Chapter Text
The invitation arrived like a bad omen, a message carried by a Marine officer who clearly wanted nothing more than to toss it into the sea. Instead, he had been forced to hand-deliver it, face pale as he stood before a pirate crew that could sink his ship if they so wished.
Shanks sat on a barrel at the front of the deck, barefoot, grinning as he turned the fine parchment over in his hand. The seal—a golden crest with the unmistakable insignia of the Celestial Dragons—was unbroken.
“Figarland, huh?” He mused, tapping it against his knee. “Didn’t think they’d ever acknowledge me.”
Benn Beckman, standing at his side, took a long drag from his cigarette before exhaling lazily. “And yet, here we are.” His sharp gray eyes flicked to the nervous Marine. “They really sent you all the way here just for this?”
The Marine nodded stiffly. “Orders from Mariejois. I don’t ask questions.”
Shanks snorted, finally breaking the seal and unfolding the letter. His eyes scanned the words, and for a rare moment, his expression flickered—just for a second, something like wariness crossed his face. Then he laughed.
“Well, this is something.”
Beckman raised an eyebrow. “Good news?”
“They’re inviting me to Mariejois.” Shanks stretched, waving the letter. “To meet my family.”
A long silence followed. The crew, who had been listening quietly from the background, collectively stiffened. Even those who had known Shanks for years rarely heard him speak about his origins.
Beckman leaned against the railing, exhaling another stream of smoke. “Sounds like a trap.”
Shanks shrugged. “Could be.”
“And yet you’re going.”
“Of course.”
Beckman sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Then I’m coming with you.”
Shanks grinned, leaning over to press a quick kiss against Beckman’s temple. “Knew you’d say that.”
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The Holy Land
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Mariejois was a gilded cage, all marble and gold, pristine streets that hid the filth beneath. That seemed a little unfair to say though, considering the mechanism beneath the streets that allowed them to move was actually people being forced to physucally move it. Beckman had always known that, but seeing it in person made his skin crawl. The air was heavy, thick with the kind of arrogance that made his fingers itch for his rifle.
They walked through the Hallowed Avenue, the main road leading toward the center of power. Marines escorted them at a distance, but it was the gazes of the Celestial Dragons that Beckman felt the most—sneering, judgmental, curious.
Most ignored Shanks, their disgust barely hidden. A pirate, a traitor to their bloodline. But Beckman? He felt the weight of their scrutiny, as if they were trying to decide if he was worth the trouble of acquiring.
He rolled his cigarette between his fingers, unimpressed.
Shanks walked beside him, hands in his pockets, whistling Binks Sake under his breath like he hadn’t a care in the world. It was a façade, of course. His posture was relaxed, but Beckman saw the way his eyes flicked across every street corner, every building, every possible exit.
Then, a new presence arrived.
The Holy Knights stood at the palace entrance, clad in ornate armor, each of them radiating an air of absolute authority. And at the center of them, standing tall and eerily familiar, was Shamrock Figarland.
The resemblance was undeniable.
He looked just like Shanks—but with longer hair, no scars, and both arms intact. His uniform was pristine, the colors of the World Government woven into every stitch. His expression was sharp, calculating, and most of all—cold.
Beckman didn’t like him immediately.
Shamrock’s eyes met Shanks’, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then, with a quiet scoff, Shamrock broke the silence.
“Whatever illusion you had of being my brother dies today.”
Shanks grinned, unfazed. “Nice to see you too.”
Shamrock didn’t return the sentiment. Instead, his gaze shifted—briefly—to Beckman. A flicker of curiosity. Then, just as quickly, he dismissed him, as if he were nothing more than an accessory.
Beckman’s jaw tightened. He already hated this place.
“Come,” Shamrock said, turning on his heel. “Father is expecting you.”
Without waiting for a response, he strode into the palace, his Holy Knights following behind him.
Shanks glanced at Beckman, his grin not quite reaching his eyes. “Well. This should be fun.”
Beckman exhaled smoke, flicking his cigarette to the marble floor and grinding it under his boot.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “A real damn pleasure.”
And with that, they stepped into the lion’s den.
The corridors of the palace stretched endlessly, all marble and gold, designed to make anyone who stepped inside feel small. Every surface gleamed as if the very walls had never known dust or wear. But to Beckman, the place felt sterile, like a world that had been scrubbed too clean—artificial, suffocating.
Shanks walked with an easy swagger, hands still stuffed in his pockets, as if he belonged. Maybe he did, by blood. But everything about the place clashed with him, from the rigid, symmetrical order of the architecture to the stifling silence of the air. Beckman had never seen Shanks anywhere that wasn’t moving—whether it was the deck of a ship, a bustling tavern, or the open sea. Here, the stillness didn’t suit him.
Shamrock led them through the halls without a word, his armored boots clicking against the polished floor. His soldiers followed in a tight formation, their hands never straying far from their weapons. The tension was thick, but Shanks seemed unaffected.
“So,” Shanks said, breaking the silence. “How many Holy Knights do you command?”
Shamrock didn’t look back. “Twelve.”
Shanks whistled. “Big responsibility for someone so young.”
“No greater than leading a crew of criminals.”
Beckman’s lips twitched around his cigarette. Ah. There it was.
Shanks grinned. “Not much of a crew if I’m the only one here.”
Shamrock finally stopped and turned. His eyes—identical to Shanks’ but utterly devoid of warmth—narrowed slightly. “They follow you. They bear your mark. Whether you call it a kingdom or a crew, the principle is the same.”
Shanks tilted his head. “Except my people aren’t afraid of me.”
A flicker of something crossed Shamrock’s face—annoyance, maybe. But it was gone in an instant.
He resumed walking. “Father is in the Grand Chamber. He will decide if you are worth speaking to.”
Beckman exhaled a slow stream of smoke. “And if he decides he isn’t?”
Shamrock didn’t stop. “Then I’ll remove this filth from the halls myself.”
Beckman smirked, barely hiding his distaste. The more this guy talked, the less he liked him.
The doors loomed ahead—massive, gilded things that stretched toward the vaulted ceiling. Two guards stood on either side, their armor gleaming. With a mere flick of Shamrock’s wrist, they moved, swinging the heavy doors open to reveal a vast chamber bathed in golden light.
Inside, the Celestial Dragons sat upon raised platforms, their grotesque bubble helmets gleaming in the light. At the very center of the room, elevated above the rest, sat a man draped in royal silks, his presence commanding even without a name.
Beckman didn’t need an introduction. Figarland patriarch.
Shanks took a single step forward, then stopped.
Silence stretched between them.
Then, the Figarland elder spoke. His voice was calm, cold, utterly uninterested.
“You should not have come.”
Shanks smirked. “Well, you did invite me.”
The elder didn’t blink. “It was a courtesy. We assumed you had enough sense to refuse.”
Shanks shrugged. “Guess I’m full of surprises.”
Beckman watched the exchange carefully. Shanks rarely lost his composure—but he was tense. Only someone who knew him as well as Beckman did would notice the way his fingers flexed slightly at his sides, or the near-imperceptible way his shoulders squared just a little more than usual.
“You have nothing here,” the elder continued. “You were cast aside long ago. You are not one of us.”
Shanks’ grin didn’t waver. “Wasn’t planning on joining the family business anyway.”
A ripple of discontent moved through the nobles. Shamrock, standing at attention, didn’t react.
The elder exhaled slowly, as if he were speaking to a disobedient dog. “Then why are you here?”
For the first time, Shanks hesitated. It was brief, but Beckman caught it. He actually doesn’t know.
Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was some foolish hope for understanding. Maybe it was just a pirate’s instinct to poke his nose where it didn’t belong.
But whatever Shanks had been expecting from this reunion, it wasn’t this.
The elder leaned back, his robes pooling around him like a vulture settling its wings. “Your presence is a stain upon this place. You have made your choice.” His gaze flicked briefly to Beckman. “And you surround yourself with filth.”
Beckman took a slow drag from his cigarette, meeting the noble’s gaze without a trace of concern.
Shamrock stepped forward then, voice level. “He has no claim to the Figarland name. Let him leave with whatever dignity he still possesses.”
Shanks exhaled sharply through his nose. “Dignity?” He chuckled. “I think I’m doing just fine.”
The elder waved a dismissive hand. “You may leave.”
Shanks didn’t move.
Neither did Beckman.
For a long moment, they simply stood there. The Holy Knights tensed, hands twitching toward their weapons.
Then, finally, Shanks turned on his heel, walking away without another word.
Beckman followed without a glance back.
As the doors shut behind them, Shamrock was the last thing Beckman saw—watching them, his gaze unreadable.
They made it as far as the outer courtyard before Shamrock made another appearance.
“You should have known better.”
Shanks sighed dramatically, stretching his arms behind his head. “Yeah, yeah. ‘A pirate doesn’t belong here.’ Got it.”
Shamrock ignored him. Instead, he turned toward Beckman.
“You,” he said, voice like sharpened glass. “Why do you follow him?”
Beckman barely lifted a brow. “Because I choose to.”
“Strange,” Shamrock mused, studying him now in a way that made Beckman’s skin crawl. “You do not look like a follower.”
Beckman blew out a slow stream of smoke. “I don’t take orders from anyone.”
“Yet you stand at his side.”
A humorless smirk. “Funny. I was thinking the same thing about you.”
Shamrock’s eyes darkened slightly. The knights behind him shifted, sensing the tension.
Then, abruptly, Shamrock smirked.
“You could do better.”
Beckman stilled.
Shamrock took a step closer, voice lowering just slightly. “You are stronger than the others. More refined. You do not belong in the dirt with pirates.”
Shanks’ grin faded. “Hey now—”
Shamrock ignored him.
“You could serve a greater purpose,” he continued, voice smooth. “You have value beyond being a pirate’s shadow.”
Beckman stared at him, then—slowly—chuckled.
It wasn’t a friendly sound.
“Let me make something real clear for you, Figarland,” he murmured, flicking his cigarette away. “I don’t belong to anyone.”
Shamrock’s smirk didn’t waver, but there was something else behind his gaze now. Something calculating.
“Not yet.”
Beckman’s distaste was no longer subtle.
Shanks exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. “Great. He’s obsessed with you.”
Beckman muttered under his breath, “Fantastic.”
And as they walked away, Shamrock stood very, very still, watching Beckman’s retreating form with interest.