on him.

“She said York would betray us,” Lilith snapped at last, her voice sharp. “You knew. We all knew. So why the long faces now?”

“Because she didn’t just warn me about York,” Vegapunk murmured, barely above a whisper. “She warned me about myself.”

Atlas stopped pacing.

“What are you talking about?” Edison said. “We shut York down, didn’t we? And we’ve effected a full check of our respective systems, too—the risks of another traitor amongst the Satellites are near zero.”

But Vegapunk shook his head. “No, not like this. She warned me of my ambition, of my innate arrogance.” He sighed, and set the letter down on the table like it weighed a hundred tons. “She warned me about the Mother Flame.”

The words dropped like a thunderclap. For a moment, even Lilith’s bravado faltered.

“You can’t be serious,” Edison said. “We just stabilized the formula. You saw the yield.”

Pythagoras leaned forward, confused. “The energy potential is—”

“—enough to flatten kingdoms,” Vegapunk cut in. “To erase islands. To give the World Government the power to choose which corners of the world are allowed to exist.”

“How could she even know of the Mother Flame? The project was naught but blueprints when she was at the lab,” pointed out Shaka.

“I don’t know how she knew what she did. But she knew I would finish it anyway, even after she begged me not to.” Vegapunk shook his head and rubbed his temple. “She told me that with a single spark of it, the World Government would burn the world down. I didn’t believe her at the time…”

Shaka’s voice was soft. “And now?”

Vegapunk looked around the room. At the minds he’d divided himself into. At his own capacity for goodness, violence, thoughts, wisdom and evil, with greed long-gone.

“I thought I could control it. That I was smart enough to dictate how and when such power should be used—but that was arrogance. I was wrong. It was just the cowardice talking all along.” He stood abruptly. “We’re shutting it down. The entire Mother Flame project. Effective immediately.”

Lilith shot up. “You can’t be serious—!”

“We need that tech!” Edison protested. “The Pacifista Project is already a bust since haven’t been able to find a proper subject—”

“I said we're done, ” Vegapunk snapped, more sharply than usual.

Atlas bit her lower lip, nervous. “The World Government won’t be happy.”

“They’re never happy,” Shaka said, almost gently.

Vegapunk let out a tired, humorless chuckle.

He looked again at the letter. One of the last things she’d left the world. The girl the World Government still called a threat. The girl who’d once stepped into his lab and called him a fool — not for his brilliance, but for how he chose to use it. Who called him out and told him in no uncertain terms that his unparalleled genius didn’t put him above ethics and humane moralities.

“Destroy the backups. Erase the schematics. Get rid of anything related to the Mother Flame, and ensure absolutely nothing of it is left to be found.”

Shaka gave a slow nod. The others protested — Edison cursed, Lilith stormed, Atlas glared, and Pythagoras shook his head, disappointed. But none of them stopped him. Vegapunk turned toward the dome, watching as the artificial sky dimmed into a soft simulated dusk.

“I was never brave enough to be honest,” he said, mostly to himself. “But she was.”

And now, perhaps, it was time he tried.

“The Sea belongs to the pirates. May you remember that adventure is more than conquest, that treasure is not always gold, and that the ones who stand by your side are worth more than any prize.”

“Ma-ma-ma-ma~!”

The Whole Cake Chateau shook, not from celebration or song, but from sobs. Thunderclouds gathered above Totto Land, dark and spiraling, as Prometheus and Zeus trembled and crackled in tandem. Not in fury, but in grief. The very island itself seemed to curl inward, reacting to the mood of its sovereign like a body to pain.

Below, carnage had spread across the Sweet City. But there were no screams of hunger. No demands for croquembouche or wedding cakes. No tantrums for sweet frosting or elusive strawberries.

No, this rampage was different.

“Mama… please…” Smoothie stood at the edge of the wreckage, clutching the singed remains of a chair as if it might shield her from the storm that was their mother. Her usual composed demeanor cracked with uncertainty. “She wouldn’t have wanted this.”

“She left us!” Big Mom roared, a cry ripped from her gut more than her throat.

She stood amidst shattered walls and ruined pillars, her hair wild, eyes blazing with tears that hissed into steam as they hit her cheeks.

“Mama, she didn’t leave us,” Brûlée said, stepping forward. Her voice was trembling as she barely held her own tears back. “She left the world.”

“She was supposed to come back!!!”

Daifuku flinched. Oven muttered a curse under his breath, shaking his head. Somewhere in the back, Pudding sobbed even harder, Chiffon attempting in vain to comfort her.

“She called you Mama,” Perospero said quietly, licking his sugar-slick fingers nervously, as though trying to sweeten the air between them. “She meant it. You know she did.”

The letter had arrived that morning, and they’d only just managed to contain their mother’s following rampage to the palace, though very little remained of it, now.

“She knew what family means,” she whispered now, her voice cracking like shattered crystal candy. “She knew.”

She had stayed with them for a time — not as a guest, not as a hostage, but as family. She’d integrated so seamlessly, so easily…

“I should have made her stay,” she choked out.

“Then she’d have died all the same,” replied Katakuri, his tone even.

Silence followed. A rare, trembling silence across the whole island. Then Big Mom rose, slowly, towering over them all yet looking like she might collapse at any given second. Then, with another cry, she stormed right out of the castle, the island itself trembling with every step she took.

Her children could only lower their heads and take in their own grief, knowing there was nothing else they could do to stop the carnage.

There was no pain quite like a mother’s who’d lost a child.

“The Sea belongs to the Marines. I know not all of you have forgotten what real justice is. I see you. Don’t let their silence drown out your voice, and don’t let their colors suffocate your moralities. Don’t forget the people you’ve sworn to protect.”

The room was thick with tension and cigar smoke. The circular table bore the insignia of the World Government, polished to an obsessive sheen that couldn’t quite distract from the rot beneath, if you looked closely enough.

Outside, the wind howled past the windows of Marineford's highest tower. But within, it was silent save for the scratch of Sengoku’s pen as he finished reading the final lines of Calypso, ‘Daughter of the Sea’s farewell, printed and stamped as “Evidence #409-A.”

He set it down with deliberate care.

“She had the gall to address us,” Sengoku said, voice sharp as flint. “To imply that we’ve forgotten what justice is.”

He wasn’t yelling. Not yet. That made it worse.

Beside him, Akainu folded his arms, crimson eyes burning beneath the brim of his cap.

“You should have let me go back after her,” he bit out. “Now look what she’s done.”

“The Sea’s Crest is being flown on ships from the furthest reaches of the Four Blues to islands all over the Grand Line,” Sengoku continued, as if Akainu hadn’t spoken. “On pirate sails, on civilian boats, even on coats in our own damn barracks. A symbol, she called it. A symbol of dissidence.”

“Justice doesn’t bow to sentiment,” Akainu growled. “It demands order. Crack down on the Crest. It’s already been outlawed, now we must act on it. Anyone caught flying it or bearing it or spreading it—pirate, civilian, Marine—they’re done.”

“Hm,” Kizaru hummed, legs lazily crossed as he leaned back in his chair. His sunglasses glinted even in the dim light. “That sounds like a lot of work… hunting down a pretty little emblem across the entire world. Not very efficient, is it?”

Sengoku shot him a look. “This isn’t about efficiency. It’s about morale.”

“Oh,” Kizaru replied, unconcerned. “I suppose we should ban sunsets too, then. People get all poetic when the sky turns gold.”

Akainu slammed his hand down on the table. “This is not a joke, Borsalino!”

Kizaru tilted his head, blinking slowly. “Didn’t say it was.”

They turned to Aokiji, who hadn’t spoken since the meeting began. He stood by the window, hands in his pockets, his breath fogging faintly against the cold pane. Outside, seagulls circled and wheeled above the sea.

“She’s right,” he said at last.

Sengoku’s brows shot up.

Akainu looked ready to erupt. “What did you say?”

“I said,” Aokiji repeated, turning, “that she’s right. Not about everything, sure. But about some of it. Justice without morality is just violence with a badge to justify it. You outlaw her words, you start hurting people for bearing her symbol—you prove her point.”

“You would defend a pirate?” Sengoku asked, barely masking his disbelief.

“She’s not a pirate.”

“She might as well be!”

“And I’m not defending her,” Aokiji said evenly. “I’m merely pointing out that there are very little crimes we can actually charge her memory with. She just asked questions.” He turned back to the sea, pensive. “She made people think. That’s what scares you.”

“Let me be very clear,” Sengoku said, rising from his seat with apparent, budding anger. “This isn't about one girl. It’s about the legacy she left behind. That symbol is being used to challenge the World Government’s authority!”

“Then maybe we should ask ourselves why that symbol is more inspiring than the one on our sails,” Aokiji said.

Akainu stood, steam rising from his shoulders. “You’re toeing the line of insubordination, Kuzan.”

“And that makes me a criminal? Like her?”

The silence that followed was heavy. Not with indecision, but with the weight of something long overdue.

Sengoku exhaled slowly, smoothing his coat. “This meeting is adjourned. The Crest is to be marked contraband. Distribute orders to all branches. And if anyone under our command is caught flying or bearing it in any way, shape, or form, they shall be arrested and court-martialed on charges of treason. Am I clear?”

Aokiji merely scoffed and walked out. Kizaru stretched, yawned, and offered a lazy salute as he strolled from the room, already whistling a tune. Akainu saluted sharply, then hurried outside, obviously eager to put out their new orders. Sengoku heaved out a sigh, glancing back to the abandoned newspapers.

The girl, this Calypso, had been a headache while she was alive, but he had a feeling she’d become even more of a problem now that she was gone.

“The Sea belongs to the Revolutionaries. Your fight is far from over, and it’ll only get more difficult as time passes. But the world needs you — not just your fire, but your compassion. Change born of fury must be tempered by mercy. Do what is right, not what is easy. No matter what happens, you cannot become the monsters you seek to destroy.”

The candlelight flickered, warping the edges of the Sea’s Crest stamped in black ink across the printed parchment. The letter had been read and reread a dozen times already, analyzed by their intelligence specialists to ensure they didn’t miss any important information she might have tried to share under her pretty words of farewell.

But no. It was just a regular letter, from a girl now departed.

“She’s really gone,” Sabo said softly, as if saying it aloud would make it make sense.

Koala stood behind him, arms crossed tightly, her gaze hard but wet at the edges. “She was supposed to be unstoppable.”

“She never claimed to be,” Dragon replied from the corner, his voice low, almost distant as he scanned the last few lines again. “She only claimed to be free.”

A silence fell over the high tower chamber — one of many hidden strongholds the Revolutionary Army had been forced to rotate through these past months.

The Sea’s Crest had begun showing up in graffiti and carvings, on clothing, even on recruitment posters in the East. It had outpaced their own emblem in some places, not through militant action, but quiet defiance. Hopeful defiance.

Koala finally broke the silence, gesturing to the Crest. “It’s spreading faster than any call we’ve made. And not just among pirates or civilians. Some of ours are taking it up.”

“She never claimed a side,” Dragon murmured. “That was the danger of her. And the brilliance, too. A real shame we never got to meet.”

Sabo leaned back, hands folded behind his head, eyes on the ceiling. “She helped me remember,” he said, a rare fragility in his voice. “She brought my memories back, returned me to my family, and it was all an accident. I just… I just wish I could have seen her again, at least to thank her properly.”

“It can still be done.”

The two high-ranking officers startled a bit as they glanced back to their leader.

“‘Change born of fury must be tempered by mercy,’” Dragon quoted. “She knew what’s coming. That the World Government is tightening its grip. That our enemies are preparing to paint us as the very tyrants we fight against. She wanted to remind us: the people aren’t just watching what we fight; they’re watching how we fight.”

Koala’s lips pressed into a thin line. “We’ve had to be sharp, decisive. Mercy’s a luxury we haven’t always been able to afford.”

“No,” Dragon said. “But compassion is not weakness. We must burn, yes, but we cannot scorch the people we’re trying to save.”

Sabo nodded quietly. “She didn’t say we had to win the war her way. Just that we had to remember why we were fighting it in the first place.”

Dragon tucked the letter into a leather folder and turned to the map table where reports and pinned markers spanned the globe.

“I want her words heard. Not hidden. Not distorted. We have to ensure that the World Government doesn't erase them or twist them to further their own agenda. Spread them out to every single cell we have in the field, too. Let our people see what she said. Let them decide what kind of vision they want to carry forward.”

“And if it competes with ours?” Koala asked evenly. “If it ends up clashing with the ideals and goals of the Army?”

“Then we fight harder to earn our place in the world we want to build,” Dragon answered simply. “And we do it without becoming the monsters she warned us about.”

Surprised, Sabo and Koala then glanced to each other and shared a smile.

Maybe it was time for the Revolutionary Army to properly redefine themselves.

“The Sea belongs to everyone else, too. Human or other, sailor or civilian, adult or child. You are all so much more than the world allows you to be. Ask questions. Break rules. Grow wild. You are not mistakes waiting to be erased—you are all stories waiting to be written.”

The coral lamps cast a soft glow across the temple.

It hadn’t always been a temple. Once, it had been little more than an empty garden alcove, a quiet cove where Shirahoshi used to go when the palace felt too heavy, when her chamber walls began to echo her fears back at her.

Now, it was sacred. When the body of Vander Decken had been found adrift and lifeless at the borders of Ryugu Palace, with the Sea’s Crest carved into his chest, her father had ordered a shrine erected at once.

A gift from the Goddess of the Sea, the priests had whispered. An answer to the prayers of a trapped daughter. A blessing of freedom.

Shirahoshi wasn’t sure what she believed, but when she’d first seen the symbol — that curling, elegant crest — something inside her had stirred. It had felt like breathing for the first time. She’d heard rumors at the time and, a little desperate, she’d prayed. She’d carved that symbol for herself and prayed for freedom.

And the Goddess had answered.

Shirahoshi’s tormentor wound up dead, and Shirahoshi was finally free to leave the confines of the palace once more, without having to fear for her life. At first, she’d believed it had been her fault, that his blood was on her hands—she’d never asked for his death! But as the days passed and she stopped fearing the outside world a little more every day, she began to realize that she couldn’t just ask for something from a Goddess then be ungrateful in the way her blessing was delivered.

The ways of the Gods weren’t for mere mortals to understand or question, after all.

And now, they finally had the semblance of a scripture to add to the shrine.

“You are not mistakes waiting to be erased—you are all stories waiting to be written.”

Her hands trembled just slightly.

For most of her life, she’d believed the opposite. Too large. Too delicate. Too emotional. Too important to be anything but hidden. A treasured mistake, locked away behind marble walls and stained-glass expectations. But whoever wrote this—whoever the Sea’s Crest truly belonged to—they didn’t think she was a mistake.

She reached out and touched the carved stone at the center of the shrine. The mark was there—etched in brilliant blue corals, shaped by the most skillful artisans and inspired by the reports of the ships that had drifted in from the surface. The symbol had already become something sacred to her people. And yet, it wasn’t worship that filled Shirahoshi’s chest when she stared at it.

It was hope.

Hope that the Sea, their home and prison all at once, could one day become something more.

The letter did not speak in commands. It didn’t demand loyalty. It only offered belief. Belief that she, and others like her, mattered — not just in duty or tradition, but in potential.

Her eyes shimmered, tears warm against her cheeks. She smiled.

A future where she didn’t have to remain hidden. A future where children born with scales or skin could walk beside each other without shame. A future where stories were told by those who lived them — not those who tried to erase them. The letter wasn’t signed. Shirahoshi wished they could finally give their Goddess a proper name, but maybe she could ask Jinbe once he returned—he always had answers to all of her questions, after all.

She folded it gently, pressed it to her heart, then rose. For the first time in her life, the Mermaid Princess found a quiet and comforting confidence.

It was about time she started writing her own story.

“Guards?” she called out. “Please let my father know I must speak with him. It is quite urgent. Have Megalo summoned as well.”

“Yes, Your Highness!”

But first, there was a very important secret she needed to share with her family. After all, if she wished to heed the Goddess’ creed as well as her mother’s wishes, then she couldn’t afford to remain silent any longer.

A new tale was going to begin, and it would start with her mother’s true killer finally being dealt the punishment he deserved.

“To those I’ve met along the way… thank you. For the laughter, the arguments, the memories. For every hand extended when I stumbled. For every voice that called me back when I drifted too far. For every piece of advice offered, and all the open arms with which you welcomed me, even if I didn’t always deserve it.”

Night had fallen quietly over the Moby Dick.

The stars above blinked like the watchful eyes of old gods, and the sea beneath rolled with a slow, somber rhythm. Most of the crew had long since retired for the night, leaving the deck quiet—save for two figures seated near the mast, a few bottles between them. The letter sat on the crate beside them, folded now, but not forgotten.

Ace sat with his legs sprawled out, one arm draped over his knee, his gaze distant as he nursed his drink. His freckled face was unreadable, pensive in a way that didn't suit someone as full of life as him. Whitebeard sat beside him in silence, great arms crossed, eyes on the horizon. The faint flutter of the Sea’s Crest flew from the aft rail—not hoisted high, not formal—but present.

A reminder of paths once crossed, of a Will heard and respected.

Ace looked down into his drink. “I should’ve done something.”

Whitebeard’s brow furrowed. “Done what, son?”

“I don’t know,” Ace muttered. “Helped her. Talked to her more. She always looked like she was carrying the whole world on her back and pretending it didn’t hurt.” He let out a frustrated sigh as he ran a hand through his air. “She almost died when we first met. I knew there was something wrong, but I…”

Whitebeard shook his head slowly. “She made her choices. You did too. You’re not her savior, and she wasn’t yours. But maybe… maybe, she didn’t need saving. Just remembering.”

Ace fell quiet again, jaw clenched, thumb rubbing the rim of his cup. After a long stretch of silence, Whitebeard uncorked another bottle beside them and poured into both cups.

“To the Daughter of the Sea,” he said simply, raising his drink.

Ace looked over, blinked once, then nodded. He raised his cup and clinked it gently against the old man’s.

“To Calypso,” he echoed. “Wherever she is now.”

They drank.

No eulogies. No grand speeches. Just the quiet sound of waves and the silent ache that came from knowing the world had changed again, as if shifting to fill the void she’d left behind.

Far above them, the small flag bearing the Sea’s Crest, just underneath their own flag, caught a breeze, fluttering once in the dark.

“I am admired, feared, and loved. I am a girl, a fleeting rumor, a blooming dream. I am a philosophical sailor, a pacifist at heart, and a foolish dreamer. A part of me wishes I could have been more, but I’d like to believe I was enough.”

Garp sat alone on a quiet dock, the waves lapping against the wood, steady and patient.

He wasn’t in uniform. Not tonight. Just a tired old man with a half-finished bottle beside him, boots crossed at the ankles, hat pulled low against the fading sun. The letter rested on his knee, its words still echoing louder than the gulls circling overhead. He had read it more than once. Not because he had to, but because something in it refused to leave him alone.

“That brat, huh?” he muttered to no one, a huff of breath escaping that could have been a laugh or a sigh. “Hard to believe the one who tried to flipped the world over is gone.”

His gaze drifted to the horizon. The sea was quiet, but never still. Just like her.

They’d only spoken once. She’d been respectful, if a little cheeky. Earnest, if a little challenging. Too sharp for her own good. Too kind. She wasn’t like the pirates of old. Not like Roger, or even like his damn grandson, that lovable idiot. She didn’t want thrones or riches or chaos. She just wanted people to be free. And the funny thing was—despite everything, despite the fear she stirred in every corner of the world—they listened to her.

They believed her.

That was what scared the World Government the most. Not her power. Not her past. Not even her name. It was that her belief could spread like wildfire. And in her hands, it became something dangerous. Something beautiful and terrible all at once.

“You were more than enough, girlie,” Garp said finally, soft and certain. “Even if the world didn’t deserve you.”

He leaned back, watching the sky darken with stars. Tomorrow, the world would keep turning. The World Government would keep dirtying its hands, pirates would keep terrorizing towns, Revolutionaries would keep spreading chaos and discord, and Garp would keep fighting battles that couldn’t ever be truly won.

But tonight, for a moment, he allowed himself to grieve.

Not just for her, but for what she stood for—and how rare that kind of spirit had become.

“I may not be where I thought I’d end up. I may not have found all the answers I sought. But I know this much: I sailed as far as I could, I gave as much as I had, and I’ll never regret the tides that carried me to you, all of you.”

The words blurred slightly, the page trembling faintly in his grip.

Law hadn’t meant to read it again, not really. He’d already scowled his way through it five times since it was first delivered, and every time it left him feeling like his insides were fraying at the seams.

He hated that.

He hated her for it, too.

Not because of the letter. Not because of what she said. Because she was gone. Because she knew she would be gone. Because she had told him in everything but words that she didn’t expect to come back.

He pulled the token from his coat pocket — a simple piece of polished driftwood awkwardly carved into the Sea’s Crest.

"Tch," Law muttered, clenching the token tighter in his fist. His fingers were cold. Or maybe it was the air. He wasn’t sure anymore. “You stubborn idiot.”

If she had just waited. If she’d given him time — let him run more tests, build a treatment plan, try. But no. She had smiled and said she had other places to be, things to finish, people to protect. That he’d already helped, that she understood, now. She basically told him not to waste his energy fixing something that didn’t need fixing. At the time, he’d assumed she was being poetic again. She did that too often. Talked like a wandering philosopher, half in riddles and half in warnings no one wanted to hear.

But now he understood. She was already dying.

Even when she stood at the helm of her little raft and looked at him with those maddening, calm eyes, she was already slipping away. Not fast. But inevitably. And she’d chosen to spend what time she had left giving. Offering pieces of herself to others like she wasn’t terrified of running out.

It made Law furious. It made him ache.

“She didn’t have to go that way,” he said under his breath, though no one was around to hear it. “I could have done something. I could have figured it out!”

But he knew the truth. She had chosen the Sea, just like he had. And when it came time to answer to it — to surrender herself to the tide that bore her — she did so with grace.

No regrets.

No apologies.

Just a final message, a symbol, and a legend that would outlast her body by centuries.

Law opened his hand and stared at the token again. The Sea’s Crest, smooth and unassuming, caught a glint of moonlight and reflected it back at him. The symbol was banned now, outlawed across the entire world. But that only made it more powerful.

He slipped it back into his coat, safe and close to his chest.

“Damn you,” he whispered. “You really couldn’t just let someone help you, could you?”

But a part of him respected her for it. She had been honest, until the end. She had carried her convictions to the grave. He didn’t know if he could do the same. Not yet.

One day, maybe he’d be ready to follow her example. Maybe when the time came for his tide, he wouldn’t run from it either.

But first, he had goals to accomplish, and something told him the letter she’d secretly slipped into his pocket before she left would help him do just that.

“The Sea is wide and wild and ancient, and I think I was always meant to return to her sooner than most. But understand that this is not the end of my journey—it is only the beginning of yours. And if I have left anything behind, let it not be legend or legacy, but just a little more light for those still trying to find their way.”

The letter had circulated far too quickly. Transcribed, translated, spread across ink-stained newspapers and whispered by every mouth from merchant to Marine, all over the world, too fast for them to put out a gag order.

Now it sat at the center of the Room of Authority, sealed in gold and silk, resting on the polished obsidian table where the Five Elders had gathered.

“This should have been prevented,” grumbled Saint Ethanbaron. “She should never have made it this far. We were far too lenient.”

“She should have been erased,” agree Saint Warcury, his eyes narrowed. “Before the Sea’s Crest became a banner for fools. Before that cursed name turned into a prayer.”

“Calypso." Saint Shepherd scoffed as though the word were sour on his tongue. “They treat her like a deity. A martyr. A myth. She wasn't even a Warlord, let alone one of the Emperors, and yet she’s more revered than any of these sickening fools.”

“No,” murmured Saint Mars. “But she was something worse. She made people believe. And that’s far more dangerous than any title.”

Silence fell.

Saint Saturn leaned back in his chair. “It wouldn’t have mattered if we killed her earlier,” he said quietly, almost dispassionately. “She was the last remaining Tideweaver—her people always had a knack for causing trouble. But the brighter they burned, the faster they extinguished themselves. It is known."

“The Tideweavers were erased for a reason,” bit out Saint Warcury. “Those who dealt the most damage always returned to the Sea the fastest—but even the worst of them died in their late twenties. She answered the Call at barely sixteen of age.”

“Then maybe she was just a fool who didn’t know what to make of her own powers,” shrugged Saint Mars. “Either way, she’s gone, now.”

“She still left a gaping wound behind,” huffed Saint Shepherd.

“But wounds heal,” replied simply Saint Saturn. “Marks fade, symbols get buried, and myths are eventually forgotten. We’ve outlasted plenty worse.”

“Agreed. But we cannot afford further underestimating the threat she poses, even gone,” pointed out sternly Saint Ethanbaron. “The Sea’s Crest must be eliminated wherever it appears. Let us crush the embers before they catch.”

“Agreed,” the others murmured.

“Let the world believe she was nothing,” added Saint Mars. “Just a naïve girl with ideas above her station. We’ll rewrite her into a harmless whisper. A fantasy for children. Nothing more.”

“And if people resist that narrative?” challenged Saint Shepheard. “What then?”

“Then we make them understand that nothing challenges the order of this world,” replied coldly Saint Ethanbaron. “It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve rewritten history.”

The other Elders fell silent, quietly contemplating the magnitude of the threat. Saint Saturn looked back down at the letter one last time. For a second, something flickered in his eyes—something like weariness. Or doubt. But it vanished just as quickly.

He nodded. “So be it.”

The chamber fell into final, iron silence. They were the true Gods of this world, and no one, not even a stray Tideweaver, could challenge their authority.

“ Be brave. Be bold. Be free. I know you’ll find your way, just as I’ve found mine.”

The breeze tugged playfully at the edge of the newspaper in Nami’s hands, threatening to steal it overboard. She tightened her grip. The ink was fresh, the pages warm from where she'd wrestled the copy off a passing News Coos, its delivery fee still stinging her wallet. But this—this was worth it.

She sat alone near the bow of the Going Merry, on the lounge chair she’d set up for quieter moments, the sea sparkling around like scattered diamonds. The others were laughing in the distance—Sanji fussing over lunch, Zoro napping already, Luffy and Usopp trying to fish with a slingshot and an unreasonable amount of confidence.

But Nami’s world was focused elsewhere for the moment. Her eyes scanned that final paragraph again, lingering on the last line and the small crest drawn beneath it.

A swirling design. Circular, elegant, curling waves inside it.

Her fingers brushed absently against the edge of her tattoo—what used to be Arlong’s mark, but which she’d reclaimed well over a year ago, now. Reshaped, redesigned, to represent something she truly believed in.

The crest printed at the bottom of the letter was identical.

She hadn’t seen it before, not like this. But something about it tugged at her in a way she couldn’t explain—like recognizing the silhouette of a ship you'd never boarded but had always meant to.

“Hey, what’s that?”

The question startled the navigator, and she twisted in time to see Luffy hop up beside her, grin wide, his usual energy humming like static. He peered over her shoulder, and before she could stop him, he plucked the newspaper from her grip.

“Hey!” Nami protested, reaching to grab it back.

But now Usopp was clambering up behind them too. “What’s this, a bounty? Or another weird pirate group?”

“No,” Luffy said, blinking. “Huh. Look, Usopp—it’s Nami’s tattoo!”

“What?!” Usopp leaned in, squinting. “Hey… it does look like it. Did you write this, Nami? Secretly a famous writer or something?”

Nami rolled her eyes and snatched the paper back with a practiced hand. “No. It’s not my writing. But that symbol—it’s called the Sea’s Crest.”

“Sea’s Crest?” Sanji asked from the railing nearby, now intrigued. “Sounds romantic.”

Zoro raised a brow from where he lay in the sun, cracking one eye open. “Sounds like trouble.”

Nami ignored both of them and folded the paper carefully, sliding it into the pouch at her waist. “It’s a symbol of freedom,” she said softly. “The Fishman who saved Cocoyashi, Jinbe, told me about it after I noticed it on his own flag. He said that it was created by a girl named Calypso, and that he used it because he wanted to carry her will—for everyone to be free.”

“That’s so cool!” Luffy said immediately, grinning widely and eyes sparkling. “I sure hope we meet her someday, she sounds great! Hey, do you think she'll join our crew?”

Nami smiled faintly but didn’t answer, because some part of her already doubted they ever would. The letter read like a farewell, a final gift cast into the current. Like a candle flame flickering low but still reaching, still offering warmth.

She didn’t know who Calypso was, not really. She’d only heard tales from Jinbe and his crew after they’d taken down Arlong, and she’d noticed the peculiar bounty poster with no pictures, once, but nothing more than that. But she’d still decided to bear it, because it was her savior’s faith, and because she really wanted to believe in it, too.

Nami did not know who Calypso was, but she still believed in her, somehow.

Because something deep inside Nami—something that had been shackled for years, something raw and newly unburdened—held onto it like it was the first treasure she’d ever found just for herself.

She turned her gaze to the open water. They were headed for Loguetown now, their last stop before making way for the Grand Line. And, with the breeze at her back and her friends—her crew—at her side, Nami finally felt like she had permission to dream again.

To be brave.

To be bold.

To be free.