Work Text:
Vengeance.
After all these years, an opportunity for well-deserved vengeance has at last appeared within Garling’s grasp.
Reminding himself of how satisfying it will shortly be is the only thing to spare the lives, or at least the tongues, of the simpering, ridiculous lower creatures that attempt to make idle conversation during his wait. Simple enough to ignore them, to focus his attention inward, envisioning exactly how events will play out from here.
Thirty-six years, he’s been waiting for a chance such as this. Three and a half decades with only one of his offspring raised to further glorify the Figarland name, and now, at last, Garling has a chance to seek his vengeance, even if the one responsible lies out of reach beyond the grave.
The weak-willed insipid Warden of Impel Down at last falls silent, when a door opens, and six guards drag forth Garling’s prize.
There is, certainly, a physical resemblance - all the stronger for someone who encountered Gol in the days before carefully groomed facial hair became his defining feature. For all that the boy is hunched forward, covered in filth and mottled bruising, grey eyes remain sharp, wary, glancing around the assembled crowd before settling on Garling himself. Correctly identifying him as the greatest power in the room, no doubt.
Any lingering doubt as to the pirate’s parentage vanishes when he opens his mouth. “Well you aren’t a marine. They don’t let folks have hair that weird.”
Horrified silence descends across the hall, swift as a guillotine. The guards escorting Garling’s prize halt their forward progress, in a stumbling manner that speaks all too plainly of their fear to approach further. For his part, the boy simply raises both brows.
Three, five, ten seconds pass, as Garling regards the captured pirate. Then, slowly, dripping with nonchalance, he steps forward, closing the final bit of distance, forcing the boy to tip his head back in order to maintain eye contact.
In a blink, Garling slaps him.
With prejudice.
Chains are yanked free of gauntleted hands, several of the guards yelping as their prisoner is neatly thrown headfirst into the nearest wall. To the pirate’s credit, the impact merely dazes him; almost immediately upon collapsing to the floor, he begins to struggle upright, snarling and spitting foul-mouthed curses, glaring through the blood now spilling from a cut along his hairline.
Garling snaps his fingers. Hears the distinct heel-click of his two personal guards straightening to attention. Orders, “Prepare for departure.”
Sharp grey eyes are a great deal more wary as Garling again approaches his prize, flickering with what one might indulge in calling alarm as the lead chain is seized and pulled, dragging the pirate to his feet. He does not attempt to speak again as they exit the prison, neither bothering with any backwards glances. In fact, the boy remains silent all the way to the chamber Garling has selected to house him aboard the Figarland family’s personal vessel, at which point he rudely demands, “Hell, if you’re going to stick me in a fru-fru place like this, I’d rather take the execution platform.”
Another strike. This time he crashes into a wall back-first, gasping as all the air is abruptly driven from his lungs. And still, upon collapsing, kicks and shoves with his bare feet, attempting to push himself upright.
Garling doesn’t give him a chance to get that far.
He only bothers to grasp the pirate’s filthy, soiled hair due to wearing thick gloves. Kicks out both knees, forcing his prize to remain kneeling. Pulls the boy’s head further and further backwards until a hiss of pain leaks past clenched teeth. “Make no mistake, insect, you will wish longingly for your death by the time I am finished. But for now, you hold use; and so, you will live, Gol D. Ace.”
It feels entirely too gratifying to see how freckled, grime-covered skin turns stark white.
In all of Shamrock’s memory, his father has never descended to the lower world with the express intention of picking up a specific pet before. The sheer novelty of it means that he spends the better part of an hour waiting by the estate’s main entrance; with a book, of course, to pass the time, but that diversion is swiftly set aside as soon as a chiming bell signals the return of Saint Figarland Garling.
It’s a surprise to immediately lay eyes on the new slave, dragged along at Father’s side by a heavy length of chain. It’s more of a surprise to recognize the pirate, the by-now infamous Firefist, due for execution soon.
Or perhaps not, at this point.
“Ah, Shamrock,” Saint Garling calls, practically purring with sheer satisfaction. The pirate stumbling along after him glances up, visibly seething, until he looks in Shamrock’s direction and does a double-take. “I’m glad you’re here - I intend to remain quite busy for the rest of today, and possibly tomorrow as well. If anything comes up, handle it, will you?”
A command, for all that it’s phrased politely. Shamrock bows his head in agreement, and watches curiously as Firefist continues to stare at him, even as Father practically pulls the pirate off his feet down a hall that leads to the estate’s outdoor sparring ground.
How odd.
After a short while, Shamrock sets his book aside and stands, strolling at an easy pace to the east wing’s second floor and its balconies. Even before opening a glass door and stepping through, he can hear his father laughing, a sound that always makes some subdued corner of Shamrock’s mind perk up eagerly. Laughter can mean simple amusement, of course, but it might also mean pride. He may no longer be a child seeking to please Saint Garling at all times, but anything that can give his father such open joy is always to be noted-
Someone screams.
For half a moment, Shamrock pauses. He does continue to the balcony railing, though, and arrives just in time to see Father deliver a blow with surprising strength, driving Firefist into the ground hard enough to crack the stonework. Another pained cry; another gleeful laugh. Entirely out of character for the normally stoic Saint Garling, especially when, to Shamrock’s knowledge, this particular pirate has never given their family in particular trouble of any sort.
Still. As Father continues to throw around his new pet, still bound in seastone, he seems to be enjoying himself, and Shamrock certainly isn’t inclined to get in the way of that.
He lingers for a few minutes more, observing as smears of blood are spread liberally across the sparring ground.
Then Shamrock retreats indoors to retrieve his book.
Shanks doesn’t mind admitting, things are a bit of a mess at the moment.
He fully expected nothing more than a quick pit-stop at Fishman Island before hurrying on to catch up to Whitebeard; instead, he and his boys arrived to find the old man’s whole fleet docked and full of confusion, different crews mingling and arguing, the biggest commotion of all on the main deck of the Moby Dick.
After all the useless showmanship of last time (not to mention Shanks being proven right), he decides to skip the formalities and simply hops over, waving off Beck’s “Careful, boss,” as he goes. Honestly ends up being kind of funny, how Shanks makes it onto and halfway across the huge ship before anybody clocks him.
Probably half and half not flaring his haki paired with how distracted everyone seems to be.
Still; one strangled yelp is all it takes, and then Shanks suddenly has a clear path right up to old Newgate’s chair, Marco sitting on his knee and both of them glaring daggers at a newspaper. No gulls made their way to the Red Force in the last day before beginning their descent to Fishman Island; whatever's happened must have been recent, to bring the whole Whitebeard fleet to a standstill.
Marco looks up first. He hardly bats an eye at Shanks, just spits out, “Damn Celestials took him.”
Ah, hell.
Rallying several hundred pirates to throw at the forces of Marineford is one thing, already ludicrous; it’s a whole other level of insanity to change targets to the Holy Land. No wonder Newgate looks so furious, gaze still locked onto the paper and whatever article is (probably gleefully) talking about Ace’s adjusted fate.
When the old man lifts his head to transfer that glare to Shanks, though, it seems to sharpen, not lessen. The ripple that goes through his haki serves as an unspoken order, and the rest of the pirates around them withdraw to a safe distance. Newgate must want to talk in private, then.
Shanks can take a guess why.
“This went over Sengoku’s head,” Newgate rumbles, just barely restrained enough not to carry. “It throws all his careful planning into total chaos. It isn’t because of Ace being one of my children.”
“No kidding,” Shanks has to agree. He had his initial suspicion about Ace and the kid’s parentage; knew he didn’t come from Dragon, even before the explanation about exchanged sake and chosen brotherhood with Luffy, and Shanks would need way poorer eyesight not to spot the resemblance between his old captain and the young rookie. But Ace didn’t want to talk about it, when he tried to ask. So Shanks left well enough alone.
The announcement of a public execution, though. The sort of thing the marines haven’t bothered with since Roger. That pretty much confirmed it, for Shanks at least, that someone in the ranks figured out where Ace really came from, and accordingly decided that spending the rest of his life trapped inside Impel Down wasn’t good enough.
But if that information slipped out of marine ranks... “Any idea which noble went and grabbed him?”
Marco outright growls. “Paper says it front and center: Saint Figarland fucking Garling.”
-oh.
Oh, shit.
For a minute, all Shanks can do is stare. Drift, in the sensation of the world falling out from under him. Until all at once the roaring in his ears drops to a single, murderous whisper: that motherfucker.
At least it makes sense now, why Newgate is still glaring at Shanks.
Garling took Ace. Garling must know about Ace, about his bloodline. Must be, Shanks realizes with a cold horror, enjoying having a Roger-shaped punching bag to play with.
Ace doesn’t deserve that.
(Fuck, Shanks hopes the kid knows he doesn’t deserve it.)
He’s already laid down some thick persuasion to keep Kaido’s nose out of things. Had planned to haul ass for Marineford and add his sword to the looming fight. Isn’t much of a stretch to look at Marco and Newgate, and promise them, “Whatever I can do to get him back, I will.”
The teenager who used to babysit him and Buggy, the man who once plucked Shanks out of a tree and dropped him onto Roger’s shoulders - neither of them looks anything like relieved, but each exhales, as something in the air around them eases.
Guess it’s time to start planning.