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The Moby Dick had become a ghost ship.
It wasn’t that the crew was gone. The decks were still packed with pirates, the hammocks were full, and the sails still caught the wind. But the soul of the ship, the loud, boisterous, sun-bright heart of their family, had been violently ripped out.
It had only been a few weeks since the nightmare. Just a few weeks since Haruta had sat under the stars, covered in frosting, laughing with Thatch and Pops. The very next night, the blood had stained the deck. Teach had fled into the dark. Ace, consumed by a raging inferno of guilt and fury, had recklessly chased after him.
And left the rest of them behind in the deafening, suffocating silence.
Haruta couldn't sleep. The silence in the dormitories was a physical weight, pressing down on his chest. Thatch’s booming laugh was permanently gone. The sudden realization that they would never hear him yell from the galley again made Haruta’s throat close up.
Unable to breathe, Haruta had wandered out into the cold night. His feet carried him aimlessly down the familiar wooden corridors until a faint, abnormal sound stopped him dead in his tracks.
It was coming from the galley.
Haruta pressed his back against the wall, creeping toward the slightly ajar door.
Inside, illuminated by the harsh, flickering light of a single lantern, was Marco.
The First Commander looked like a walking corpse. He hadn't slept since that night, it was obvious in the deep, bruise-like purple bags under his eyes and the unnatural pallor of his skin. His usually immaculate blond hair was a tangled mess, and his shoulders, which usually carried the weight of the crew so effortlessly, were hunched and trembling.
Haruta watched as Marco moved sluggishly around the massive stoves. He was trying to make coffee.
The sight sent a fresh, agonizing wave of bitterness through Haruta. Thatch had possessed a terrifying, almost supernatural radar when it came to his kitchen. It didn't matter if it was three in the afternoon or three in the morning, if someone stepped foot in his domain, Thatch would appear within minutes, tying his apron and loudly complaining about people messing with his pots.
But he had a soft spot for Marco. Knowing the First Commander regularly worked through the night, Thatch had developed a habit. Every evening, without fail, he left two large thermoses of exceptionally strong coffee on the counter.
He always left a sticky note on them, too. Usually something like, For my grumpy bluebird, or Drink this so you don't look 80 years old tomorrow. And almost always, he drew little, poorly sketched chickens on the metal casing of the thermos itself. Marco would always find them, roll his eyes, mutter about Thatch being an idiot, and take them to his cabin.
Tonight, there were no thermoses waiting. Marco had to do it himself.
Haruta watched Marco set up the heavy coffee percolator. Marco paused, his hand hovering over the handle. He turned his head slightly, his gaze fixing on the swinging galley doors. He stared at them for a long, agonizing minute. His posture was tight, expectant. He was waiting for the doors to burst open. He was waiting for Thatch to strut in, waving a wooden spoon and scolding the 'stupid bird' for nearly burning the galley down.
The doors didn't move. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
Marco’s shoulders collapsed. He let out a shaky breath, turning back to the stove.
He grabbed the metal handle of the boiling pot to pour the water. But his hands were shaking too badly from exhaustion. His grip slipped. The heavy pot tilted, and a splash of boiling water cascaded over Marco’s bare wrist.
Instead of blue flames rushing to heal the burn, Marco gasped.
Then, he snapped.
A sound tore from Marco’s throat, a guttural, raw scream of absolute rage and agony that didn't sound human. He slammed his unburned hand into the counter, the wood splintering under the force. He grabbed the heavy coffee pot and hurled it across the room. It shattered against the far wall, sending boiling liquid and black grounds exploding everywhere.
Marco tore through the kitchen like a hurricane. He kicked a stack of metal crates, sending them crashing to the floor with a deafening clatter. He swept his arm across the prep tables, sending bowls, knives, and cutting boards flying. He was destroying everything in his path, blue flames finally flickering, but erratically, violently, reflecting the total devastation inside him.
Haruta shrank back against the corridor wall, clapping a hand over his mouth to stifle a sob. It was terrifying. Marco was never like this. Marco was their anchor, their calm in the storm. Seeing him shatter was like watching the sky fall.
After five minutes of unrelenting destruction, Marco’s rampage ceased.
The sudden silence that followed was worse than the noise.
Haruta heard footsteps approaching down the hallway. Turning his head, Haruta saw Izou stepping out of the shadows. The Sixteenth Commander’s face was a mask of pale porcelain, but his eyes were dark with shared torment. Izou looked at Haruta, offering a grim, pained grimace, before stepping up to the galley door.
From inside, a new sound emerged. A choked, wet gasp.
Haruta peeked through the crack in the door one last time.
Marco was on his knees in the middle of the ruined kitchen. He wasn't looking at the dents in the metal or the broken wood. He was frantically, desperately scrabbling at the floor, picking up pieces of shattered ceramic and metal.
It was the thermos. One of the thermoses Thatch had drawn a stupid little chicken on. Marco must have kept it. And in his blind rage, he had knocked it off a shelf and broken it.
Marco’s hands were bleeding as he tried to fit the jagged edges back together. His tears were falling freely, dropping onto the ruined metal.
— I'm sorry, Marco choked out, his voice cracking, a broken, desperate plea to an empty room. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please. I'm sorry.
He couldn't put it back together. It was broken forever.
Izou knelt beside Marco, wrapping his arms around the shaking First Commander. Haruta couldn't watch anymore. The sight of Marco breaking down completely severed the last string holding Haruta together.
Izou reached out a hand toward the door, his long fingers gently brushing Haruta’s cheek.
Haruta flinched, startled. Izou’s thumb swept away a drop of moisture. Haruta touched his own face. It was wet. He was crying. It was the first time tears had actually fallen since the morning they found Thatch’s body. The shock had been so deep it had frozen the tears at the source. Now, the dam had broken.
Unable to handle the sheer, crushing weight of it all, Haruta turned and bolted. He ran down the corridor, up the stairs, fleeing to the only place on the ship that had ever offered absolute safety.
The main deck was freezing. Haruta skidded to a halt near the main mast, gasping for air, and scrambled behind the massive, throne-like chair that sat in the center. He pressed his back against the cool wood, pulling his knees to his chest, just like he had that night weeks ago.
Haruta reached into his pocket with trembling fingers and pulled out a small, heavy object.
It was a tin of neon green paint.
He had hidden it in his quarters, waiting for the perfect moment to execute the prank Whitebeard had suggested. He was going to paint Izou's guns.
Haruta gripped the cold tin until his knuckles turned white.
Everything was wrong. Izou hadn't even noticed his silk sashes were missing. In fact, Izou was still wearing the rough, scratchy burlap sash they had swapped it for. Izou refused to step foot into Thatch’s cabin to retrieve his things, doing so would mean acknowledging that Thatch was never coming back to that room. Haruta had caught Izou several times standing on the deck, staring out at the sea, his hands gripping the cheap burlap tight enough to fray it, his eyes shining with unshed tears.
And Pops.
Haruta pressed his face into his knees, sobbing quietly. Pops was in a terrible state. He looked like he had aged ten years in a few weeks. His movements were slower, heavier. He hadn't smiled since that night.
The crew always joked about Thatch’s cooking, but Haruta knew the truth. Thatch’s food had been magic. He poured so much love and care into every meal, carefully managing the old man’s diet without making it taste like medicine. Thatch’s food had kept Pops strong. Now that Thatch was gone, the life was visibly draining out of the strongest man in the world. They always said a broken heart was deadlier than a sword, and looking at Whitebeard, Haruta knew it was the absolute truth.
Haruta was spiraling. The anxiety was a physical beast clawing at his chest.
Thatch was dead. Murdered by a brother. Ace was out there, alone, blinded by rage, hunting down a monster. What if Ace didn't come back? What if Teach killed him too? Marco was destroying himself, buckling under the weight of his guilt and his duties, falling apart on the kitchen floor. Pops was fading away.
The Whitebeard Pirates, the invincible family that ruled the seas, were crumbling to dust.
— Haruta.
The voice was a low, weak rumble, lacking the booming power it usually possessed, but it was still the sound of their father.
Haruta sniffled, not moving, keeping his eyes squeezed shut.
A shadow fell over him. Then, a massive, calloused hand, warm and heavy, gently came to rest over Haruta’s trembling shoulders. The sheer size of the hand covered Haruta's entire back, radiating a heat that felt desperately needed in the freezing night.
— My child, Whitebeard murmured softly.
Haruta broke. He turned and threw himself against Whitebeard’s massive leg, burying his face in the fabric of his trousers, sobbing uncontrollably. The green paint tin rolled out of his hands, clanking hollowly against the deckboards.
Whitebeard didn't speak. He just sat there, his massive hand rubbing slow, soothing circles into Haruta’s back, letting the Twelfth Commander cry until he was choking on dry heaves.
— Pops, Haruta finally gasped out, his voice raw and high-pitched with panic. Pops... are we going to fall apart?
Whitebeard’s hand paused for a fraction of a second, before resuming its gentle motion.
— I miss him so much, Haruta wailed, fists bunching the fabric of Whitebeard's pants. It hurts. It's so quiet. And Ace... I'm so scared for Ace, Pops. He's out there all alone. Teach is going to hurt him. And Marco... Marco is broken. He's crying in the galley. I'm scared for Marco. I'm scared for you. We're dying, Pops. Our family is dying.
Whitebeard looked down. His fierce eyes were incredibly sad, lined with an exhaustion that ran deeper than the ocean. He reached down with his other hand and gently, delicately picked up the tin of neon green paint. He rolled it between his massive fingers, a ghost of a bitter, sorrowful smile touching his lips beneath his mustache.
— It hurts, Whitebeard rumbled, his voice thick with his own suppressed grief. Because the love was so great. The silence is deafening because his laughter filled our lives so completely.
He set the tin back down next to Haruta.
— Grieving, my son, is the final testament of our love for him. Do not fear the tears. Do not fear the pain. If we felt nothing, it would mean his time with us meant nothing. And we both know Thatch was the brightest sun upon this ship.
— But Ace- Haruta choked out.
— Ace is a fool, Whitebeard said, though his voice was laced with profound fondness and worry. He carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, and he believes he must bear this burden alone to protect our honor. But he is strong. And he is surrounded by the love of this family, even from afar.
Whitebeard shifted, groaning slightly as his old joints popped, and leaned forward, bringing his massive face closer to Haruta’s.
— You asked if we are falling apart, Whitebeard said, his eyes locking onto Haruta's tear-streaked face. Look at the sea, Haruta. Does the ocean fall apart when a hurricane strikes?
Haruta shook his head slowly.
— It rages. It churns. It destroys. The waves are terrifying, and the depths are dark, Whitebeard said, his voice finding a fraction of its old, commanding power. But when the storm passes, the ocean remains. It is bruised, perhaps forever changed by the wreckage it has swallowed, but it is unbroken.
He cupped Haruta’s cheek with a finger the size of his torso.
— We are the Whitebeard Pirates. We do not shatter when the wind blows. We bend. We weep. We bleed. But we weather the worst storms the world can throw at us, together.
Haruta looked at Pops. The old man was sick. He was tired. His heart was broken. But the absolute, unwavering certainty in his eyes was still there. He was still their father. He was still their captain.
— Marco feels he failed as a big brother, Whitebeard continued softly. He is trying to carry my grief, your grief, and Ace's absence, all while bearing his own. He is bending under the weight. Izou is clinging to ghosts because he is not ready to say goodbye. And you... you are hiding, because the world suddenly feels very cold and very dangerous.
Whitebeard patted Haruta’s head gently.
— It is alright to be scared. It is alright to be broken right now. But we will not stay broken. Do you understand me, Haruta?
Haruta swallowed hard, tasting salt and bitterness. He looked at the tin of paint. It felt like a relic from a past life. A life where his biggest concern was whether or not Marco would scrub the pink dye off his face.
But as Haruta looked at it, he remembered the warmth of that night. He remembered the taste of the frosting, the sound of Thatch’s laughter, the absolute certainty of safety.
Teach had taken Thatch’s life. But he couldn't take that memory. He couldn't take the love they had shared.
Haruta took a deep, shuddering breath. The panic was still there, curled tight in his chest. The grief was a gaping, bleeding wound. The fear for Ace was a cold knot in his stomach.
But the paralyzing helplessness began to recede, replaced by a tiny, stubborn spark of resolve.
Marco was broken. Pops was struggling.
Haruta wiped his eyes fiercely with the back of his sleeves, smearing dirt and tears across his cheeks. He couldn't bring Thatch back. He couldn't drag Ace home.
But he could walk down to the galley. He could help Izou pick Marco off the floor. He could sit with his First Commander so he didn't have to cry alone. He could make sure Pops drank his medicine, even if it tasted vile without Thatch's magic touch.
Haruta reached out and picked up the tin of paint. He didn't throw it overboard. He gripped it tight. Someday, he would use it. Someday, he would make Izou yell at him again. Not today. Not tomorrow. But someday. Because if he stopped living, Teach won.
Haruta slowly pushed himself up to his feet. His legs were shaking, and the night air was biting, but he stood tall next to Whitebeard’s chair.
— I won't let us fall apart, Haruta whispered, his voice cracking, but laced with a newfound, desperate strength. I'll help Marco. I'll stay with him.
Whitebeard smiled,a small, genuinely warm smile that didn't reach his eyes, but carried a world of pride.
— I know you will, my child.
Haruta looked out at the ink-black sea. The stars were hidden behind thick, dark clouds. It was going to be a long, terrible storm.
But as Haruta turned to walk back toward the galley, clutching the paint tin like a lifeline, he knew he wouldn't face the storm alone. He would hold the line. He would survive this.
For Thatch. For Ace. For Pops.
He had to.