Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

If there’s one thing Juno didn’t expect to happen today, it was dying. Then again, nobody exactly schedules "getting murdered" into their after-work routine.

He had just clocked out, craving nothing more than chips and a cold Coke. A simple snack run, absolutely harmless. So why the hell did some random guy decide today was the perfect time to stab him?

In the middle of the street. In broad daylight. With people screaming like they were in an action movie.

If Juno wasn’t currently bleeding out on the pavement, lungs burning and vision blurring at the edges, he would've laughed at the sheer absurdity of it all. He was just getting snacks and now he's bleeding out. Fantastic!

"Oh god— hey! Stay awake! The ambulance is on its way!"

Juno doubts that. He doubts a lot of things right now, mainly whether he’ll even still be alive by the time they get here. The hospital’s far, traffic’s a nightmare, and, of course, he’s in America. Great healthcare system if you’re rich; unfortunately, he is not.

Still, he feels someone gripping his hand tightly, talking to him, refusing to let him slip. There’s warmth there— panic, yes, but also determination. For a moment Juno wonders who this stranger is, why they care so much, and whether they can possibly afford the bill his dying body is about to rack up.

"Hey— plea— stay— keep — open!"

His hearing is fading. Words distort. Shapes blur.

He thinks about how his money was wasted on the snacks he'll never get to eat.

And everything goes dark.

Juno opens his eyes.

For a moment, he doesn’t move. Just breathes. His chest rises easily. No stabbing pain. No sticky warmth of blood. No asphalt beneath his back.

He wasn’t in a hospital. He wasn’t on a bed. He was lying on a crate, on a wooden dock, with the smell of saltwater sharp in his nose, and the rhythmic slap of waves against the hulls of moored ships filling his ears.

Wait.

Eyes? Working properly?

Vision? Not blurry?

Light? Not from an ambulance?

He froze. Around him, sailors shouted over the clatter of ropes and the creak of masts. Ships of every size bobbed in the water, their sails snapping in the wind. Merchants hawked fruit and fish, and people bustled along cobblestone streets, carrying baskets and barrels with alarming efficiency.

"Okay… what the hell," Juno muttered, rubbing his temples. He half expected the stranger, the pain, the screams, all of it, to come crashing back— but nothing. Instead everything was the opposite of what he expected, and was used to.

He slowly stood, taking in the surroundings. The buildings were wooden and colorful, built close together, with lanterns dangling over narrow streets. Seagulls screamed overhead, and the smell of saltwater mixed with freshly baked bread and fish. There was no tall grey buildings, no pollution. Everything looked like it was pulled straight from a comic.

"…The fuck?" he mutters to no one, because honestly, who else is there to hear him lose it?

He staggered a few steps, bumping into a barrel, then froze. A group of sailors passed by, talking about crewmates and adventures as if it were the most normal thing in the world. One of them carried a massive axe almost as tall as he was, and another wore a tattooed chest and a grin that seemed a little too wide. Juno was stuck, staring. One guy had a hook for a hand. Like he was Captain Hook from Peter Pan.

Looking up, he noticed the large, towering ships. Now… standing here, the scenery creeping into his brain, the realization hit him like a cannonball.

He wasn’t just anywhere. He was on an island. Filled with pirates.

Juno’s heart hammered. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a memory clicked— his roommate’s endless anime marathons, endless debates about the "Agenda Piece" and White/Blackbeard. He’d shrugged those off at the time. But now, seeing the port, the ships, the crazy pirates casually strolling around... He just died and now he's surrounded by pirates from an anime. What the hell.

Every exaggerated detail, every ridiculous-looking ship, every over-the-top character that his roommate had hyped up… it was all real. And he knew nothing about it.

Juno was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that he was standing on a sun-drenched port in the middle of what could only be the One Piece world when a group of rough-looking men approached him. They moved with an easy confidence, carrying crates and barrels as if they weighed nothing, shouting orders and laughing in a way that made the whole dock feel alive.

"Oi! Rookie!" one of them barked, a tall man with a scar running down his cheek pointing at Juno, "Grab that barrel! And don’t drop it!"

Juno froze. "R-rookie?" he stammered, "I-I think you’ve got the wrong guy. I don’t work here—!"

"Don’t argue," another voice cut in—a short man with a bandana tied around his head, his arms thick with muscle and legs strikingly thin, "You’re new! That makes you a rookie. Everyone starts somewhere. Now help us restock before Marco notices we’re slacking."

Before Juno could protest further, a third crew member shoved a crate toward him. It wasn’t enormous, but it was heavy enough that he had to plant his feet and use both arms to keep it from tipping over. He stumbled a few steps, muttering curses under his breath, trying to figure out how in the world he had gone from a snack to hefting cargo on a bustling pirate dock.

As he struggled, he noticed the rest of the crew around him. They weren’t the "main characters" he vaguely remembered from his roommate’s endless anime explanations— they were background characters, the faceless muscle, cannon fodder. But even so, they radiated a strange warmth, the kind that came from doing this kind of life every day.

"Careful, rookie!" the scarred man shouted again, slapping a hand on Juno’s shoulder, nearly making him fall to his knees, "If you drop it, you’re cleaning the deck for a week!"

"I’m not even sure how I got here," Juno muttered to himself as he adjusted the crate he was holding. "I didn’t sign up for this." He was supposed to be dead.

"Quiet, rookie. Hands off the talking, hands on the cargo!" the bandana-wearing man snapped, though there was a faint smirk on his lips.

Juno sighed and followed their lead, lifting, pushing, and stacking crates as they moved up and down the dock. He noticed small details— the way they coordinated without speaking, the shorthand gestures for passing cargo, the jokes said that kept the work light. For all their background status, they were efficient, capable, and alive. It was a stark contrast to his coworkers back home, sure they were close, but in the sense that they're acquaintances trying to get by until Friday.

As he caught his breath, a thought hit him. I’m officially part of this world now. I don’t even know how, and I’m already in a crew.

And somehow, despite the panic bubbling under his ribs, a tiny part of him (just a tiny, stubborn part) was intrigued. This was ridiculous. Dangerous. Probably insane. But it was also… much better than his old life. Everything's moving so fast but this is exactly what he needs, he thought.

"Next barrel, rookie!" someone shouted from across the dock.

Juno straightened his back, adjusted his grip, and trudged toward it. Maybe being a background character wasn’t the worst thing. What could be so bad about One Piece?

Chapter Text

Juno had perfected the art of blending in. At least, that’s what he told himself.

After a full morning of hauling crates, dodging bossy deckhands, and being called "rookie" more times than his patience could handle, he’d finally found a spot to hide: leaning casually against a stack of chests near the dock entrance, pretending to read a newspaper he definitely couldn’t read.

To imagine he spent all those years studying only to die then wake up in a world where nothing made sense. He would've thought this was all a fever dream or some weird final vision before death truly takes him— if not for the fact that his hands were stinging from carrying stuff back and forth, and don't even get him started on his back.

He kept his head down instead.

Be background. Be scenery. Be wallpaper.

That was the strategy.

And for a brief, glorious moment… it was working.

Then someone shouted, "HEY, YOU!"

Juno flinched so hard he almost swallowed his tongue. He looked up and immediately regretted existing.

A group of people wearing uniforms and holding rifles, the word Marine etched onto their hats (why was that the only thing he could read since coming here?), marched straight toward him with the synchronized stomp of people who absolutely did not bring good news.

The one in front, a stern-looking officer with a jaw sharp enough to cut rope, pointed directly at Juno. "You. Pirate. We know you’re part of Whitebeard’s crew.

Juno blinked. "Me?"

"Yes, you!" the officer barked. "Take us to one of your commanders. Immediately."

Juno opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water. "Oh. Uh. Yeah. See, about that...!"

He didn't know the name of a single Whitebeard commander, let alone how they looked like. He’d only met the background pirates— the ones who yelled at him to lift things and taught him how to lift with his legs.

The Marine officer narrowed his eyes. "What are you waiting for, rookie?"

Rookie. Oh god, even the Marines knew he was new.

"I, uh- okay," Juno said, plastering on the world’s most nervous smile. "Sure. I can totally take you to… a commander. Yep. Easy peasy. Just follow me."

He turned around and started walking, not toward the ship, not toward safety, not toward literally anything logical… but straight back into the port town.

Behind him, the Marines followed.

Behind them, a few Whitebeard crewmates peeked around corners, whispering urgently.

"Is our rookie leading... Marines around?"

"I think he thinks they're tourists."

"He's not that stupid. Hopefully."

"We should probably… stop this, right?"

"Definitely... Eventually."

Juno wiped sweat from his forehead as he led a squad of increasingly impatient Marines past fruit stalls, weapon shops, and increasingly confused locals.

Okay, okay, think. Juno thought to himself, ignoring the piercing glares behind him. Finding a commander? Impossible. Lying is dangerous. Running is suicidal. What the hell do I do?!

One Marine finally snapped, grabbing his shoulder. "Where are you taking us?"

Juno panicked and blurted the first thing that came to mind. "Uhm. It's a scenic route?"

The Marine squad inhaled sharply, like they couldn’t decide whether to arrest him or strangle him—

A shadow fell over Juno.

A big one.

"Aren't you the newbie?" a voice said, not angry, not booming, but confused. Almost… worried.

Juno slowly turned around.

Standing behind him was a man with his brown hair styled in a pompadour, wearing a chef's outfit—broad-shouldered, sun-tanned, and tall enough to fold a Marine in half like a beach towel. But instead of the usual glare Juno expected, his brows were drawn together in genuine concern.

"Why," the chef(??) asked carefully, "Is there a squad of Marines following you?"

Juno opened his mouth. Nothing came out. In his stupor, he sees the scar near Chef Pompadour's eye.

The Marines shifted uncomfortably, clearly recognizing this guy. Several took involuntary steps back. One swallowed so loudly Juno heard it.

Juno, meanwhile, felt his blood pressure drop into the negatives.

"This isn’t!— I didn’t— They just—" he stammered, hands flailing like broken windmills.

The chef (do pirates allow their chefs to have weird hair?) sighed softly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Rookie… what did you do?"

"They asked to see a Commander," Juno squeaked, voice cracking.

The Marines went rigid. The pirate looked like he was already imagining the report he’d have to file. And Juno?

Juno regretted not staying dead on the sidewalk back on Earth.

So much for blending into the background.

Out of nowhere, a bunch of the background pirates he was with earlier burst out from whatever barrels, crates, and suspiciously wobbly market stalls they’d been hiding in, shouting in perfect unison:

"WE’VE COME FOR YOU, ROOKIE!!"

Every head in the street turned.

The Marines jolted like someone had fired a cannon behind them. Several even dropped their rifles. Juno briefly wondered if that made him a criminal now.

Pompadour Man looked personally offended, as if someone had stolen his spotlight, his wallet, and his last slice of cake all at the same time.

"Oi!" he snapped, his tone like an exasperated older brother's, "I was handling it!"

"Too slow, Commander!" one pirate, the one with a scar on his cheek, cackled, throwing Juno over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. "Rookie retrieval squad always on standby!"

"PUT ME DOWN—!" Juno protested, which was adorable, because nobody listened.

They sprinted off with him, weaving through crowds and knocking over fruit carts as the Marines scrambled after them, shouting orders that nobody obeyed.

"Run faster!"

"Knock over that stall— wait not the oranges! I liked those!"

"Someone grab his legs, he’s flailing!"

Everything was happening too fast. Wasn't One Piece supposed to have horrible pacing? Juno felt like throwing up.

One Marine yelled, "STOP IN THE NAME OF THE—AAUGH!" as he tripped over oranges rolling everywhere like tiny cannonballs.

Chef Pompadour followed at a leisurely jog with the resigned air of a man who had seen too many stupid things in his life and fully expected more. Through shaky vision, Juno could see him knocking out a few of the Marines.

The pirates ducked into a narrow alley behind a building, finally dropping Juno unceremoniously onto a crate. They formed a loose circle around him, hands on their hips like disappointed P.E. coaches.

The pirate who carried him — Scar-cheek, Juno's brain provides — leaned down until his face filled Juno’s entire field of vision.

"Rookie," he said gravely, "When Marines corner you, it’s basic pirate 101: you lie, cry, or run. You chose none of the above."

He straightened and clapped his hands. "We’re fixing that."

"Oh god," Juno whispered. "Please don’t—"

Too late.

The Whitebeard Background Pirates began an immediate and aggressively enthusiastic training session.

In an alleyway, of all places.

Scar-cheek crouched in front of Juno, eyes narrowed with the intensity of a drama teacher trying to summon talent from a brick.

"Okay, rookie! Lesson one: lying. If a Marine asks you a question, you lie without shame, guilt, or hesitation. Understand?"

Juno gulped. "O-Okay? I can try."

"Good. Now, say something believable. Something intimidating. Something scary."

Juno inhaled and puffed up his chest.

"Uh- I'll kick your butt!"

The pirates groaned loud enough to scare seagulls.

"No, rookie! You need a lie that says ‘fear me,’ not ‘fine me.’"

Another pirate, this one had spiked blue hair, stepped forward, waving his hand dramatically. "Try something like, ‘I broke out of Impel Down barehanded!’"

Juno blinked. "I don’t know what that is."

"Exactly!" he replied proudly. "The less you know, the scarier it sounds."

Juno's brows furrowed. He may be freshly isekai'd, but he's pretty sure that's not how that works.

A third pirate, the bandana wearing one, leaned close, squinting. "Okay, new approach. Rookie, what’s the scariest thing you’ve ever done?"

He swallowed. “… Filed my own taxes?”

The pirates exchanged looks of genuine horror.

"…Okay, that is terrifying," the scarred man admitted. "But not pirate-scary. Pirates don't do taxes, rookie! Pirate-scary is… Sinking ships or stealing treasure! Drinking straight rum without crying!"

Another pirate, this one wore no shirt, snapped his fingers. "Rookie! Just say you kicked a Sea King!"

Juno's losing track of everyone now, so he sputtered as he looked down to avoid looking at the wrong person. "I think I would be dead if I did."

"That’s why it’s a LIE!" they all shouted.

Juno threw his hands up. "This is too much pressure!"

The scarred pirate sighed, kneeling to eye level.

“Fine. Let’s start simple. Repeat after me: ‘I am dangerous.’”

Juno took a breath. "I… am in danger."

Dead silence.

A man somewhere to Juno’s left let out a pained, "Bro…"

Scar-cheek rolled his eyes so hard they nearly flew out. "Close enough."

"Okay," The scarred pirate said, rubbing his temples. "Next lesson: crying. Marines hate emotions. Use it against them."

Spikey Hair shoved a handkerchief in Juno’s hands. "Show us despair."

Juno cocked his head. "Why would I cry in front of an enemy?" What is with this world's logic?

"To throw them off," Bandana explained. "If they get weirded out, you can run."

"Or steal their wallet," Shirtless added proudly.

Juno stared at them. "But I can't cry on command." 

"Think of something sad," Scar-cheek urged. "Something that breaks your spirit."

Juno looked at them all blankly. He didn't even cry while he was dying.

All of his 'coaches' sighed.

Another pirate, this one had his hair cut into a mohawk (Juno did a double take. Where did this guy come from?), snapped his fingers. "Think about chores. You hate chores, right?"

Juno deadpanned. "I'm not going to cry over chores. I'm not five."

The men exchanged glances.

"He's got me there," Mohawk sighed.

Before Juno could plead for his sanity, Mohawk and Shirtless grabbed him under the arms and hauled him to the alley’s end.

"Running drill!" Scar-cheek announced proudly.

Spikey Hair stood behind Juno, bracing him like a racehorse at the starting gate.

"When we yell RUN, you sprint like the Marines are about to tax your soul!"

Juno barely had a moment to process that before—

"RUN!"

They shoved him forward so hard he stumbled into a full sprint.

His foot hit a loose stone.

He pitched forward.

He cartwheeled.

And hit the ground with the graceful elegance of a dying seagull.

The pirates winced collectively.

Mohawk shouted, "That was awful!"

"Where’s your center of gravity, rookie?!"

"Why do you run like that?!"

Juno groaned into the dirt.

Scar-cheek hauled him upright again. "Try again, but this time, fewer acrobatics."

Through tears, Juno croaked, “I wasn’t trying to—!”

"AGAIN!" they screamed.

By the time Chef Pompadour caught up, Juno was bruised, dusty, sweating, and emotionally compromised. The pirates, however, looked prou, like they’d just raised a newborn sea lion.

He finally arrived, hands on his hips, looking between Juno and everyone else.

"... You gave him training drills?"

They all nodded. "He needed them."

The Commander pinched the bridge of his nose, then sighed. "Fine. Did he pass?"

The pirates exchanged thoughtful looks.

Bandana shrugged. "Barely."

Juno groaned. He doesn't recall background characters being this lively in any show.

(Hours later, he'll realise, he did end up helping those Marines find a Commander. So much for staying unnoticed.)

Chapter Text

Juno didn’t even get a full breath of relief before a heavy arm landed across his shoulders.

"Rookie! C'mon, it's time to relax!" The chef declared.

"What now?" Juno asked weakly, legs barely keeping up as he was hauled through the bustling port.

"Relaxation! Celebration! A little ‘welcome-to-the-crew-you-survived-your-first-Marine-encounter’ outing!" Was the cheerful reply.

"Is that—" Juno wheezed, "—really something we should celebrate?"

"That doesn't matter!"

Before Juno could object, he was physically redirected — no, dragged — down the street by Pompadour. The background pirates quickly followed, forming a loose, excited herd around him like a school field trip chaperoned by lunatics.

“Hold on! I don’t drink,” Juno tried.

"That's okay," Mohawk said. "First-timers are hilarious!"

Juno didn’t like the sound of that.

The port town unfolded around them in a dizzying blur of lantern-lit stalls, loud vendors, and the salty breeze coming off the ocean. And then, tucked between a weapon shop and a fish market that definitely failed every health regulation imaginable, stood a large wooden building with swinging doors and a wooden sign that read:

THE FOAMING CUTLASS

Juno stared. "That name's weird."

"That means it’s authentic!" a pirate replied proudly.

He kicked open the door like he owned the place.

Inside, the bar was already half-full of pirates: rough laughter, tankards slamming, someone drunkenly arm-wrestling a guy twice his size. The air smelled like rum, fried food, and questionable life choices.

Chef Elvis guided Juno to an empty table, practically shoving him onto a stool.

"Sit. Relax. I’ll get drinks."

"I really don’t think—"

"Relax!" He repeated, already halfway to the counter.

The background guys crowded around the table, buzzing with the same energy as toddlers on sugar highs.

"Rookie, you ever had real pirate rum?"

"Don't give him rum, he'll die!"

"Give him rum."

"No, give him juice!"

"Juice is for weaklings!"

"He is a weakling!"

"He's right!" Juno interjected before the conversation could derail.

Then Pirate-Elvis returned, expertly balancing a tray stacked with assorted drinks— some normal, some neon-colored and glowing ominously. Why are they glowing?

"Alright, rookie," he said, sliding a mild-looking glass toward Juno. "Start small. This one won’t kill you."

"Encouraging," Juno muttered.

The pirates cheered anyway.

He lifted the glass carefully and took a small sip.

It burned. It burned. It tasted like fruit, fire, and regret.

His eyes watered immediately.

"Oh my god," he rasped.

The pirates cheered louder.

"That’s our rookie!"

"He’s crying! He’s already crying!"

Pompadour (Juno really needs to learn his name) laughed as he set down the tray. "Welcome to pirate relaxation. Step one, drink! Step two, complain about your day. Step three, repeat steps one and two until you can’t remember why you were complaining in the first place!"

Juno pressed a hand to his forehead. He tried to sink into the floor. The floor refused.

"I really shouldn’t be here."

"Nonsense!" He said, bracing an arm around him. "You've been working since morning and survived Marines. You’ve earned a break."

The pirates nodded in agreement.

"And," Scar-cheek added, "this is where we do all our best bonding. Also our worst mistakes. But mostly bonding!"

Juno exhaled slowly, letting the warmth of the bar settle around him. It was loud, chaotic, overwhelming— yet weirdly… comforting.

He looked at the pirates, their faces grinning, eyes bright, all of them gathered around him like he was actually one of them.

A tiny, reluctant smile tugged at his lips.

"Fine," he said softly. "I’ll… try."

The chef grinned triumphantly. "Attaboy. Another drink for the rookie!"

"Wait- I didn't agree to drinking!—"

Too late.

Juno's salvation from downing one of the glowing drinks came when the door burst open with a crash that rattled the lanterns, and a wave of voices flooded the bar.

"THAAAATCH! YOU BETTER NOT BE DRINKING WITHOUT US!"

People poured through the entryway like a loud, colorful tidal wave. A blonde man ducked under the doorway with the expression of a man who had already regretted agreeing to come. A man in a tophat followed, twirling one of his mustaches like he was preparing for theatrical battle. A guy in medieval getup, another man in a bandana with dark blonde dreadlocks, a giant (?), a literal shark (??) —too many faces, too much noise, all of them instantly spotted Thatch.

Juno had to admit, their designs rocked. But cool designs meant important people. The ones who had names and actually impacted the storyline.

"THERE YOU ARE!" Medieval guy yelled, pointing accusingly.

"YOU SAID YOU WERE GETTING FOOD!" Cooler Bandana Man added.

"And instead you started a party!" Tophat finished, dramatically flinging his cape.

Said Thatch puffed up proudly and gestured at Juno. "I was feeding him! Emotionally! Through drinks!"

"Lies," Blonde said flatly. "You just wanted a head start."

They swarmed the table with the efficiency of predators smelling free alcohol. Juno, still clutching a half-finished mild drink like it was a lifeline, watched in alarm as the pirates closed in on the Chef— slapping his back, stealing drinks off his tray, interrogating him about why the rookie looked like he’d already survived a bar fight.

Thatch laughed, used to and delighted at the sudden chaos.

Juno was not. But he did spot the chance to escape.

He slid off the stool quietly, keeping his head low. No one noticed— everyone was too busy arguing, shouting greetings, or wrestling over seats. Two people were bickering, Pirate Elvis was getting shoulder-checked by three different people, and someone was already ordering more alcohol in bulk.

Juno edged backward through the crowd, weaving between pirates like a fish avoiding nets. The farther he got, the lighter his steps became.

Freedom.

Well, partially.

He ducked into a dim, quieter corner of the bar, tucked between a dusty barrel and a stack of old crates. From here, the rest of the room looked like a moving patchwork of colors, noise, and overly enthusiastic pirates. He could still hear someone shouting, “WHERE’D THE ROOKIE GO?!” followed by another saying “Let the kid breathe, yoi.”

Juno exhaled in relief.

Then, something caught his eye— a leaning stack of paper on a nearby shelf, edges curled from humidity and careless handling.

Bounty posters.

A lot of them.

He stared. Then he drifted closer like a moth to dangerous, highly incriminating flame.

Most of the top pages were spares, duplicates of familiar faces he recognized from the bar. But beneath the top stack were others, pirates he hadn’t memorized yet, some he only knew from his roommate, some he’d probably bumped into without knowing their names.

"This is actually useful," Juno murmured. And! He could read these! The names were written in English, thankfully, but the rest of the details were written in whatever language One Piece had. He shook his head, delving into meta matters like this wasn't important right now.

He pulled the stack into his lap and settled onto the crate, the dim corner illuminated only by a crooked lantern overhead. From his little hideaway, Juno lifted a bounty poster— and then peeked over the top like a soldier behind a trench.

Vista. The poster showed him mid-sword flourish, cape dramatic, expression noble. He wore a familiar looking tophat.

Juno squinted toward the bar.

And there he was, in the exact same pose, except now he was lecturing someone about wine pairings while gesturing with a tankard instead of a sword.

"…Unbelievable consistency," Juno whispered.

He set that poster aside and lifted another.

Haruta. Smiling like a gremlin on their bounty poster. Hair perfect. Eyes full of mischief. The one in medieval getup.

Juno scanned the crowd until he spotted them perched on top of a table, legs swinging as they cackled while stealing fries off a plate that definitely wasn’t theirs.

Yup. Identical energy.

Next.

Rakuyo. Laughing brightly in his photo, a chain slung over his shoulder. This was the Cool Bandana Man.

Juno leaned slightly to the left, searching, and found him arm-wrestling someone while shouting encouragements and insults in equal measure at him. Somehow.

"Okay, that one checks out," Juno muttered.

He kept flipping. Setting aside the ones with names written in the world's language (that's weird, but he has bigger fish to fry), he picks up a new one.

Blenheim. A towering wall of muscle in the poster.

He didn’t even have to search. Blenheim stood out like a mountainside. He was quietly sipping a drink that looked tiny in his hand, surrounded by pirates who were treating him like a designated landmark. The contrast between the poster’s dramatic intensity and his current, oddly serene demeanor made Juno’s stomach tense.

Juno hunched lower behind his crate. "Nope. Avoiding that guy at all costs."

Next.

Namur. Calm. Stoic. Face seemingly stuck in a frown. Very shark-like.

Juno scanned the bar until he spotted him sitting in perfect silence at a booth, occasionally nodding at someone who appeared to be telling a very dramatic story with sound effects. Namur looked serene. Patient. The contrast between his look and the composed presence in the bar made Juno exhale slowly. He was still frowning though. Maybe he just looked like that.

Juno blinked. "Huh. He’s less scary than I thought."

And all the while, the uproar around him grew louder—laughter, cheers, clattering mugs, someone yelling “PUT THE BARREL DOWN!”

Juno flipped to the next poster—

Thatch. His photo was grinning wildly, knives strapped to his belt, hair styled immaculately.

Juno peeked over the edge of his hideout.

There was Thatch in real time— standing on a table, loudly arguing with three people about which cut of meat tasted best when stolen, while also juggling plates because apparently, multitasking crimes was a skill.

He even had the same grin as the poster.

Juno sank back down. "So that's Chef Pompadour."

Before he could recover, he lifted the next one.

Marco The Phoenix.

Juno’s eyes widened.

The poster showed a man with messy blond hair, and calm blue eyes. His expression looked so bored, he might’ve yawned during the photo. And his arms? Blue, flame-like wings curling into shape.

Juno swallowed hard and started scanning the bar again from his corner.

There.

Across the room, perched at the bar counter like he owned every atom of oxygen in the vicinity, sat Marco the Phoenix— arms, normal, muscular, arms, crossed, posture relaxed, amber eyes lazily scanning the chaos.

He wasn’t drinking. He wasn’t laughing. He was simply watching everyone else with an expression that said if you break something, I am not cleaning it up.

Juno immediately ducked behind the crate again.

"Oh my god," he whispered, clutching the poster. "His poster is less intimidating than the real him."

He risked another peek.

Marco wasn’t even doing anything. He was just existing— calm, quiet, composed.

Which somehow made it infinitely worse.

"Holy—" Juno clamped a hand over his mouth. "Okay. Okay! That man is a main character."

He glanced down at the poster again, then back up at Marco, then back at the poster.

The poster did not sufficiently convey the pressure of seeing him in person.

Juno pressed himself tighter against the crates, whispering urgently to himself, "Do not make eye contact. Do not breathe suspiciously. Do not exist too loudly."

Tucked away in his little corner, cross-referencing wanted posters like it was homework before a pop quiz, he finally felt… slightly less lost.

Still terrified, yes, but at least now, when someone inevitably dragged him back into the noise, he might actually say their name without embarrassing himself.

Probably.

Maybe.

... Hopefully.

He kept flipping through the stack, learning names and memorizing faces, whispering them under his breath to anchor them in his mind. The loud banter of the crew rolled through the bar. They were chaotic, overwhelming, utterly unpredictable...

And he didn’t want to be the idiot rookie who had to ask, "Sorry, uh. Remind me of your name again?"

Especially not when half the people in these posters could bench-press him into orbit.

Chapter Text

Juno was halfway through memorizing the names when a cool voice cut cleanly through the bar’s noise.

"… And what exactly are you doing back here, rookie?"

Juno jolted so violently he nearly paper-cut himself to death.

Standing a few feet away— elegant kimono, perfectly arranged hair, a look equal parts amused and predatory —was Izo.

One of the Whitebeard Pirates.

One of the named Commanders.

Juno’s soul tried to fling itself out the back door.

"I- hi. Uh, hello," he sputtered, shuffling the posters behind his back in the least subtle motion ever attempted by humankind.

Izo raised a brow, taking a graceful step closer. "You’re awfully diligent for someone hiding behind crates. Cross-checking bounties? Studying faces?" His eyes slid to the disorganized pile of wanted posters. "Plotting something?"

Juno panicked so hard his brain threw out the first possible lie that vaguely resembled English.

"I collect posters!"

Izo blinked.

Juno nodded rapidly, doubling down with the confidence of a man who absolutely should not be confident.

"Y- yeah! Posters. Wanted posters. It’s a hobby. A… very normal hobby! I like checking the printing quality. Sometimes they, uh… mess up? Yeah it uhm, smudges— the ink smudges! It’s very important to… authenticate… my collection?"

He wanted to bury himself alive.

Izo stared at him. Long enough for Juno to consider bolting through the wall— before the corner of his mouth slowly lifted.

"Oh rookie," he sighed, pressing a hand to his cheek with theatrical elegance. "I was only teasing."

Juno blinked.

"Huh?"

Izo waved a dismissive hand, expression softening into actual amusement. "If you were planning something suspicious, you wouldn’t be whispering to posters behind a stack of crates. You look like a kitten trying to study algebra."

"I don’t— I'm not—"

Izo crouched slightly, lowering to Juno’s eye level with practiced poise. "Relax. No one’s going to eat you for doing homework. Though…" His gaze flicked to the posters again. "It’s cute that you’re trying so hard to remember everyone."

Juno’s ears burned.

Izo straightened, dusting off his sleeves. "Come on, rookie. Before someone else finds you and assumes you’re plotting a coup."

Juno scrambled up, clutching the posters close to his chest. "I- I wasn’t— I just—"

"I know," Izo said, with a small smile. "If anything, I’m impressed. Not many newcomers try this hard to keep up."

And just like that, Izo turned, graceful, composed, drifting back toward the bar as if the whole encounter had been nothing more than a passing breeze.

Juno remained planted by the crates, heart pounding, brain melting, sexuality questionable.

"… Okay. That was... Something," he whispered to himself.

Then he followed, because if Izo gave an instruction, Juno was ninety percent sure the universe would punish him for ignoring it.

Juno was now sat at a booth, quiet and awkward, keeping his head low, hiding behind another newspaper, his bounty posters on his lap. He was still internally unraveling— subtly, with all the dignity of a man questioning the entire architecture of his preferences —when a shadow crept over him.

Not a normal shadow.

A big one. With a laugh attached.

"Zehahaha! Well now, what’s this? Our little rookie hidin’ away from the party?"

Juno froze mid-page flip.

He looked up.

Teach smiled down at him with a wide grin, mismatched teeth, holding a plate piled with food like he’d robbed the buffet and won. Up close, he looked exactly like his poster and nothing like it at all, carefree and dangerous layered together.

Juno tightened his grip on the newspaper. "Oh. Uh. Hello… sir?"

Teach plopped down on the seat beside him like they were best buddies and not strangers separated by several red flags.

"So whatcha doin’ back here, huh?" he asked, voice too friendly to be safe. "Readin’ up on everyone? Tryin’ to figure out who’s worth bein’ scared of?"

Juno opened his mouth, scrambled for a lie, couldn’t find one, panicked, then chose the worst one possible— his lie from earlier.

"I- uh, I'm trying to collect posters."

Teach blinked. Juno swallowed. Teach blinked again.

Then he burst into loud, booming laughter, half amused, half delighted. "Zehahahaha! A poster collector, huh? That’s a new one!"

Juno forced a smile that felt like it was stapled onto his soul. "Yup. I'm still uh- new. To the whole hobby. Just starting out!" He put the newspaper down and held up the bounty posters.

Teach leaned in, eyes gleaming with a curiosity Juno did not want focused on him. "Then lemme see. Which one’s your favorite?"

Juno felt his soul leave his body, file a complaint, and walk into the sea.

He gave the stack slowly, carefully, like presenting offerings to a volatile deity.

Teach flipped through them with meaty fingers, humming thoughtfully. "Not bad, not bad… Ah hah! Marshall D. Teach. Now there’s a handsome guy."

Juno stared at him.

Teach winked.

Juno decided his sexuality, his sanity, and his self-preservation were all taking the rest of the day off.

Then, with terrifying suddenness, Teach stood and slapped Juno so hard on the back he nearly face-planted into the table.

"Good hobby! You’ll fit right in, brat! Zehahaha!" Teach tossed him a fried something from his plate. Juno caught it purely by instinct.

"Come join the fun when you’re done spyin’, rookie!" He boomed, turning back to the bar.

And just like that, he wandered off, humming, leaving Juno in his corner— clutching the posters, heart racing, quietly rethinking every life decision that brought him here.

"… I hate this world," he whispered.

Juno had approximately thirty seconds of peace before the universe remembered it hated him too.

He’d barely tucked the posters back into a vaguely less incriminating pile when a chorus of footsteps thundered toward his booth.

Not elegant footsteps. Not Commander-level footsteps. But background pirate footsteps.

"ROOKIE!" someone called at full volume. "We heard ya got a collection! Lemme see!"

Juno flatlined.

Four of them squeezed into the booth at once— Mohawk and Spikey Hair across him, Bandana from under the table (what the hell?), and Scar Cheek beside him, all of them grinning like children who’d been told there were snacks.

"Collection? What collection?" Juno squeaked, instinctively flattening his back against the wall like it might absorb him.

"The posters!" Spikey Hair said, reaching over to grab the fried chicken leg Juno was given. "Teach said you got a whole stash!"

"Very fancy," added Mohawk, wiggling his eyebrows. "Didn’t know you were a connoisseur."

He wasn't.

Scar Cheek leaned in, breath reeking of ale. "C’mon, rookie. Show us the goods."

Juno panicked so hard he immediately began lying, badly, loudly, and with zero plan.

"Oh! The posters. The totally normal, non-suspicious posters! They’re just, um- just duplicates. You wouldn’t care, they're boring. Extremely uninteresting! Practically trash!"

The pirates gasped in dramatic betrayal.

"Trash?!"

"POSTERS ARE ART!"

"You wound me, rookie. Deeply."

Before he could stop them, a hand darted out and snatched the top poster from the pile.

"Ohh, Haruta! Look at that smile— a classic!"

"Man, I remember the day that one got taken. Absolute chaos."

"Rookie, why’re ya hidin’ these away? These are top-tier!"

Juno flailed helplessly. "I’m not hiding! I’m… curating!"

“Ooh,” Bandana said from under the table (Juno startled slightly, having forgotten he was there), impressed. “Fancy word.”

Spikey Hair kicked him, the table jolting up as a result. "He’s a collector type, obviously."

Juno wanted the floor to open and swallow him. Or a rogue wave to crash through the bar and wash him out to sea. He wasn’t picky.

The pirates kept flipping through the posters like kids going through trading cards.

"Oh hey, you got Blenheim's! Wanna trade for my limited-edition one where he blinked during the shot?"

"This Marco poster is so old he barely looks like a commander yet—hang on, is this signed?!"

"It’s not signed!" Juno yelped. He got it from a shelf, for crying out loud.

"It LOOKS signed!"

"It’s a coffee stain!"

The four pirates turned to him in perfect, judgmental unison.

"…You spilled coffee on Marco’s face?"

Juno squeaked. "Not- not on purpose?!"

They stared.

Then burst out laughing.

Scar Cheek clapped him on the back so hard Juno saw stars.

"Oh man, you’re a disaster! Welcome to the crew!"

Juno slumped forward onto the table, defeated.

Across the bar, someone shouted for another round.

The pirates stood, waving the posters over their heads like bragging rights.

"We’ll bring these back, rookie!"

"Gonna show everyone your stash!"

"You’re gonna be famous!"

"Thanks for the chicken!"

Juno’s blood ran cold.

"Please don’t—"

They were already gone.

Juno dropped his face into his hands.

"Oh god," he muttered, "My irrelevance. It's dying."

Chapter Text

Juno quickly realized two things. One, he needed to relocate. Immediately. And two, his corner had been compromised by forces far greater than himself— namely, gossip, enthusiasm, and pirates with too much free time.

He barely had time to stand up when the booth’s curtains (which absolutely did not exist five minutes ago??) were yanked open with the subtlety of a cannon blast.

"ROOKIE!" Thatch yelled, beaming wide enough to power a lighthouse. "We heard you collect posters!" Then he held up the stack of posters Juno had given to the background guys.

Behind Thatch, a crowd of Background Pirates squeezed into a single-file line that immediately became NOT single-file. They poured in like they were entering a VIP gallery exhibit— one that Juno did not know he was in charge of.

"Is it true you got a whole stash?" A guy with a hook for a hand asked, his eyes sparkling with awe.

"The rookie’s a collector? That’s adorable," Shirtless added.

"SHOW US THE LIMITED EDITIONS!" someone in the back demanded, which— why would he have those?!

Juno held up both hands. "Okay, wait! Hang on— this is- there’s been a misunderstanding!"

Thatch gasped dramatically. "You lied? About your hobby?"

"No- well? Yes, but not exactly— well— technically... Uh, I'm still starting out!" Juno lied horribly, his face red.

That was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. Because an instant “did-he-just-say-that” silence that hit the table like a flying brick.

"He should've just said that," one whispered.

"That's okay, rookie!" another said.

"Aw, he's shy about it! Let him breathe, guys!" a third chimed in.

Then immediately, "SHOW US ANYWAY!"

Juno’s brain malfunctioned so hard he felt the Windows XP shutdown noise internally.

"Okay, fine! Fine!" He grabbed the nearest poster — Namur’s —and slapped it onto the table like a trading card reveal. "This is, uh, one of the ones I was… verifying."

The pirates leaned in instantly, nodding as if this proved everything.

"Good centering on the print," Hook said sagely.

"Right? Very clean ink line," Scar-Cheek added.

"It's an old batch, but it still holds up well," one with an eyepatch murmured.

Juno blinked at them. They were… They were taking this seriously?

He scrambled for more posters, pulling them out of Thatch's grip like an overwhelmed magician who regretted the trick mid-show.

"Here! Rakuyo! Haruta! Vista— uh, he’s probably doing that pose right now, —Blenheim's, uh, please don’t ask me to get that signed."

The pirates gawked, impressed, delighted, borderline reverent.

"Rookie," Thatch said with a grin, "You’ve been holding out on us! This is a solid collection."

Juno had absolutely no idea what was happening anymore. He wasn’t sure he ever did.

Then Thatch clapped him on the back hard enough to jolt his soul loose. "We gotta show the rest!"

"No?! No, we do not—!"

But no one ever listens.

Hook had already scooped up a handful of posters.

Eyepatch snatched more.

Someone (who moved too fast for Juno to see) grabbed Blenheim's and sprinted off shouting, "I’M GONNA GO ASK IF HE’LL SIGN THIS FOR YA!"

Juno’s blood turned to ice water.

Oh god. Oh no. Oh hell.

He scrambled to collect what remained, hugging them protectively.

"No one is showing anything to anyone!" he yelled, panicking.

"Don't worry, rookie! Other people have weirder hobbies!" Another pirate, this one wore sunglasses (but they were indoors??), reassured him while grabbing a poster and running off.

That wasn't reassuring at all. Weird is not good. He's supposed to go unnoticed! Acknowledged, at worst!

Thatch, the sadist, laughed while ruffling Juno's hair. "It'll be fine, kid! This is just how we bond!"

"By building my funeral?" Juno squeaked, clutching the thinning stack of posters close to his chest.

"This is just a bit of fun!" Shirtless laughed, trying to grab a poster, "C'mon, Marco's got to see this!"

"No one," Juno hissed, "is showing anything to Marco."

The pirates exchanged glances.

Oh no.

Oh no no no—

They grinned.

A bald guy cracked his knuckles. "Rookie, if you wanna be a real Whitebeard pirate—"

He didn't.

A man with a parrot on his shoulder nodded seriously, and so did the parrot (???), "—you gotta show off your passions—"

Shirtless raised a fist triumphantly. “—to the commanders!”

They wrenched half the posters— his posters, his precious, informing posters —from his grip, and stood like they were salesmen who had to meet a quota.

Juno stared at them in horror.

"No," Juno gawked, "Please. Mercy."

His passions? His passions? He was going to die.

He hadn’t even been here for a day and he was going to perish because the background characters decided he needed character development.

"It'll be alright, kid," Thatch laughed as he ruffled Juno's hair, "You're already fitting in!"

Juno groaned into the posters.

He didn’t want to fit in. He wanted to blend in! Those are two very different things.

But as the booth emptied, pirates running off with posters like men off to war, Thatch lingered behind.

He sat beside Juno, surprisingly gentle.

"Relax, kid. They’re just excited. Nobody thinks you’re strange."

Juno slowly lifted his head. "…Really?"

Thatch grinned. "Nah, you’re absolutely strange. But that just means you’re one of us."

Juno dropped his forehead onto the table again.

This was it.

He wasn’t going to die to a Marine. Or One Piece physics.

He was going to die because idiots decided he needed to bond.

He was about to accept his fate before the panic set in again.

Because across the bar— past the crowds, past the noise, past the questionable table-dancing —he could see it.

His posters.

His posters.

Being waved around like parade flags.

Blenheim’s giant face fluttered over the bar. Haruta’s was being used as a fan by someone who clearly had no appreciation for archiving standards. Vista’s poster had somehow become a betting token.

Juno made a choking noise that could only be described as a dying seagull.

"I- I need to get those back," he whispered.

Thatch slung an arm around him. "Relax, kid. We’ll just, y’know, round them up."

'Round them up," Juno repeated, clutching what remained of his stash. "Like they’re cattle?"

Thatch only grinned. Before Juno could argue, he was pulled to his feet and marched towards the chaos.

They didn’t get far before they ran into their first offender. He had Rakuyo’s poster dangerously close to salad he was eating.

“BOLTZ!” Thatch barked.

Boltz jolted, lettuce fell near the poster, and Juno aged three years.

"Sorry! Sorry!" Boltz said, handing the poster over. "It caught a breeze and I—"

"It was about to stain," Juno wheezed, smoothing imaginary wrinkles like a frantic museum curator.

Thatch patted his shoulder. "One down."

Their next offender was the guy with a parrot, who Thatch gleefully called out. "Hey, Stork!"

The parrot was perched on Stork's shoulder, proudly gripping Vista’s poster in its beak like it was delivering mail.

"SKWAAAK! LIMITED EDITIOOOOON!" How it didn't fall out his beak was a mystery.

"It’s not limited edition!" Juno protested.

Stork grinned. "Aww, he likes it."

"I don’t!" Juno squeaked.

Thatch traded the parrot a cashew for the poster. Somehow this was an entirely normal interaction.

"Three down," Thatch said.

Juno blinked, "You counted the parrot?.."

They found the next one, who was clutching Namur’s poster to their chest like it held the secrets of the universe.

"My god," They breathed, "the shading."

“It’s government-issued printing,” Juno said weakly. “There is no shading.”

"It speaks to me."

"Tiko, give it back," Thatch sighed.

Tiko reluctantly handed it over, wiping a single, unnecessary tear.

Juno spotted the next offender from across the room and felt dread congeal in his stomach.

Blenheim.

Standing like a mountain. Holding the poster someone had shoved at him. Squinting down at it like a bear reading tax documents.

"Uh-oh," Thatch murmured.

"Uh-oh?" Juno hissed. "What do you mean uh-oh?!"

Thatch dragged him over before he could flee.

"Hey, Blenheim! Kid wants his poster back."

Blenheim’s massive head turned. Slowly. Deliberately. Like the world’s most intimidating weather vane.

Juno froze.

Blenheim held up the poster with a gentle movement that did not suit his size. "This is mine?"

"No," Juno squeaked, like a liar.

Blenheim stared at him.

Juno considered spontaneous combustion.

Finally, Blenheim grunted, nodded once, and handed it back carefully, using two fingers, as though worried he might crush it.

Juno almost cried with relief. Instead he bowed his head and darted back behind Thatch. 

"See?" Thatch said brightly. "He’s a sweetheart."

"He’s a mountain," Juno whispered. He looks down at the poster in his hand and nearly sobbed. Blenheim had signed it.

They had managed to recover about half the posters when a new, horrible sound cut through the noise.

"I WANTED TO SHOW THAT TO MARCO!"

Juno froze.

Thatch froze.

The entire bar seemed to collectively inhale.

"No," Juno whispered. "Please no. I can’t— I’m not emotionally— please—"

A hush fell over the room as Marco— golden hair, calm aura, effortlessly handsome in a spiritually damaging way —approached with three background pirates (Juno's eye twitched when he saw it was Spikey Hair, Mohawk and Bandana), trailing behind him, holding posters like they’d discovered treasure.

Marco raised one brow. "I heard something interesting, yoi. This true? You collect these?"

Every neuron in Juno’s body died simultaneously.

"I- no. Well— kind of? Uh—" He chose the wise option of shutting up.

Marco took one of the posters, checking it with mild curiosity. Then he looked up. And smirked.

"Cute hobby."

Juno ascended several planes of existence.

Within seconds, the entire bar had circled around him— posters raised, pirates laughing, cheering, arguing about which posters he "needed next."

Juno stood in the center, hugging the ones he still had, eyes glazed over.

"This is it," he whispered to Thatch. "This is how I die."

Thatch threw an arm around him, half-laughing, half-pleased. "C'mon, kid. A bit of socializing never hurt!"

Juno stared at the sea of chaotic idiots shouting poster recommendations.

"I should've stayed dead."

But no one heard him.

Because everyone was arguing over who had the best poster now.

"It's obviously Marco's! Look at it!"

"Shut up! You're only saying that 'cause you're in his division!"

"Guys, guys, you're all pretty, but we can all agree Curiel's is—"

"NO IT ISN'T!"

"Vista’s posters have foil detailing!"

"Foil doesn’t beat the vintage ones!"

"SHUT UP— NAMUR’S HAS BETTER COMPOSITION!"

Within seconds, the bar devolved into a chaotic symposium of extremely loud, extremely passionate art critics, each ready to die on the hill of whose commander had the best bounty poster.

Juno buried his face in his hands.

He didn’t even like posters. He just wanted to know people’s names.

Chaos had mostly cleared— meaning only three pirates were still arguing about camera angle choices —when Izo approached.

Thatch spotted him first. "Oh no. No. Absolutely not. Turn around. Go back. Shoo."

Izo ignored him entirely, stepping into the booth like a fashion-forward storm cloud. "Rookie," he greeted, voice smooth enough to ruin structural integrity, "I never thought you would show off your… collection."

Juno had to swallow to keep his soul from escaping.

Thatch bristled. "What?"

Izo smiled with the serenity of a man who had blackmail on everyone. "Thatch, I was the one who spotted him first."

Juno made a noise like a tea kettle about to explode.

Izo leaned in, tapping a perfectly manicured nail on the table. "So. Rookie. Which one is your favorite?"

Juno’s brain bluescreened so violently his vision pixelated.

Thatch slammed both hands on the table. "Nope! No. Don’t do that. Don’t interrogate my rookie with your eyebrows."

"My eyebrows are innocent," Izo said, arching one in a way that proved it was absolutely not.

Thatch shielded Juno with his whole body. "You stop that. You stop weaponizing beauty. He is a baby lamb."

Juno wheezed, "Why am I being compared to—"

"Shh, lamb," Thatch said without looking at him.

Izo cupped his chin with one hand, studying Juno like a rare artifact. "He’s cute when he panics. I can see why you’re being overprotective."

Thatch’s eye twitched. "Don’t talk to me or my rookie ever again."

Izo laughed— the most elegant, vicious giggle Juno had ever heard. "Relax, Thatch. I’m not stealing him."

The pause that followed was criminal.

Izo smirked. "Yet."

Juno died internally.

Thatch planted himself between them like a furious tree. "OUT. Leave. Shoo. Begone, stylish demon."

But Izo only winked past him at Juno before drifting out of the booth.

Thatch dragged a hand down his face like he was wiping away the future. "Kid, congrats. You’re officially on Izo’s radar. "

Juno slumped forward until his forehead met the table with a soft thunk. "… I'm doomed."

He really needs to get better at this whole "staying irrelevant" thing.

Things had, mostly, settled down.

People were going back to drinking, arguing, arm-wrestling, losing arm-wrestling, and a few had even given Juno back his posters— though some returned with suspicious crinkles, mysterious stains, or the wrinkles of someone having used them as a fan.

Juno took inventory like a mother hen counting her chicks.

"Okay… Marco, Rakuyo, Vista… Blenheim— oh god why is this warm? —Haruta… Namur…" He flipped through them with shaking fingers. "I’m missing three. I’m missing three. I live in hell."

"You're really serious about this, huh?" Thatch grinned at him and Juno nearly jumped out of his seat. He had forgotten about the guy.

"Uhm, yeah," Juno smiled back, twitching.

A pirate staggered by holding a tankard the size of Juno’s torso.

"Hey rookie, great collection!" he slurred, waving a poster Juno did not give him.

Juno’s eye twitched. "Sir, that’s my—"

The pirate tripped, dropped the tankard, caught it, cheered, then wandered off without dropping the poster.

Juno slapped both hands over his face and exhaled a prayer directly into his palms. Thatch chuckled beside him.

He tried to shrink smaller in his seat, but shrinking only made him look more collectible. Every few seconds someone wandered past to pat him on the head, comment on his “commitment to the hobby,” ask if he laminated anything, or try to trade him a drawing of Whitebeard someone’s nephew made.

One pirate— Sunglasses Indoors, the menace —leaned over the booth’s backrest. "Rookie, which one's your rarest?"

"I… I don’t have rare ones," Juno whispered, clutching his stack like a newborn.

Sunglasses gasped. "Right! You're still starting out. I gotcha."

He sauntered off like Juno had just revealed the secrets of the universe.

Juno slumped back into the booth.

He had never been more tired in his life.

And it's only his first day in One Piece.

Across the bar, someone let out an explosive laugh. A mug shattered. Someone else shouted about a missing shoe. A chunk of ceiling gave up and dropped dust onto a guy who didn’t even look surprised. Beside him, Thatch was yelling at another guy about respecting food.

The chaos was returning to its natural Whitebeard Pirate baseline.

Juno clutched his remaining posters and exhaled shakily.

"Okay… okay. I can survive this. Maybe. If everyone forgets I exist for five minutes."

A Background Pirate jogged over, thrusting out a poster like a trophy.

"Rookie! Here’s your Marco one! I told him you spilled coffee on it!"

Juno’s blood left his body.

"You WHAT—"

"He laughed!"

Juno sagged in despair.

But hey, at least he got one of the missing posters back.

…Even if it now had Marco’s signature on the corner.

Juno blinked down at it.

He blinked again.

"Nope," he whispered. "Not thinking about that. Nope. Not attaching significance. I can’t afford that right now."

He slid the poster into the pile with mechanical precision, like handling something radioactive.

Another pirate walked by and dropped a different one onto the table.

"Sorry, rookie! I dropped this in mashed potatoes!"

Juno stared at the greasy smear of doom.

He very calmly placed it at the bottom of the stack.

"Thank you," he whispered, voice empty like a war veteran watching a village burn.

He took another deep breath.

The bar was noisy, messy, alive.

And for the first time in the last hour, no one was actively stampeding toward him.

Yes. Maybe this was fine. Maybe he could—

The tavern door burst open with the force of a government raid, but it was only a random guy yelling, "The Log Pose is set! Pops says we're shipping out!"

Instantly, the bar transformed from "rowdy chaos" to "rowdy chaos with a deadline." Tankards slammed down, pirates stumbled to their feet, and everyone shouted contradictory instructions instead of doing anything helpful.

Thatch groaned. "Great. Moving one fourth of every division after they’ve been drinking— my favorite sport."

Juno blinked. "We… we’re going back? Now?"

"Unless you wanna swim behind the ship like a sea otter? Yes." Thatch clapped him on the back. "C’mon, rookie. Stick close unless you wanna get trampled."

They waded into the crowd, which was more chaotic than before. Pirates surged out the door like a stampede of tipsy enthusiasm.

One guy tripped, rolled, got back up, and shouted, “I MEANT TO DO THAT!”

Another was yelling at a bird for stealing his peanuts.

Someone else was trying to remember where he'd put his shoe.

Juno hugged the remaining posters to his chest by instinct.

As they stepped into the day, the salty wind hit them— humid, warm, salt. Down the docks, the Moby Dick loomed like a glowing fortress, lanterns strung along the gangplank, crew swarming like loud, disorganized ants.

Thatch pointed. "Home sweet home."

Juno did not agree, but he followed.

They reached the docks, where the boarding process was absolutely not a “process.” Pirates shoved each other playfully, argued over who got to go first, and one guy was loudly insisting that technically he could jump from the tavern roof to the deck.

Thatch caught sight of him. "NO. You cannot. Get down from there!"

The man booed like a disappointed child.

Juno watched wide-eyed as a massive burly pirate scooped up two drunken crewmates under each arm, carrying them like misbehaving cats up the gangplank.

Stork was guiding his parrot, who apparently needed emotional support before boarding.

Someone else was playing a harmonica. Badly. He watched as Harmonica Guy was pushed into the ocean by someone with a loud "SHUT IT!".

Poor dude.

"… Is it always like this?" Juno whispered.

"Pretty much," Thatch said cheerfully. "You get used to the noise. And the collateral damage."

"Collateral—?"

Before he could finish, a barrel rolled past them on its own momentum, chased by three yelling men shouting, "STOP THAT BARREL! IT HAS OUR FRUITS!"

Thatch put a hand on Juno’s shoulder. "Rookie. Deep breaths. If you panic at this stage, the crew can smell it."

"I’m not panicking," Juno lied instantly.

He was panicking. He radiated panic. He was panic personified.

They finally reached the gangplank. Thatch walked up like he’d done it a thousand times— because he had. Juno, however, stepped on it like it might suddenly demand taxes.

As they boarded, several pirates noticed them.

"Oi! Rookie’s back!" someone called. Juno recognized him as the guy with the large axe (see: chapter 1).

"Is he holding posters?" another yelled.

"Ask Iz—"

"Don't." Thatch cut that off so fast the air stung.

The background pirates exchanged looks. Suspicious ones. Mischievous ones.

Juno clutched his posters tighter.

Thatch sighed. "Kid, stick by me before they decide to adopt you again."

"Huh?"

"Long story. Mostly your fault."

Juno was pretty sure he'd remember doing anything that would cause his adoption. Unfortunately, he doesn't.

They reached the deck just as the anchor chains groaned and the ship began to shift with the tide. Lanterns swayed. Voices rose. The ocean spread out before them like a glittering road.

The crew was settling in, each in their loud, uncoordinated way.

Thatch stretched, already looking more at ease. "Welcome aboard, rookie! First rule of the Moby Dick—"

A bottle flew overhead and smashed somewhere behind them.

"—duck often."

Juno swallowed. "That’s the first rule?"

Thatch grinned. “Nah. The real first rule? Get comfortable. You’re one of us now.”

Juno looked at the chaos around him.

The shouting. The arguing. The laughing. The general sense that everyone here had one brain cell and they shared it in shifts.

He exhaled.

"...I am so doomed," he whispered.

Thatch slung an arm around him. "You’ll be doomed with family!"

… That didn’t comfort him at all.

"Thatch!" Someone called out behind them, "Don't forget to do your division's roll call!"

Thatch suddenly perked up like someone had lit a fire under his pompadour.

"Ah, crap. Roll call." He gave Juno a quick shake by the shoulders. "Kid, listen. Stay here."

Juno stared at him like a terrified kitten being told to guard a bank vault. "Why do you have to do roll call? We're grown adults?"

Thatch groaned. "I don't wanna do it either! But it's surprising how many get left behind by accident." He pouted, "And Marco said if I skip it one more time, I’m doing inventory for the next three ports. Inventory, rookie. Not even I deserve that.”

He pointed a stern, fatherly finger at Juno. "Now. Do. Not. Move."

Juno nodded so vigorously he could’ve powered a small wind turbine. "I’ll stay right here. Exactly here. Perfectly still. Like a decorative ship figurehead." Not moving was something he nearly perfected earlier.

"Good." Thatch patted his head (why is everyone doing that?), and jogged off across the deck.

Juno tracked him with his eyes like a baby duck watching its mother abandon it to the wolves.

And then Thatch disappeared into the throng of pirates gathering for roll call.

Leaving Juno.

Alone.

On a ship full of people who had already demonstrated they could dismantle his life in under five minutes.

The deck suddenly felt massive. Too massive. Like it was expanding on purpose to increase his vulnerability radius. Pirates milled around, yelling, laughing, climbing rigging, tossing crates, arguing about who stole whose socks— too many threats, too many variables..

He clutched his stack of posters like they were a holy relic warding off bad decisions.

"Okay," he muttered. “I can do this. I just… stand here. Quiet. Invisible. Wallpaper."

A rowdy group ran past him, nearly knocking him over as they chased someone holding a stolen ladle.

Juno pressed himself against the railing.

"Nope. I don’t even know what that is."

He checked around. No one was looking at him. Good. Great. Perfect. This was ideal.

Then—

A shadow fell over him.

Not big.

Not small.

Just perfectly sized to be ominous.

Juno froze.

Slowly, like a man checking whether the reaper had arrived early, he turned.

A woman was staring at him.

Not a background pirate.

A lady who wore a pink nurse uniform and had red hair.

"Hey," the nurse said, tilting her head. "You’re the new kid, right? The one with the posters?"

Juno internally screamed. He was now officially known as the rookie with the posters.

Externally, he made a sound like a squeaky hinge.

“Uh,” he cleared his throat and nodded.

The nurse leaned in, grinning. "So. What else you got in that collection of yours?"

Juno’s soul attempted to leave his body through the top of his head.

This was it. Thatch had been gone for barely a minute, and the universe had already queued up another crisis.

And Juno had no backup. No lies ready. No escape plan.

Just posters. And sheer, flailing terror.

Chapter Text

The nurse— Mara, according to her neat little name tag —rested her elbows on the railings like she had all the time in the world to interrogate him. Her smile was warm, friendly, and absolutely lethal to Juno’s ability to lie convincingly.

"So?" she prodded, eyes sparkling with nosy delight. "Got any rare prints? Signed ones? Misprints? The good stuff?"

Juno opened his mouth. A noise came out. It was not a word found in any known language.

Mara blinked slowly. "... I’ll take that as a yes?"

He shook his head so violently he nearly snapped his own neck. “No! I mean, yes? Uh, I don’t- it’s complicated—"

"Wow, you’re shy about it," she said, sounding delighted, which was the worst possible reaction.

"I’m not shy," Juno lied, immediately shy. "It’s just… niche. Very niche. Extremely niche. Like, it’s underground. Subterranean. Practically sedimentary."

Mara watched him meltdown with the interest of someone observing a very cute, very confused animal. Then, just as Juno’s panic hit maximum saturation, she burst into a laugh, absolutely not the reaction he was prepared for.

"Oh relax, kid," she said, waving a hand. "I’m only teasing."

Juno froze mid–internal combustion.

Mara leaned on the counter, chin resting in her palm. "I don’t actually care about the posters. I just wanted to check out the new face everyone’s been gossiping about." She winked. "And they were right! You're fun to tease."

Juno made a strangled sound. “Oh.”

His brain rebooted.

"You... Don't care about posters?"

"Nope."

"You don’t want to see the collection?"

"Nope."

"You’re not secretly judging my… alleged hobby?"

Mara flatlined him with a look. "Sweetheart, I work medical on a ship full of pirates. I’ve treated men who tried to fight seagulls. You’re fine!"

"You know," she said, continuing on and tapping the railings, "Haruta keeps his above his bed. Rakuyo uses his as bookmarks. Vista has his laminated, which honestly? Respect."

"Vista laminated his?—" Juno tilted his head. "No, nevermind. I believe it."

Mara shrugged. "Point is, you’re not weird. You’re just… enthusiastic."

Juno opened his mouth to correct her. He was not enthusiastic, he was just trying to avoid calling someone ‘Hey you with the face’.

The door behind him slammed open.

"ROOKIE!"

He flinched as a trio of the Whitebeard crewmates barreled in like a stampede in human form.

"There you are!" Hook-Hand said, breathless. "We found two more posters at the bar— thought they might be part of your legendary stash!"

"We sprinted!" Eyepatch added proudly. "Nobody else is touching these before you do!"

Mara raised an eyebrow. "Legendary, huh?"

"Please don’t encourage them," Juno whispered.

Shirtless shoved the posters into Juno’s hands. "C’mon, rookie! Show her!"

Juno inhaled sharply through his nose, on the brink of spiritual collapse. "Mara," he said desperately,  "Help me."

But Mara just snorted. "Oh no, kid. You’re on your own."

Juno looked at her betrayed.

Mara patted his arm sympathetically. "Welcome aboard, by the way."

He wilted.

The pirates leaned in eagerly.

Mara leaned back, enjoying the show.

Juno exhaled the breath of a man betrayed by fate itself.

"Cool," he muttered. "Awesome. Fantastic."

He reluctantly lifted the posters.

Mara leaned forward like she was about to witness some ancient treasure reveal.

The pirates held their breaths.

And Juno, dead inside but resigned, flipped the first one over.

"Behold," he said flatly. "Namur. Again."

Mara gasped dramatically.

Hook-Hand wiped a pretend tear.

Eyepatch whispered reverently, "A classic…"

Shirtless nodded in agreement.

(If Juno hadn't been so focused on showing his posters, he would've noticed a small group of nurses backing away in the distance, sulking.)

"He’s really sharing his heart with us."

Juno wasn't.

Eyepatch’s emotional proclamation was still hanging in the air when a deep BOOM echoed through the deck, followed by a loud voice.

"ROLL CALL! DIVISIONS, MOVE YOUR ASSES!"

Mara straightened instantly. "Ah, that’s us."

Hook-Hand perked up when the Fourth Division was called for. "That’s my cue!"

"And there's mine!" Eyepatch said when Sixth Division was yelled out, saluting with the enthusiasm of a man who would forget this moment in ten minutes.

Shirtless flexed. "Fifteenth!" He exclaimed suddenly, despite his division not being called for yet, Juno assumed he was just feeling left out, "If I’m late again, I'm gonna be used as a cannonball.”

They all started scrambling indoors in a chaotic, overly dramatic rush. Mara gave Juno a small, apologetic shrug as she tied her hair back with practiced speed.

"Sorry, kid. Duty calls!" She pointed at his stack of posters. "Don’t let ‘em bully you into starting a trading market."

Juno made a noise like a dying balloon. “I— I won’t?”

"Good." She started toward the large doors, then paused. "And hey— come find me if those things ever give you a papercut."

“I- I’m not fragile.”

Mara grinned. "Uh huh, right."

Then she was gone, swept inside with the others, leaving Juno standing in the deck.

Hook-Hand poked his head back in for a dramatic second. "Rookie! Guard that collection with your life!"

Eyepatch's appeared above his, "You’re doing great!"

Shirtless yelled from down the hall, "DON’T LET ANYONE STEAL YOUR RARE POSTERS!"

"They aren't—" Juno tried, but they were already gone, swallowed by the swell of bodies funneling toward their respective deck stations.

And then...

Silence.

Juno stood by the railings, posters clutched to his chest like an overwhelmed Victorian child.

They all had somewhere to be.

Somewhere they belonged.

And he... Did not.

He wasn’t in a division yet. He hadn’t been assigned one. He had no commander. No group. No roll call to rush to.

He was essentially a free-floating sock in the tumble dryer of pirate society.

Juno let out a slow, tiny exhale and sank onto the floor.

"Finally," he sighed, letting his eyes fall, "Peace."

Inside, the ship thundered with voices calling out numbers, names, orders— the organized chaos of a family at work.

Outside, Juno adjusted the stack of posters on his lap.

It was just him now.

Him, his questionable reputation…

… And the faint, creeping realization that someone was probably going to find him like this and somehow misunderstand everything even further.

He tried to make himself smaller, blend into the railings, pretend as if he wasn’t a stray puppy left at a market stall.

Except blending in required actually belonging somewhere.

And right now?

He didn’t. Not even to the space he was awkwardly occupying.

Juno tried pressing himself flatter against the railing, which only resulted in his shoulder hitting a decorative ship lantern. It swung violently. He caught it. Barely.

He cleared his throat. Tried to pretend that had not happened.

Okay, he thought to himself. Just… stand still. That’s it. Statues don’t need divisions. Statues don’t go to roll call.

Statues also didn’t sweat this much.

He scanned the deck again and nearly jumped overboard. Somehow, he hadn't noticed that every division had been led out, neatly lined up, each group anchored around their commander like planets around a sun. And him, floating in deep space with no gravity and no idea how to orbit.

He hugged himself, wishing the background pirates and the nurse had told him who to wait for. Or where to stand. Or how to not look like an abandoned child in a marketplace.

That was when a voice piped up beside him.

"What are you lurking around for?"

Juno nearly launched out of his skin.

Standing beside him was a pirate with bright eyes, a smug little grin, and an aura of gremlin energy so concentrated despite being tall.

Haruta.

"You’re the newbie, right?" Haruta asked, hands casually tucked behind their head as if they hadn’t just startled a soul out of someone. "Fourth Division’s new baby sous chef?"

Juno opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. "Uh… No?.. Thatch only told me to stay. I’m not… In a division. Yet?"

Haruta blinked. "You’re not?" Then, louder, "You’re NOT?"

Several pirates looked over. Juno wanted to jump into the ocean.

Haruta clapped him on the shoulder. "Well no wonder you were marinating in anxiety! Poor thing."

"I’m not—"

"Come on." Haruta grabbed his wrist with zero hesitation and started dragging him across the deck. "You can’t miss roll call. That’s how you end up stuck on laundry duty for a week. Or worse— Curiel will adopt you."

Juno stumbled after them. "What’s wrong with Curiel?"

"He talks like he shoots."

Before Juno could process that imagery, Haruta weaved expertly through the forming ranks; ducking under arms, sidestepping clustered pirates, ignoring every shout of "Haruta, stop cutting in line!"

They stopped at a small but tidy group of pirates. Haruta’s own division.

"Here." Haruta pointed beside themselves. "Stand next to me. If anyone complains, I’ll gaslight them into thinking Pops said so."

Juno blinked. "Can you do that?"

"Yeah."

Despite himself, Juno huffed a laugh. His nerves loosened, just a little.

Haruta gave him a crooked grin. "There it is! A smile. Good. You looked like you were about to faint."

"I was not."

"You were absolutely two seconds from becoming floor décor."

Well maybe that was his plan.

Before Juno could argue further, the deck quieted. Voices of each Commander began echoing across the ship, steady and practiced, calling out the names of their people.

Haruta nudged him lightly. "Don’t worry. Thatch’ll sort your placement. Until then? You’re with me."

And Juno realized, relieved, that he wasn’t alone anymore.

Haruta clapped their hands, loud enough to be heard over a small cannon blast. "Alright, Twelfth Division! Let’s get roll call started!" They started calling out names, and Juno tried desperately to note some down mentally.

A few scattered voices shouted back, "Present!" and "Here-ish!" while someone in the corner muttered something about a missing hat.

Haruta’s eyes flicked to Juno. "And… our new recruit is right here beside me. Give them a warm Twelfth Division welcome!"

A pause. Then a burly voice from the back called out, "Wait— why’s the rookie standing with you? Isn’t he… uh… unassigned?"

"Yeah!" Another yelled out, too short to be seen over the crowd "Shouldn't he be standing like, with us?"

Haruta’s grin widened, all innocent charm. "Oh, that? Pops himself said the newbie joining today gets temporary shadow placement with their favorite commander until their division is finalized. Totally official!"

Another pirate squinted. "Pops said what?"

Haruta tilted their head, suppressing a laugh. "I swear it. Heard it from outside his room. Very loud, very official. You just weren't there, that’s all."

Juno’s stomach sank. Gaslighting a deck full of pirates? That's crazy.

By now, a few more murmurs had started. "So… we’re… not allowed to question it?"

"Rookie!" A familiar voice called out and Juno hurriedly scanned the deck for it, spotting Sunglasses Indoors (or was it Sunglasses Outdoors now?) with a hand raised. Juno waved nervously. "That guy's your favourite?"

Haruta gasped, "Of course I am!" he huffed, then waved a hand dismissively. "Now let’s continue before I start naming everyone who skipped laundry duty."

A reluctant chorus of "Present!" and "Here!" filled the deck, and Juno realized that he was officially included, at least temporarily.

He moved a bit further back, subtly hiding behind Haruta.

Roll call wrapped up with the same orderly chaos Juno had already come to associate with the Whitebeards: someone sneezing loud enough to echo off the mast, someone else shouting “Present but emotionally absent,” and three separate people trying to discreetly cram food into their mouths before their names were called.

Then, finally, the last commander (Juno absentmindedly noted that it was Izo) dismissed his division.

The entire deck instantly relaxed. The tension evaporated like it had never been there.

Haruta stretched their arms high over their head. "There we go. Bureaucracy complete. We have officially ‘rolled’ and been ‘called‘! The world may continue turning."

Juno decided not to comment on whatever that was.

Haruta looked him over like he was some kind of skittish animal. "And you survived! Congratulations!"

He let out a shaky laugh. "Do you guys always shout that loudly?"

"Oh, us commanders?" They grinned. "Oh no, that was polite. Wait ’til you hear Marco on a bad day. He sounds like a disappointed church bell."

Juno didn’t know how a church bell could be disappointed, but he wasn’t ready to challenge the metaphor.

Around them, pirates dispersed with the easy rhythm of routine. Haruta's own Division waved goodbye and hurried back inside, looking for reprieve from the heat. The Fourth stomped off to cook. The Second broke into arguments about card games. The Eighth Division walked away like a politely drifting school of fish.

Juno tried not to gawk at all of it.

"So! Since Thatch is taking his sweet time getting back to you, you got plans?"

"Um," He said truthfully. "I… don’t."

They grinned like that was the best answer possible. "Perfect. That means I get to decide!"

Juno instantly feared for his continued safety.

The Commander slung an arm across his shoulder. "Until Thatch returns, you’re under my jurisdiction."

"Is that… official?"

"Nope," Haruta said cheerfully. "But I say it with confidence. That’s basically the same thing."

"How long until Thatch comes back?" He asked.

The pirate shrugged. "Dunno. Depends on how much he has to cook."

Juno let himself be steered, because resisting Haruta felt like trying to stop weather from happening. They guided him toward the central deck walkway, weaving through groups with natural agility.

"Stick close," Haruta added, tone singing. "The others will swarm you once they remember you."

Juno paled. "Swarm?"

"Mhm. Mara tried, right? And if the nurses know your face, you’re doomed. And then there’s Rakki, who’ll try to interview you for his ‘pirate psychology thesis,’ which is not a real thing, by the way."

Juno made a faint sound of distress. Mara tried swarming him? Also, what the hell?

Haruta patted his back. "Relax. You’re with me. I bite back."

"You what?"

Haruta winked. "Someone has to defend the rookies!"

A breath of laughter escaped Juno, despite everything. The knot in his stomach eased—just slightly, but enough that he could breathe without sounding like a cornered animal.

Haruta took that as a sign that Juno was now stable enough for mischief.

“Excellent,” they chirped. "You’re all warmed up!'

Before Juno could protest that he was absolutely not, Haruta was already striding forward, slipping into the role of tour guide with the swagger of someone who’d been told “no” many times and had simply decided the word didn’t apply to them.

"Alright, rookie, welcome to the grand tour of the Moby Dick," Haruta announced, sweeping an arm out dramatically. "’l'll only show you half 'cause you’ll get lost if I show you the whole place at once. Baby steps."

Juno nodded despite knowing that was not how tours worked. Probably. Admittedly, he never went out much.

Haruta pointed ahead. "Over there is the main deck! If you walk across it without purpose, someone will hand you work, rum, or a backstory you didn’t ask for."

Juno swallowed. "Are those my only options?"

"Oh, no, there’s a fourth," Haruta said brightly. "Getting dragged into a card game you didn’t consent to."

They continued walking.

Haruta tapped the floor with his foot. "Below us? Living quarters. Bedrooms, bunk rooms, snoring contests, the normal stuff."

Juno nodded, trying to remember the vague direction of anything. Everything looked the same but slightly rearranged. Like the ship layout was gaslighting him.

Haruta gestured to another section. "That’s the infirmary over there. Tate's in charge of that. You might meet Marco there too! Don’t worry, he likes you."

Juno’s entire soul winced. "Why?"

"Because you look… How do I put this…" Haruta squinted at him. "… Like a puff pastry left out in the rain."

"I- what—?!" Juno did not like the things he was being compared to.

"Don’t worry, it’s a compliment!" Haruta said with an easy laugh. "People wanna feed you and tuck you in blankets."

Juno opened his mouth to protest, but Haruta spun him around toward a massive mast.

"And this is one of our masts," they narrated, patting it affectionately. "If you climb it, you’re basically confessing you make bad choices on purpose."

Juno nodded, fully aware he was no stranger to bad decisions, just not the variety that involved heights.

Haruta added in a whisper, "Most of the fallers? Just guys who thought ‘This’ll be fun.’ It wasn’t."

"… How do you know?" Juno asked, brows furrowed.

"They always shout ‘I regret nothing!’ on the way down."

They continued walking, passing groups of pirates who waved at Haruta and stared at Juno with varying degrees of curiosity, recognition, and "That’s the poster kid, right?"

Juno wanted to evaporate.

Haruta kept up the commentary, breezy as ever. "Kitchen is that way— Fourth Division. Don’t go in unless you want to be put to work. Or fed. Or judged. Or fed and judged."

Then, Haruta jabbed a thumb upward. "Crow’s nest. Do not go up there unless one of us Commanders say so, or unless you wanna test your luck!"

Juno nodded again. Mental checklist: avoid everything.

"And over there is— oh! Well, if it isn't my favourite Fishman!"

Haruta stopped so suddenly Juno bumped into their back.

A large shadow moved ahead, then resolved into a familiar figure stepping out from behind rigging.

Namur.

Tall. Calm. His scales caught the light just enough to be intimidating, but not enough to be comforting. Absentmindedly, Juno wondered what kind of shark Namur is.

He hadn’t noticed them yet.

Haruta tensed, not in fear, but in the same way someone tenses when about to poke a dangerous animal to see what happens.

"Oooohh, this is perfect," Haruta whispered, eyes sparkling. "Rookie, congrats! You’re about to meet one of the scariest soft-spoken people on this ship."

"What? Why?" Juno hissed, backing up a step.

But too late.

Namur turned his head, sensing movement like a predator.

His gaze landed on Juno.

Juno’s lungs forgot every lesson they’d ever learned.

Namur blinked once. Slow. Deliberate. Then he nodded politely.

"Hey, newbie," he said, voice deep enough to vibrate the floorboards.

Juno made a sound that was supposed to be a greeting and instead resembled a kettle.

Haruta slapped a hand over their own mouth to hide a laugh.

Namur approached, "Thatch mentioned you," he said.

Juno instantly feared everything Thatch had ever said. 'What… uh… did he… mention?"

Namur hummed thoughtfully. "Something about posters."

Juno died on the spot. Physically? No. Emotionally? Immediately.

Haruta wheezed beside him.

Namur stopped a respectful distance away. "Welcome to the crew. If you need anything, ask.'

Then— unexpectedly —he gave a small, sharp-toothed smile.

"Don't get too overwhelmed, rookie.'

Haruta elbowed Juno. "See? He’s nice!"

Juno, who had not recovered any brain function whatsoever, stared up at Namur with wide, damp eyes.

Namur tilted his head and frowned. "…You look overwhelmed," he said.

Juno squeaked.

Haruta beamed. "He’s thriving!"

Namur exhaled slowly, in the way of someone deciding he would not ask further questions. "Haruta," he said, deadpan. "Try not to give him a heart attack."

"I make no promises."

Namur turned to leave—

—and Haruta whispered, "Half the tour done! You’re doing great!"

Juno did not feel like he was doing great.

He felt like the universe had scheduled him into Namur’s path specifically to watch him panic.

But atleast the tour was over. (Right?)

Even though his suffering wasn't.

Chapter Text

Turns out the tour wasn't over yet. Seriously, how large was this ship that half of the tour also had another half? Juno's feet hurt, his social battery was drained, and he was another pat on the back away from self-detonating.

Before Juno could ask for a break, a voice boomed from across the deck. "HARUTA! Get over here, you’re needed!"

Haruta groaned dramatically and threw a mock salute. "Duty calls! Try not to wander off, rookie. And please, don’t start any fires without me."

Juno blinked at them. "So… I stay here?"

Haruta gave a lopsided grin. "Nope! I want you to explore! Think of it as you being your own tour guide!"

Juno’s stomach twisted. Explore? On this ship? Alone? His mind immediately catalogued the risks, tripping over ropes, getting lost, encountering overly enthusiastic pirates, discovering hidden sea monsters, or, worst of all, being asked to participate in something that involved alcohol.

Haruta clapped him on the shoulder. "Don’t get into trouble. But if you do… make it explosive, so I can hear about it later!" With that, they jogged off toward the Twelfth Division, leaving Juno standing in the middle of the deck with his posters clutched like talismans.

... He really needed to put these down somewhere.

For a long moment, Juno just stared. He could hear the distant hum of activity from the others. Someone yelling about a missing boot (this is the third time someone lost a boot), another arguing over the proper way to fold sails, and somewhere, faintly, someone laughing maniacally.

With a shaky exhale, he started walking. The ship stretched out before him like a small, chaotic city, masts and rigging forming a lattice of potential hazards and hiding spots. He edged along the rail, cautiously stepping over coils of rope and puddles of seawater, eyes darting at every movement.

Keep it slow. Keep it normal. Don’t touch anything, don’t speak to anyone…

He paused near the main deck, peering down at the bustling crew below. Sailors dashed across in all directions, carrying barrels, shouting instructions, and occasionally bumping into each other with comedic inevitability.

Okay, definitely don’t go down there.

He turned, scanning the quieter upper decks. A narrow walkway along the ship’s edge led toward the stern. It seemed… safe. Relatively. He inched forward, trying to convince himself he was simply observing the architecture of the ship.

Then he spotted a small doorway partially ajar, the warm glow of lantern light spilling out. Curiosity prickled at the back of his mind, whispering Just a peek. Nothing dangerous. Juno hesitated. I can do this. Just a peek. And maybe I won’t get noticed.

Shoving the thought of this is how people in horror movies die aside, he stepped inside. The corridor smelled faintly of salt and varnish, mixed with the lingering aroma of freshly baked bread, probably from the Fourth Division. The walls were lined with ropes, crates, and occasionally, random pirate belongings haphazardly stacked.

Why is everything so unorganized? Juno huffed. He moved slowly, careful not to trip over a loose coil of rope, peering into small side compartments and storage areas. A mop leaned against the wall, a crate labeled with Fragile caught his attention, and he found himself imagining the stories behind each item.

But then a sudden clatter from the deck made him freeze mid-step. A crate had fallen— probably knocked over by an overenthusiastic pirate. Juno held his breath, willing whatever had caused it not to notice him.

After a tense moment, silence returned. Juno exhaled shakily, pressing himself against the wall. This place is less a ship and more a horror house, he thought. The ship is conspiring against me.

He moved forward again, each step more confident than the last. Around a corner, the corridor opened into a wider area filled with ropes, barrels, and coiled nets. Light filtered in from a skylight above, casting shadows that danced like mischievous ghosts across the floor.

Juno allowed himself a small grin. Okay, maybe this isn’t terrible. He even imagined he could see himself as an adventurer, quietly charting unknown territory, documenting strange artifacts… though mostly he was just trying not to get noticed.

That’s when a voice echoed from the far end of the corridor.

"Rookie!"

Juno froze. His heart lurched into his throat.

Haruta? Back already? No… It was…

"There you are," A nurse smiled, stepping into the light.

Juno’s eye twitched. Great. I'm going to get swarmed.

"There you are," the nurse repeated— Mara, Juno realized with dawning horror —smiling like someone who had just found a stray kitten and was absolutely about to give it a bath it did not want.

This was it. This was what Haruta told him about. He's going to get swarmed. And if the nurses were anything like the pirates, it was going to be hell.

"Perfect timing," she said warmly. "We could use an extra pair of hands in the infirmary."

Juno stiffened. "Just to clarify… do you mean medical hands?"

She snorted. "You’ll be fine. We’re not handing you scalpels. Just come along."

That seemed safe enough. So Juno followed her down the corridor, where the noise of the ship faded behind them. The air grew calmer, quieter. She wasn't teasing him like she did on their first encounter. When they stepped inside the infirmary, it smelled faintly of antiseptic and clean linens.

A couple of nurses were inside, but they didn’t swarm him or speak in unison. They just gave him the briefest glances, a little wave or a smile, before slipping back into their tasks.

For perhaps the first time since boarding the Moby Dick, no one was yelling or teasing him.

It was… peaceful.

Mara handed him a tray of neatly folded cloths. "Here. Bring these to bed six."

Juno hesitated before setting down his posters to take the tray. "… That’s it?

"Yep," she said with an easy smile.

He braced himself for some kind of trap, but the others didn’t react. No staring, no whispering, no immediate ambush. Mara returned to her work without ceremony, and one of the nurses continued organizing medicine while humming under her breath.

Juno let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

He carried the cloths across the room. The only sound was the soft shuffle of fabric, the scratch of pen on paper, and the occasional quiet murmur of conversation between the nurses. Their glances toward him were brief, checking in, not evaluating. 

It was… nice. There was no swarming.

The tray settled onto the bedside table without incident. No one applauded. No one joked. No one shouted Rookie! like he was a runaway pet.

Mara eventually drifted over, leaning one hip against the counter. "You up for another?"

Juno blinked. "Another… task?"

This was new. Since landing here, he was usually ordered with a Do this next, rookie!.

She nodded. "Only if you’re up for it. We’re reorganizing supplies."

Juno glanced at the quiet room. Compared to the chaos outside… This was practically a sanctuary.

"Yeah," he said, surprising himself. "I can do that."

Mara smiled. "Knew you would."

She passed him a small stack of rolled bandages. "Just put these in the drawer. Anywhere’s fine."

Juno slid the drawer open, arranging the rolls with more care than strictly necessary. The calm settled over him slowly, the way warmth seeps into cold fingers.

One nurse glanced over at him, her expression soft. Not judging. Just curious.

"Thanks for the help," she said. "Most rookies run at the sight of this room."

Juno shrugged lightly. "It’s… quiet."

"And you like the quiet?" she asked with a small grin.

He gave a sheepish nod.

Before he could say anything more, a calm, level voice floated in from the doorway.

"Are we done reorganizing yet, yoi?"

Juno froze mid-turn.

Marco stood in the threshold, arms crossed loosely. His gaze swept the room— nurses, shelves, bandages —before finally landing on Juno.

Mara straightened instinctively. "Just about, Commander."

Marco raised a brow. "Just about?"

"We’re finishing up!" she corrected quickly, flashing him a far too innocent smile.

Marco didn’t comment. He just gave a slow nod, the one that was just silent sarcasm. Then his eyes flicked back to Juno.

"You helped out, yoi?"

Juno’s soul tried to exit his body via panic osmosis. "…I, uh, yes?"

Marco hummed, something like approval in the sound. "That's good. This place runs smoother when everyone pitches in."

Mara shot Juno a subtle thumbs-up behind Marco’s back.

"Don’t let me interrupt," Marco added, stepping aside to let someone carrying crates pass. "Finish up what you’re doing. Then you’re free to go."

Juno glanced toward Mara. She gave him a small, reassuring nod.

"That’s your cue, kid," she murmured. "You’re done for today."

Juno hesitated. "… That’s it?" He gave a quick glance around, looking for something he can do.

"For today," she confirmed, waving him toward the door. "You did fine. Go rest, rookie. It's your big day afterall!"

Marco was still speaking quietly with one of the nurses when Juno slipped past him. The commander gave him a polite, almost absent-minded nod as he passed. A simple acknowledgment, but enough to set Juno’s nerves sparking.

Then he stepped back into the hallway.

The door clicked shut behind him.

... He kind of liked the infirmary.

Maybe he’d be back.

Juno hadn’t made it far down the hall before the ship’s quiet was interrupted by familiar footsteps.

"Oi, rookie!"

He winced. Goddamnit.

Scar Cheek rounded the corner first, a grin already stretching across his face. Spikey Hair and Bandana followed behind him, carrying the energy of people who had definitely just finished doing something they shouldn’t have been doing.

"There you are," Spikey Hair said, squinting at him. "We thought you got kidnapped by Haruta again."

"I wasn’t kidnapped," Juno muttered. "I was… resting. In the infirmary."

"The infirmary," Scar Cheek repeated with tragic disbelief. "The nurses got you."

Spikey Hair slapped Scar-cheek's arm.

Bandana leaned his weight against Juno’s shoulder, bumping him gently. "I gotta admit, you look better! Did they give you one of those fancy calm-down herbs?"

"No," Juno said quickly. "I just- it’s quiet in there. That’s all."

The trio exchanged a look.

"Aw," Scar Cheek cooed. "He likes the infirmary."

Juno resisted the urge to cover his face. "I didn’t say I liked it."

"You implied it," Bandana said.

"You've got the eyes of someone who likes it," Spikey Hair added helpfully.

Juno groaned. "Can we not?—"

But it was too late. Scar Cheek slung an arm around him, steering him down the hall like he weighed nothing.

"Anyway, good timing," he said. "We were on our way back to the bunks."

"Yeah," Bandana chimed in. "Your bed’s a disaster."

Juno blinked. "I've got a bed?"

The trio looked at each other and winced.

"Technically," Spikey Hair said, "Er, you do have a room."

"Practically," Bandana added, "It’s… cozy."

Scar Cheek nodded. "Intimate."

Juno narrowed his eyes. "Those are suspicious adjectives."

But they were already guiding him, well, herding him, down a narrower hallway he hadn’t seen before. It got quieter the farther they went, the sound of footsteps and chatter fading behind them. Juno felt a little flicker of relief at that alone.

Scar Cheek stopped in front of a door. A very small door.

"Behold!" he announced, flinging it open. "Your personal quarters!"

Juno stared.

It was a closet.

A literal supply closet. Barely big enough to fit a bedroll, a crate, and maybe one emotionally stable person, which he was not.

"…This is a closet," Juno said.

Bandana let out an offended gasp. "No, no, no. Closets have brooms."

Spikey Hair pointed inside. "Do you see brooms? No. Therefore, room."

Juno leaned slightly to the side. "… I see a mop."

"That’s not a broom!" Scar Cheek said triumphantly, as if he won a debate.

Bandana swooped in before Juno could argue further, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Listen. Only the elite rookies get a private room. Everyone else bunk-hops until someone forgets they exist."

Spikey Hair nodded solemnly. "You? You get walls."

"All four of them," Scar Cheek added. "Even a door that locks."

Juno blinked. “The door locks?”

They all froze.

Then, slowly, Bandana reached forward and pushed the door. It shut with a soft click, barely any sound at all.

Juno exhaled.

Privacy.

Silence.

A tiny space that wasn’t full of shouting pirates or chaotic energy or people looking at him like he might bolt at any second.

"…It’s nice," he said quietly, almost surprised to hear himself say it.

The trio deflated in palpable relief.

"See?" Scar Cheek grinned. "We told you! Luxury."

"Prime real estate," Spikey Hair said.

"Very exclusive," Bandana emphasized. "Only you get it."

Juno took another look inside. It was cramped, sure, but he could put his stuff down, maybe sit, maybe breathe without someone bumping his elbow every three seconds.

"It’s good," he said, softer this time. "Really."

The three pirates lit up, looking like he'd just validated their entire existence.

"Great!" Scar Cheek clapped his hands. "Then congratulations on your new home, rookie."

Spikey Hair leaned toward Bandana and whispered, not quietly enough, “"He bought it."

Bandana elbowed him. "Shh. Let him enjoy it."

Juno didn't even care. For the second time since boarding the ship, a tiny bit of tension slipped out of his shoulders.

A small space. A door that shut. Peace.

He stepped inside.

"Thanks," he said.

None of them had expected that. He could tell from the way they all paused.

Then Scar Cheek grinned, softer, almost proud. "Anytime, Rookie."

And they left him there, in his not-a-closet-but-totally-a-closet room, finally alone.

And for the first time today, everything was quiet.

"Don't forget to come up to the galley for dinner!"

"Okay, okay, let’s leave him to settle in—" Bandana began.

But the universe, as usual, wasn’t done.

The floor creaked.

Nurse Lysa— broad-shouldered, tall, kind-eyed, and wearing a Whitebeard Pirates armband the size of a dinner plate —stepped in carrying a stack of rolled posters under one arm.

"Oh!" She smiled warmly. "Rookie! I was told to return these to you."

Juno blinked. "Oh. My posters." He must've put these down at the infirmary. How embarrassing. "Thanks."

She handed them over… then paused, noticing the tiny room behind him.

Before she could speak, three pirates moved in perfect, panicked formation.

Scar Cheek angled himself directly into her line of sight with a too-wide smile.

Bandana casually elbowed her hip toward the door as if guiding her eyeballs.

Spikey Hair stood behind her, giving frantic, silent thumbs-ups like a stage dad.

Lysa raised a brow. "… What are you all doing?"

"NOTHING," they chorused, way too quickly.

Bandana coughed. Loudly. "Sooo, Nurse Lysa. What do you think… of the rookie's room?"

Scar Cheek nodded with desperate enthusiasm. "Yeah. His room. His very good room."

Spikey Hair, still behind her, whispered, "Compliment it."

She looked between the three of them, then at Juno, then back at the "room" that was absolutely a crime against square footage.

A beat.

Then she smiled with the resigned patience of someone who has treated many head wounds and knows when to humor idiots.

"Oh my," she said, loudly and clearly. "They gave you one of the good rooms."

The trio straightened so sharply they might’ve pulled something.

"Yes!" Bandana barked. "Exactly that."

"Wide, quiet, and private," Lysa went on smoothly, as though reading off a cue card. "Perfect for a new recruit. Much better than the open bunks."

Juno felt something inside him loosen. Open bunks sounded like noise and eyes and people. This tiny nook suddenly felt like a sanctuary.

"We told him!" Spikey Hair said, beaming.

Lysa nodded kindly. "You’re lucky. Not many get their own space."

Juno, clutching his posters, stepped inside— only to immediately trip over the one-inch dip in the floor and catch himself with a heroic, scrambling flail.

Lysa pretended she didn’t see it.

The trio absolutely saw it.

Scar Cheek whispered, "He’s so new it hurts."

"Shh," Bandana hissed. "He’s appreciating his room."

Juno tried to recover some dignity. "It’s… nice. Really."

Lysa gave him a warm nod. "Good. I’ll see you around the deck, rookie. And don’t forget dinner—"

"WE TOLD HIM!" the trio yelled.

Juno exhaled a long, suffering breath as he set his posters down.

Peace was a myth.

But at least he had a door that closed.

Juno sat down on the crate that was now, apparently, his bed, the thin mattress roll under him barely qualifying as cushioning. The quiet hummed around him, the soft creak of the ship’s wood, distant footsteps, the far-off roar of the ocean. It should’ve been soothing.

It wasn't.

The shock he'd been holding at arm’s length all day finally caught up to him, dropped onto his shoulders, and politely informed him that yes, distractions were over, yes, he was allowed to panic now.

He let out a long, shaky breath.

He was really here. Somewhere else. Somewhere impossible.

And he didn’t know anything.

Not really.

He knew scraps— memes, whatever Agenda was, the occasional battle music from the TV whenever his roommate binged episodes in the living room. A blur of characters with weird bodies and louder personalities. He remembered hearing terms like "Devil fruits" and "Grand Line" and "Yonko," but they were shapes without meaning. Names said with excitement that he’d half-listened to between work and life.

And now those shapes were reality. Now he was living inside the thing he’d only ever known as noise in the background.

He rubbed his forehead and swallowed.

Part of him— some quiet, resentful sliver —thought for a moment: Why me? Why not my roommate? They’d actually know what’s going on. They’d know the lore. They’d know the timeline. They’d know how not to die.

The thought lingered. Small, bitter, humiliatingly honest.

But then it unfolded into something heavier, something he couldn’t ignore.

If they had been isekai’d… They'd be gone. Just gone.

Dead in his world.

Juno's stomach twisted.

He straightened a little, guilt prickling up the back of his neck.

No. He couldn't wish that. Not for a second. Not even by accident. His roommate didn’t deserve to vanish, to have their life ripped away, to end up somewhere dangerous and unpredictable just because they knew an anime better.

He pressed a hand to his chest, the ache uncomfortable but grounding.

"Not them," he whispered into the quiet. "Anyone but them."

He wasn’t brave. He wasn’t strong. He wasn’t special or suited for this. But he was here— and that meant someone else wasn’t. Someone who had a life, obligations, people who cared.

He sighed shakily and leaned back against the wall, eyes unfocused.

It was terrifying. He was terrified.

Not in the sharp, panicked way he’d been earlier. More a deep, hollow dread that made his thoughts echo.

He didn’t know how this world worked.

He didn’t know who the enemies were.

He didn’t know the timeline, where he was standing in the middle of what story, what danger, what future.

And he had no powers. No abilities. No special skills.

Just… himself.

And the unsettling realization that himself had been running on pure adrenaline for hours.

He covered his face with both hands.

He missed his bed.

His old room.

The hum of the air conditioner.

The muffled sound of traffic through the window.

The smell of cheap instant noodles his roommate always cooked late at night.

He missed home.

He really, really missed home.

His throat tightened suddenly.

But the world didn’t change when he opened his eyes. The wooden walls stayed wooden. The mop stayed a mop. The scent of the sea stayed sharp and undeniable. He had nothing here. No phone, no internet.

No internet.

"Oh god. No internet." His soul briefly passed through several stages of grief in five seconds.

But then, as the panic settled into a throbbing little ball behind his ribs, something quieter took its place. Not peace. More like reluctant acceptance. The kind you get when you realize you left your lunch at home and it’s too late to turn back.

He inhaled slowly, letting the brine settle in his lungs.

Okay. This was real. And he was still alive. And he didn’t have to like it.

But he had to face it.

He wasn’t alone, either. Not really.

The pirates he’d met today were loud, chaotic, bizarre… but he’d seen the way they treated each other. How they laughed, bickered, protected, teased, supported.

Family. A chosen, messy, dysfunctional family.

And they took him in.

The thought softened something in him. Not relief. Not comfort. Just… less fear.

He lowered his hands.

Maybe he could survive this. Maybe he could adapt. Maybe, if he didn’t break first, he could find a place here, temporary or not.

He took one steadying breath.

"…Okay," he whispered to himself. "Just get through one day at a time."

One day.

Then the next.

Then another.

He didn’t have a choice—but maybe he could still choose how he faced it.

The ship creaked softly around him, an unseen hand patting his shoulder.

And for the first time since he arrived, Juno let himself breathe without feeling like the world might collapse beneath him.

He let out a slow breath and closed his eyes.

"…Yeah. I can deal with this," he whispered. "Totally fine. Fake it till I make it."

Silence stretched, loosening the tightness around his ribs.

Chapter Text

Juno woke up to the deeply concerning sensation of having drooled on himself.

He blinked blearily at the dim walls, still marinating in his thoughts from earlier. There was a mop leaning diagonally overhead like it had been waiting for him to gain consciousness so it could judge him.

Fantastic. He’d fallen asleep sitting upright, head tipped back, neck bent like a broken USB cable.

A truly majestic display of human failure.

He lifted a hand to wipe his face and stretched— thunk.

His elbow hit a shelf.

The shelf wobbled threateningly.

Juno froze, as if sudden movement would trigger a second attack.

"Okay… okay…" he whispered, scooting sideways in the world’s smallest available square of floor space.

He tried to stand and immediately smacked his knee into a bucket.

The bucket clanged, loudly, as if announcing his idiocy to the universe.

Then his shoulder clipped the shelf. Then the mop slid. Then the lantern swung forward like it had booked an appointment with his forehead.

He ducked. Too slow.

Bonk!

He sat back down with a groan, hand on the top of his head. "I am being bullied by cleaning supplies."

Once the throbbing faded, he squinted at the cool blue strip of light under the door.

Evening.

Dinner.

His stomach made a noise that sounded like an animal dying.

He remembered several things his roommate had told him back home during one of their late-night anime rants:

1. Pirates ate like black holes with cutlery.
2. Food never lasted for more than a minute.

Juno had laughed back then. He wasn’t laughing now.

"I need to move," he muttered grimly.

Attempt #2 to stand was worse. His hip knocked the shelf, the shelf pushed the bucket, the bucket shoved the crate, the crate kicked the mop, the mop toppled into his shoulder, and the lantern swung again just to assert dominance.

It was like a violent chain reaction in a two-foot radius.

Juno froze mid-chaos.

"This room hates me."

With the weary determination of a man who had survived too much today already, he started maneuvering toward the door.

He ducked under the mop.

Side-stepped the bucket.

Avoided the lantern’s trajectory with all the grace of someone evading a low-flying pigeon.

Nearly tripped on his own foot, twice.

Maybe three times.

Finally, finally, he grabbed the doorknob.

He cracked the door open and slipped out with the energy of a raccoon fleeing a collapsing trash can.

The hallway outside was quiet.

Too quiet.

Which meant dinner was absolutely, definitely already happening.

His eyes widened.

"Oh no. Oh no no—"

He immediately adopted the fastest walk known to mankind. His brain scrambled to remember everything his roommate had ever screamed at him about One Piece during breakfast.

"They eat like it’s a competitive sport."

"They’re monsters, Juno. MONSTERS!"

At the time, Juno had rolled his eyes.

Now?

Now he prayed to every god and cosmic entity that he wouldn’t arrive to an empty pot and a bunch of pirates licking their plates.

He had one mission.

Get to dinner before the Whitebeard Pirates consumed the entire galley and possibly the plates.

And judging by how his day had gone?

He knew the odds were threatening to file a lawsuit against him.

Thatch was in his element.

The galley was loud, warm, and chaotic. Exactly the way he liked it. Spatulas flipped, pans hissed, pirates shouted over each other while reaching for seconds, and someone in the back was definitely trying to barter a spoonful of stew for a polishing cloth.

Marco leaned against the counter beside him, calmly sipping tea like he wasn’t standing in the epicenter of a feeding frenzy.

"You’re enjoying yourself," Thatch commented, sliding a perfectly roasted tray of something onto the serving table.

Marco shrugged. "They're fed, everything's been restocked, and no one's stabbed anyone yet, yoi. That's a successful dinner."

Thatch snorted. "Gimme ten minutes."

Marco’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Thatch…"

"Kidding! Kidding." … Mostly.

Thatch was about to call for the next batch of plates when Marco tilted his head, gaze drifting toward the entrance.

"Someone’s coming, yoi," he said.

"Yeah?" Thatch wiped his hands on a towel. "Which one of the gremlins—"

BANG.

The door slammed open like it had been dropkicked by fate itself.

Both commanders paused. There, in the doorway, stood the new kid.

Or, more accurately, the rookie was clinging to the doorway for balance, breathing like he’d sprinted from one end of the ship to the other while being hunted by a sea king.

His hair stuck up like he’d fought a broom and lost. He was half-wedged inside the room, half leaning against the frame, like his legs had only recently remembered the concept of walking.

Thatch blinked. Marco blinked.

He, on the verge of collapsing, wheezed. "D- Did I… miss dinner?"

Thatch burst out laughing so hard he nearly dropped the ladle. "Kid! You look like dinner chased you!"

Marco set down his cup, expression unreadable but eyes unmistakably amused. "What happened to you, yoi?"

The new kid, mortified and breathless, straightened, or tried to. His knee buckled, and he stumbled fully into the galley, catching himself on the nearest table. A fork immediately rolled off it, clattering loudly.

Every head turned.

He froze like a cornered animal.

Thatch slapped a hand to Marco’s arm. "Oh my god, he’s gone feral."

Marco’s lips twitched. "He looks hungry."

"Yeah, well, good thing I made enough food to feed a small kingdom." Thatch grabbed a bowl— one of the big ones, because the kid looked like a stiff breeze could take him out —and started loading it with stew and a scandalous amount of bread. "Oi, rookie! If ya wanted to make an entrance, you could’ve just said so!"

The newbie opened his mouth. Nothing came out except an exhausted wheeze.

Marco stepped forward, placing a steadying hand on the kid’s shoulder. "Breathe, yoi. You made it in time."

He blinked up at him, stunned.

"Really?"

Thatch brought the overflowing bowl over with a flourish. "Really, really. Here. Eat before someone steals it."

A pirate two tables away immediately perked up. "Steal what?"

"NOTHIN’!" Thatch barked.

Their newest brother accepted the bowl like it was a holy artifact. "Thank you," he whispered, genuine relief softening his whole face.

And for a moment— just a moment —both commanders saw it.

The exhaustion. The quiet panic tucked into the corners of his expression. The look of someone trying very, very hard to keep up.

Marco’s hand stayed firm on his shoulder. "You did well today, yoi."

Thatch chimed in with a grin. "And you survived a whole day on this ship without crying. Honestly? Better than my first day."

Juno stared at them.

Then, very quietly. "… I might still cry."

Thatch beamed. "Atta boy!"

Marco sighed. "Thatch, no."

But his smile said otherwise.

Izo slid his gaze toward the galley entrance the moment the door exploded inward, preceded by the sound of someone tripping over their own feet. He took a slow, measured sip of tea, purely so he could look composed (and not laugh) when the rookie stumbled in like a loose cannonball.

The boy looked winded, hair mussed, shirt wrinkled, and carrying the general aura of someone who had just survived a natural disaster but was too polite to complain.

It was charming, really.

Thatch’s booming laughter cracked across the galley. He slapped the table, wheezed, and then shot up from his seat with enough force to impress a storm.

"Hang on, hang on!" he said, still laugh-breathless as he jogged back into the kitchen. "I forgot the second batch!"

Half a second later came a clatter, more laughter, and Thatch emerging again triumphantly holding a mountain of food like some sort of culinary war god. He passed Marco, who only sighed as if this were normal (it was), and hovered beside their newest brother like a man presenting an anxious soufflé.

Marco kept one steady hand on the kid’s shoulder, murmuring something low and reassuring.

Izo approached with boots clicking elegantly, posture perfect.

"That was quite an entrance," Izo said lightly, letting a small smile curl at the corner of his lips. "I didn’t realize we had started accepting auditions for ship entertainment."

The youngest sputtered. "I- I wasn’t—"

"Mm. Yes. I heard," Izo replied, amused. "Half the ship heard, darling."

He made a small, strangled noise of defeat and tried to shrink into himself as he shuffled toward the seats.

Izo leaned an elbow on the table, resting his cheek against his hand. "You’re late."

"I know," He muttered, beginning to pick at his food. "I fell asleep. And then the closet tried to kill me."

"A closet?" Izo repeated, with the deliberate tone of someone gently unwrapping a gift of chaos. "Do tell."

The newbie looked like he absolutely did not want to tell. Which only made him more delightful.

Before he could force it out, Haruta popped up beside Izo like a squirrel, grinning wide.

Haruta had just finished with their plate when the door exploded and the newbie just faceplanted into the galley. (He didn't actually but that's just semantics.)

So obviously, right after downing a quick glass of water, Haruta followed Izo because drama is dinner seasoning.

Their youngest brother looked like someone wrung him out and hung him to dry. Hair like a sad porcupine. Breathing like a dying accordion. Clutching that bowl like it was life support.

Adorable.

Haruta plopped down next to Izo (who stiffened like always because they ruin his aesthetic, but it’s fine) and leaned in.

"Rookie," They whispered loudly to Juno. "You look like you sprinted through hell."

He opened his mouth and croaked, "Mops."

Valid.

Thatch laughed and patted the rookie's head. Marco sighed and took a sip of his coffee. Izo simply smiled at his answer.

The teasing had stretched long enough that their newest brother was eating in cautious little bites, offering half-formed protests to Haruta and sputtering helplessly at Izo’s jabs. He didn’t even attempt to counter Thatch anymore, he’d clearly accepted that resisting the chef was a losing battle.

Marco caught the exact moment the rookie’s expression shifted, the split second when all the ribbing finally landed on him like a full broadside.

The kid squinted over his hands, pink-faced and wounded. "This is bullying."

Izo, naturally, looked delighted at his defeat. "Of course. It’s how we bond."

Haruta bobbed his head so hard Marco briefly wondered if it would detach. "Yeah! It means we like you! If we didn’t, we’d be quiet. Like Marco."

Marco lifted a single brow. He'd been quietly letting the teasing run its course, not out of disinterest, but to give the boy a small reprieve from being overwhelmed too much. He genuinely found himself enjoying the newest addition, appreciating the rookie’s flustered resilience beneath it all.

Thatch leaned over the table, grinning wide. "Exactly! You’re officially one of us. Now hurry up and eat before I start force-feeding you out of brotherly affection."

The boy blinked at all of them, dazed and endearingly lost. He radiated the confused energy of a puppy trying to comprehend why the bigger dogs kept nudging him.

Marco watched him out of the corner of his eye, chewing slowly.

He’d seen this before. New recruits struggling to adjust. He had been one of them, once. But there was something different about this one. A softness that wasn't built for the rough seas, but trying anyway.

Izo rose with that same effortless elegance that made the rest of them look like barn animals in comparison. He tapped the rookie's shoulder lightly.

"Eat before Thatch notices you’re late and tries to feed you extra out of guilt," he whispered, but Marco heard anyway and he doesn't doubt Thatch did either. "And do try not to fall asleep in any other deathtraps."

Marco snorted quietly into his plate. Deathtraps. That closet he spoke of absolutely qualified.

Haruta slapped their newest brother's back, gently, by their standards, but the kid still pitched forward like gravity had something personal against him.

"C’mon! Dinner wouldn’t kill you. Everything else might, but dinner won’t!"

Rookie stared at them with that overwhelmed softness again. "... Thanks? I think?"

"Oh, absolutely," Izo said, gliding off with a flick of his sleeve. "You’re doing beautifully."

"Like, a disaster," Haruta agreed. "But a beautiful disaster."

Marco watched their youngest pick up his spoon. He was dusty, tired, but somehow still polite about it.

A disaster, sure.

He took another bite and let the corner of his mouth lift, just barely.

Yeah.

The kid would fit in.

Chapter Text

Juno wasn’t sure when dinner had stopped feeling like a battlefield and started feeling survivable.

Maybe it was Marco’s steady presence beside him, quiet enough to give him breathing room but close enough that no one pushed the teasing too far. Maybe it was the food (Thatch could cook). Maybe it was simply that he wasn’t running anymore.

Either way, by the time he finished scraping the bottom of his bowl, he wasn’t trembling. Just tired. Full. Warm.

Slightly shell-shocked, but okay.

Marco stood first, brushing imaginary dust from his coat. "Get some sleep, yoi," he said. "You start tomorrow. Better to be tired later than dead early."

In an almost absent-minded motion, Marco patted his head.

Just like that. Casually. Like it wasn’t an instant blue screen button.

He made his way back to his closet-room, collapsed into it gracelessly, and didn’t so much fall asleep as shut down.

He woke up to the mop falling directly onto his face.

Not gently. Not accidentally.

It slapped him, like it had been planning this betrayal all night and finally got its moment.

Juno shot upright, panicked, immediately smashed the back of his head into a shelf, yelped, jerked sideways, and rammed his knee into a bucket. The entire closet erupted into a clattering symphony titled Good Morning, Idiot!.

He groaned. His phone alarm would have never assaulted him like this.

"Okay, alright. Good morning to you too," he muttered, rubbing his forehead while giving the mop a suspicious glare. He didn’t trust it. It didn’t trust him either.

It was a hostile standoff.

Morning light shone under the door. His stomach growled hard enough to shake his spine. Breakfast was soon. If he missed it, he would perish. Or worse, have to ask for leftovers.

He tried to stand, but the closet had other plans. 

His forehead bonked a lantern, which swung back and smacked him on the head with the kind of accuracy only gravity and karma could achieve. 

Juno crouched, hissing. "This room is trying to murder me!"

He braced himself, slid sideways to avoid the mop, dodged the Shelf of Doom, and squeezed out the door. He should've opted for the barracks instead.

The hallway wasn’t empty at all. Just empty near him.

From deeper in the ship came the unmistakable roar of pirates migrating toward breakfast, loud, disorganized, and complaining.

Boots stomped. Men shouted. Someone yelled, "WHO PUT AN ANCHOR ON TOP OF THE DOOR?!" followed by a crash and a string of curses that suggested the anchor had, in fact, fallen on someone.

Another voice chimed in, "THAT WAS FUCKING HILARIOUS!"

"YEAH 'CAUSE YOU'RE NOT THE ONE WITH A CONCUSSION!"

More shouting. More stomping. At least three separate threats of vengeance. Several more cackling.

Juno froze.

"… Oh no."

He wasn’t prepared to walk into that. Whatever that was.

He speed-walked instead (because running attracted predators), and followed the smell of breakfast like a man chasing salvation.

Please, he begged internally, let the crushed anchor victim not be blocking the doorway.

Juno slipped into the galley. He was quiet, cautious, and praying nothing collapsed on him. It was early enough that only the cooks and a few overachievers were around. No chaotic breakfast mob yet. No anchor-based violence. Just the warm smell of food and the faint sizzle of something life-saving being fried.

He exhaled. Safe.

Mostly.

There was a line.

A line. For breakfast.

Like school. During lunch break. Waiting behind people who absolutely would judge him if his tray clattered too loudly.

His stomach whimpered.

He joined the line anyway, clutching his tray like a shield, mentally preparing for the slow march toward eggs and survival.

He made it about five seconds before the universe spotted him and said, "Ah. Target acquired.".

Scar Cheek popped into existence at his right, sliding in with the casual arrogance of someone who believed lines were merely suggestions.

"Rookie! Looking alive today," he declared, slinging an arm over Juno’s shoulders.

Juno blinked. "Did you just cut the line?"

"What? No." Scar Cheek tilted his head thoughtfully. "I corrected my position."

Juno deadpanned.

Before he could respond, Bandana appeared on his left, grinning like he’d been summoned by the word trouble. He elbowed Juno lightly.

"Morning! How was your new room?"

"I nearly died," Juno muttered. "Everything in it tried killing me."

Bandana snapped his fingers. "That's the pre-installed training program for our elite rookies!" He lied. Like hell it was.

Then Spikey Hair arrived, teleporting in behind him and immediately whacking him between the shoulder blades in a gesture of greeting that felt suspiciously like a chiropractic attack.

"Rookie!" he boomed. "Look at you— still alive and everything!"

Juno lurched forward. "Barely. You’re gonna finish the job at this rate."

Spikey Hair slung an arm around his neck, grinning. "C’mon, if I wanted you dead, I’d at least make it fun."

Juno gave him a betrayed stare. "That’s not comforting."

"That is comforting," Spikey insisted. "Means we like you enough."

Finally, Mohawk joined them with the quiet solemnity of someone who refused to participate in chaos but still loved to spectate. He squeezed into their little huddle, effectively trapping Juno in a four-man pincer formation.

"You’re early," Mohawk observed, voice calm, eyes amused. "That's smart. Less fighting over portions."

"Right," Juno said faintly. "Uh. I planned that."

He did not plan that. He never planned anything. Gravity and anxiety planned everything for him.

Scar Cheek leaned in, eyes gleaming. "So. Posters."

"Oh my god," Juno whispered, his eye twitching.

Bandana smirked. "Yeah, how’s the collection going? Got any new additions?"

"I don’t— I mean," Juno huffed and corrected his lie, "How am I supposed to get new additions on a ship?"

Spikey Hair popped his head on top of Juno’s shoulder, upside-down somehow. "He's right. Anyways, you hanging them up? Don’t hide your passions, kid."

"I’m not- they’re not—" Juno made a small noise of distress.

Mohawk nodded sagely. "We support your artistic expression."

"They’re just posters," Juno blurted, voice cracking. "Not like, a shrine! And why do you all keep bringing them up?!"

The four exchanged a look of dramatic offense.

"He doesn’t understand the craft," Scar Cheek sighed.

"Uncultured," Bandana agreed.

"Tragic," Spikey Hair added, patting Juno’s back again (less violently this time, thank god). "But what can you expect from a newbie?"

Mohawk offered a quiet condolence, "It’s okay. He’ll grow."

Juno internally screamed. As if these guys were expert poster collectors?!

Outwardly, he attempted something like a polite laugh. "Ha… ha… hah. Right. Yeah. Growing."

Scar Cheek nudged him. "Don’t worry, Rookie. We’ll teach you everything. Posters, line-cutting etiquette, how to dodge anchors—"

"I don’t want lessons in any of that," Juno whispered.

"Too late," Bandana said cheerfully. "We already asked Blenheim if he could teach you."

"WHAT?!" Juno yelled, heart stopping. He wanted to avoid that guy until week three! "I- I never agreed—"

Spikey Hair gasped. "He thinks he has a choice!"

Mohawk snorted.

And Juno, boxed in on all sides, tray clutched to his chest like a flotation device, realized with cold clarity.

He was not surviving this day. And it was only breakfast.

The line moved. He shuffled forward with his four new shadows, praying that no one else joined the swarm.

The line eventually spat Juno out at the serving counter, trembling but victorious. He clutched his tray like a lifeline and followed the four chaos demons to an empty stretch of table.

Empty until they sat down. Then it became loud.

Scar Cheek immediately stole one of Juno’s bacon.

Spikey Hair took his seat by throwing himself into it like he planned to suplex the bench.

Bandana propped his feet on another chair, earning a half-hearted glare from a passing pirate.

Mohawk silently pushed a cup of juice toward Juno.

Juno tried to eat with dignity, but dignity was difficult when Spikey Hair kept bumping his shoulder every time he laughed, Scar Cheek kept narrating Juno’s chewing technique like a sports commentator, and Bandana kept poking his side with a fork to ask deeply unhelpful questions like:

"So, Juno, hypothetically, how many posters can a person hide in their room before it becomes a safety hazard?"

Juno almost inhaled his pancakes. "I DON’T HAVE— I mean- It’s not— They’re for reference!"

Scar Cheek nodded with great scholarly authority. "Of course. For research. Completely valid."

Bandana leaned back with a smirk. "Yeah, man. Don’t worry. We support your… interests."

Spikey Hair waggled his brows. "All of them."

Mohawk, deadpan as ever. "Especially the weird ones."

Juno put his face in his hands. "Please let me finish breakfast without dying of shame."

Scar Cheek slapped his back affectionately. "No promises! Eat faster!"

Despite the torment, the food helped. By the time he scraped his plate clean, his nerves were marginally less cooked.

The four stood in unison with the same chaotic synchronization of a flock of very aggressive seagulls.

"Alright, Rookie," Scar Cheek said, hooking an arm around Juno’s shoulders. "It's time."

Juno blinked. This is it. They're going to kill me.

Bandana grinned. "You gotta meet someone."

Spikey Hair nodded sagely. "A very important someone."

Mohawk added, "Someone who will judge you."

Juno’s stomach dropped. "Huh?!"

They marched him out of the galley and onto the deck before he could formulate an excuse, an escape plan, or a will.

It was bright out,  sun glinting off the wood, wind sweeping through the sails. Pirates moved about their morning tasks with purpose and noise.

And in the middle of it all stood Blenheim.

Massive. Stern. Built like a ship disguised as a man.

Fuck no. Please, no.

He turned at the sound of the foursome approaching, and Juno felt his soul quietly pack its bags.

Scar Cheek shoved him forward. "Commander! We brought you something!"

Mohawk corrected, "Someone."

Bandana chimed in, "A rookie."

Spikey Hair added proudly, "He's the one we told you about!"

Blenheim stared down at Juno with all the intensity of a man evaluating a dented cannon.

The four patted him encouragingly on the back. He nearly fell over.

"Go on, Rookie," Scar Cheek whispered, very unhelpfully. "Make a good impression."

Juno wished the anchor from earlier had fallen on him instead.

Then, cowards that they were, they scattered the instant Blenheim shifted his weight, leaving Juno standing alone before a commander who could probably bench press him and his entire closet-room.

He froze under the man’s gaze, sweat beading, every life decision flashing before his eyes.

"So," Juno said, voice cracking. "Nice weather we having today, huh?"

Blenheim’s eyebrow rose a millimeter. "We are at sea."

"Right, I— I just meant- um, good job. To the sun. For… shining?"

Juno wanted to fling himself overboard.

Blenheim exhaled through his nose.

Was this guy... Amused?

"You are an unusual one," he rumbled.

Panic shot through Juno, and panic made him brave in the worst possible way. "I get that a lot, sir. Usually right before someone asks why I’m on the floor, or explaining that I wasn’t trying to start a collection—"

Silence.

Juno immediately regretted being alive.

And then Blenheim actually chuckled, a low, seismic sound like distant thunder.

"Relax," he said. "If you were hopeless, the others would not have brought you to me."

That was… comforting? Horrifying? Both?

Blenheim straightened, casting a long shadow across the deck. "Now. Breakfast is finished, you will begin your duties."

"Duties?”" Juno squeaked.

"Training," Blenheim corrected. "Marco told you last night. Now, prepare yourself."

Juno wasn’t sure how to prepare himself for anything involving this man, but he nodded anyway. His legs moved on autopilot, following the commander across the deck toward—

Oh no.

A mountain of tangled ropes sat in a heap that could only be described as a maritime crime.

Blenheim gestured. "Coil."

Juno stared. The ropes stared back.

He knelt beside the pile, grabbed the first rope, and attempted to do what he assumed normal humans did with normal coils.

Thirty seconds later, Juno had somehow tied the rope securely around his own ankle, threaded it through a second rope for no discernible reason, and created a knot that looked like it defied atleast two laws of physics.

He stared down at it in quiet, horrified awe.

"… What the fuck," he whispered.

A shadow fell over him.

Before Juno could process the concept of consequences, Blenheim reached down. Not for the rope, but for him.

The world abruptly tilted.

Juno yelped as his ankle was lifted, the rope going taut, and suddenly he was dangling several feet off the deck, face level with Blenheim’s chest and uncomfortably close to the commander’s body. He froze, limbs locked, soul fully evacuated.

Blenheim held him there with one hand, examining the knot inches from Juno’s ankle like a scholar confronted with forbidden literature.

The commander hummed low in his throat.

"… Fascinating."

Juno swallowed. "S-sir, I can explain.”

Blenheim adjusted his grip slightly, rotating Juno a few degrees to get a better angle. Juno spun like a very anxious ornament.

"No need," Blenheim said calmly.

He studied the knot for another long moment that Juno was beginning to feel lightheaded.

"… This is a becket bend," he rumbled at last.

Juno blinked, upside down. "Is that… good?"

"It is," Blenheim said slowly, "difficult to make."

Juno translated that immediately into No sailor does this by accident.

Blenheim gave a solemn, approving nod.

"Acceptable."

Then he gently— gently —lowered Juno back onto the deck like he hadn’t just held him aloft for inspection.

Juno stood there, ankle still tied, heart racing, dignity nowhere to be found.

He had no idea how he’d failed so catastrophically that it wrapped back around into success.

But Blenheim hadn’t thrown him overboard.

Which, all things considered, felt like a glowing performance review.

Quickly, he untied the knot and trailed after the commander.

Blenheim pointed to a row of heavy barrels lined neatly along the deck, each one the size of a small house. "Move these."

Finally! Something Juno could do. Looking back at the sizes of the barrels though... Probably. Maybe.

He rolled his shoulders, planted his feet the way he’d been taught yesterday, and grabbed the rim of the nearest barrel. He pulled up with everything he had.

Nothing happened.

The barrel did not budge. It did not acknowledge his existence.

He tried pushing instead.

It slid forward exactly one inch. Just enough to mock him.

Juno sucked in a breath, reset his grip, and told himself very firmly that this was fine. Barrels were just… round. And heavy. And designed by the universe to humiliate him.

He leaned in for a third attempt—

And stepped directly onto a slick patch of water he hadn’t noticed because the deck, like everything else on this ship, was a traitor.

His foot slid out from under him.

Time slowed to a crawl.

His brain produced a single, useless thought. This is going to be embarrassing.

He made a noise like a distressed seabird, flailed wildly, and slammed chest-first into the barrel with the full force of his body and absolutely none of his dignity.

The barrel shot forward.

Not rolled. Launched.

It rocketed across the deck like it had been personally offended, narrowly missed a crate, clipped nothing, hit no one, and somehow—by sheer cosmic coincidence, slotted perfectly into its assigned storage nook with a solid, satisfied thunk.

Silence.

Juno lay sprawled on the deck, staring at the sky, limbs splayed, soul temporarily offline.

Blenheim looked from the nook… to Juno… and back again.

Then he nodded once with a chuckle.

"…  Not bad."

Juno closed his eyes.

He seriously considered staying exactly where he was until either dinner or death arrived, whichever came first.

Unfortunately, training still continued.

Blenheim handed him a length of rope, thick and rough against Juno’s palms. "Pull on my signal."

Juno nodded immediately. Confidently. Too confidently. His eyes locked onto Blenheim’s face like this was a test he could pass by eye contact alone.

Okay. Simple. Rope goes down, sail goes up. I can do that.

Then the universe inhaled.

A sudden gust of wind slammed straight into Juno’s face, whipping his hair back, stealing his breath, and triggering the part of his brain responsible for panic responses and poor life choices.

He yelped internally— and yanked the rope with everything he had.

His heels lifted clean off the deck.

For half a second, Juno genuinely believed he was about to ascend.

The sail shot upward in one smooth, flawless motion, snapping into place with a powerful whump as the rigging settled. The ropes went taut. The mast creaked approvingly. Somewhere, physics nodded.

Juno dangled there, arms shaking, fingers white-knuckled around the rope, body vibrating like he’d been plugged into the concept of adrenaline.

Blenheim paused.

He looked up at the sail.

Then down at Juno.

Then back at the sail again.

"… Good timing,' he said, after a moment.

Juno swallowed hard and whispered, "Thanks," in the exact tone of a man who had just avoided prison time on a technicality.

Blenheim’s mouth twitched. Just slightly.

Next, Blenheim pressed a scrub brush into Juno’s hands.

“Straight lines.”

Juno nodded again, because nodding was his strongest skill.

He crouched, dipped the brush into a bucket, and immediately stepped into the same slick patch of water from earlier, because of course it was still there. Waiting. Patient. Malicious.

His feet went out from under him.

Instead of falling, Juno slid.

He slid the entire length of the deck, brush clutched desperately in both hands, scrubbing as he went in one long, continuous, high-pitched scream that echoed beautifully across the ship.

He hit the opposite railing with a dull thud and a spiritual awakening. For one brief moment, he saw his ancestors. They were disappointed. But impressed.

Behind him, the deck gleamed. Spotless. Not a streak or scuff in sight.

Blenheim stared at the result for a long time.

Then he looked down at Juno, who was still lying there, chest heaving, dignity in pieces.

"... Efficient," Blenheim said.

Juno lay there blinking, thinking dimly that he wasn’t sure whether he had cleaned the deck or if the deck had cleaned him.

Blenheim’s lips twitched again. This time, it was unmistakable.

After that came explanations.

Knots.
Airflow.
Weight distribution.
Pulley tension.
Why you should never stand there unless you wanted to be a cautionary tale.

Juno nodded along to every word with growing confidence and absolutely no comprehension.

Yes. Mm-hm. That makes sense. I know some of these words. I am learning. This is learning.

"Do you understand?" Blenheim asked at last.

Juno nodded firmly. Decisively. Heroically.

Inside, he prayed for divine intervention or a sudden pop quiz cancellation.

Blenheim studied him for a long moment, dark eyes sharp and unreadable.

Then he nodded once. "Good,"

Juno exhaled so hard he nearly collapsed.

By the end of the morning, Blenheim stepped back, arms crossed, surveying Juno the way one might inspect a machine that technically functioned but clearly violated several safety regulations.

"You learn fast," he rumbled.

Juno laughed weakly, wiping sweat from his face. "…Thank you, sir."

Blenheim inclined his head once, then turned and walked away with the unstoppable finality of a moving mountain.

Juno sagged against a mast, breathing hard, limbs sore, brain fried, and definitely sunburned.

Chapter Text

Juno learned three important things while hiding behind a stack of crates he absolutely did not mean to hide behind.

One, the Whitebeard ship had incredible acoustics. Two, his luck had a cruel sense of timing. And three, people were talking about him.

He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. He’d just been walking back toward the lower deck after Blenheim’s training, arms sore and lightly singed, when voices drifted around the corner ahead.

Low. Familiar. Important.

"… needs watching," someone said.

Juno froze.

"Potential’s there," another voice replied. Calm. Measured. Someone with authority. Marco.

Juno’s stomach dropped through the deck.

Oh.

Oh no.

This was it.

He pressed himself flatter against the crates, heart hammering like it was trying to tunnel out. His brain, ever helpful, immediately began assembling a worst-case scenario slideshow.

Needs watching. That sounded like surveillance. Or prison. Or both.

Potential’s there. Potential for what? Mutiny? Sabotage? Being annoying at scale?

He swallowed hard.

Okay. Think. This is a pirate ship. Evaluation did not mean a performance review. Evaluation meant things like Are you a liability? Will you explode something important? Can we throw you overboard without paperwork?

He imagined it vividly. A dramatic lineup on deck. Scarcheek looming over him. The rest crying and/or waving at him with a white hankerchief. Blenheim stoic. Marco regretful. Thatch apologetic but already holding a sword.

Juno, you have been weighed, measured, and found… inconvenient.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Maybe exile. Exile sounded nicer. Dropped off at the nearest island with a pat on the back and a "good luck, kid.". He could live with that. Probably.

"His placement matters," the voice continued.

Placement.

That word did not help.

Placement where? On the ship? In the ocean? In a shallow, unmarked grave?

Juno’s brain began to spiral so hard he almost missed the next part.

"…too early to decide," Marco said. "But he adapts."

Juno blinked.

Adapts?

That was… not a murder word. Probably.

"He’s not reckless," His calm voice went on. "Just… unorthodox."

Juno winced. That one felt personal.

"Unorthodox" was definitely pirate-speak for something is wrong with this boy but we can’t prove it yet.

There was a pause. Footsteps shifted.

"We’ll see how he does with more structure."

Structure.

That sounded like… training. Supervision. Or a leash.

Juno’s knees felt weak.

Okay. Okay. He could handle training. He could handle being watched. He could handle being quietly judged by powerful men who could snap him like a twig.

He could not handle being summoned.

Which, naturally, was exactly what happened.

"Rookie."

The word hit him like a gunshot.

Juno yelped, actually yelped, and jerked backwards, straight into the crates. One toppled. Another wobbled. Something metal clanged dramatically to the floor.

Silence fell.

Slow, heavy footsteps approached.

Juno turned around very carefully and came face to face with Marco.

Up close. Too close.

The commander looked down at him, expression unreadable, arms crossed. For one horrifying second, Juno considered pretending to be a crate. It felt like it might work about as well as everything else he tried.

"… S-sir," Juno squeaked.

Marco paused mid-step and glanced back, one brow lifting lazily. His gaze flicked to the toppled crate, then to Juno half-plastered against the wall like he’d been caught by a spotlight.

"…You know," Marco said mildly, "If you’re going to eavesdrop, you’re supposed to pretend you meant to be there, yoi."

Juno wilted. "I wasn’t- I mean— I tripped. The crates attacked me."

"Mm," Marco hummed, clearly unconvinced but amused. "Dangerous crates. We should put up signs."

Juno opened his mouth to defend himself.

Marco lifted a finger. Not sharp. Not threatening. Just… final.

"Breathe, yoi," he said. "You’re doing that thing where you panic before anyone’s actually mad at you."

Juno’s mouth snapped shut anyway. His heart continued sprinting.

Marco turned and started walking again, hands tucked into his pockets like this was a casual stroll and not the most ominous moment of Juno’s life.

"C’mon," he added lightly.

Juno stared at his back for half a second before scrambling after him. "… Where?"

Marco glanced over his shoulder, expression easy, eyes sharp in that way that meant he’d noticed everything.

"We’re gonna talk," he said. "You’re being evaluated, yoi."

Juno’s soul slipped on a banana peel and exited his body.

"Oh," Juno said faintly. Then, because fear made him stupid, "This isn’t, uh. An execution thing. Right?"

Marco stopped.

Turned.

Looked at him.

Juno braced himself for regret.

Then Marco snorted. Actually snorted.

"Kid, yoi," he said, shaking his head, "If we were going to throw you overboard, you wouldn’t hear about it secondhand."

Juno sagged so hard his knees nearly gave out. "Oh. Great. That’s... Comforting. In a deeply upsetting way."

Marco smiled and clapped him once on the shoulder, firm, grounding, not unkind.

"Relax," he said. "Being evaluated just means people are paying attention. That’s not always bad, yoi."

He started walking again, slower this time, making sure Juno kept up.

They walked in companionable silence for a few moments, the deck humming softly beneath their feet. The Moby Dick never truly slept, even now there were ropes creaking, sails shifting, distant voices arguing about something that sounded aggressively unnecessary. Marco moved through it all with easy familiarity, sidestepping a coil of rope without looking, adjusting his pace whenever Juno lagged half a step behind.

"So," Marco said eventually, breaking the quiet like he was commenting on the weather, "First day didn’t scare you off, yoi."

Juno huffed a weak laugh. "I mean. It tried."

"Yeah," Marco agreed. "It usually does."

Above deck, a gull shrieked like it had a personal vendetta against the mast. A random pirate screamed back.

Marco cleared his throat, trying to maintain casual as if they were headed to grab tea instead of Juno’s possible doom, "How’d you sleep?"

Juno snorted before he could stop himself. "Define ‘sleep.’"

He smiled faintly. "That bad, huh?"

"I was attacked by a mop," Juno said earnestly. "Twice."

Marco laughed, an actual laugh this time, short and warm. "Yeah, that checks out. The ship likes to test people, yoi."

"Is that what we’re calling it?" Juno asked. "Because I’m pretty sure it was attempted murder."

"Attempted," Marco echoed. "You passed."

They passed a group of pirates hauling crates in the opposite direction. Marco nodded at them, they nodded back. Juno tried to nod too late, nearly bowing into a crate. He recovered with what he hoped was dignity and not a visible flinch.

Marco’s mouth twitched.

"You’re adjusting," he commented, generously.

"That’s one word for it," Juno replied. Then, after a beat, "Another would be ‘surviving on luck.’"

"Hey," Marco said lightly, "That’s half the crew, yoi."

That earned a real laugh out of Juno, brief but genuine. It surprised him enough that he almost missed the way Marco glanced over, quietly cataloguing the sound.

They stepped aside as two pirates jogged past arguing about whether knots had feelings. Marco waited until they were gone, then continued like that was normal.

"Blenheim already put you through the basics," Marco added. "Or his version of them."

Juno grimaced. "I’m fairly sure I committed at least three crimes against seamanship."

"And yet," Marco said mildly, "Nothing broke, no one fell overboard, and you’re still breathing, yoi."

"Barely," Juno muttered.

Marco hummed. "That’s usually a good sign."

They walked a little farther. The air shifted, less salt, more wood and oil, the quieter stretch of the ship where important conversations happened. Juno’s nerves crept back in.

They turned down a quieter passage, sunlight striping the floorboards through an open hatch. Juno clasped his hands behind his back to keep them from fidgeting. It did not help his brain, which had begun loudly narrating Worst Case Scenarios.

"So," he ventured, trying to sound casual and failing only a little, "When you say ‘evaluated’…"

Marco hummed. "You’re wondering if you should be sweating more or less, yoi."

"Yes," Juno responded immediately. "Ideally less."

"Good news, then," Marco replied. "No one’s mad at you. Quite the opposite, yoi."

Juno frowned. "That doesn’t feel better."

Marco laughed softly. "Yeah. I figured."

They turned down a narrower corridor. Juno clasped his hands together behind his back so they’d stop fidgeting.

"Look," Marco started, tone easing into something gentler, "Pops doesn’t keep people around unless they’ve got something worth keeping, yoi. That includes potential. Or stubbornness. Or dumb luck."

Juno blinked. He assumed Pops is the captain. "… I feel like I know which one applies to me."

"Mm," Marco said. "You’d be surprised."

The pirate glanced at him. "What do you think it is, yoi?"

"An elaborate prelude to exile?" Juno offered, assuming he meant the evaluation. "Or being gently but firmly launched into the sea?"

"Nah," Marco chuckled as he waved a hand. “Evaluation just means we’re figuring out where you fit best.”

Juno blinked. "Fit… best?"

"Division," Marco clarified. “Deck, medical, support, combat, logistics, repairs. Not everyone’s good at the same things. And Pops doesn’t like wasting people, yoi."

That… wasn’t what Juno had been bracing for. His steps faltered half a beat.

"Oh," he said. "So it’s not about whether I stay."

Marco shook his head. "You’re already here. This is about how you stay."

Juno let that sink in. His chest did something unpleasantly tight.

"I’m not exactly… Good at things," he admitted. 'I mostly just kind of… Happen near them."

Marco considered that. "You adapted fast. You didn’t freeze. You didn’t argue. And when things went wrong, you didn’t panic and still got the job done, yoi."

"I absolutely panicked," Juno admitted.

"Internally," Marco corrected. "That’s allowed."

They continued on and Marco stepped over a loose plank. Juno wasn't as observant and nearly face planted forward.

Marco’s smile went crooked. "You’re clumsy, yoi."

"Yes," Juno replied fervently. "Thank you. I’ve worked very hard at it."

"But," Marco continued, "You’ve got instincts, you just don’t trust them yet."

Juno stared at the floorboards. "You make it sound… useful."

"It can be," Marco said. "In the right place."

They slowed near a junction where the noise of the ship dipped, the air thick with anticipation. Juno swallowed.

"So," he said, grasping for something lighter, "Is it normal for everyone to know about my poster collection already?"

Marco paused. Then laughed, full and unrestrained.

"Wow," he said. "That spread fast, yoi."

"I don’t even know how," Juno groaned. "I showed like— five people. Five."

Marco shrugged. "You made an impression."

"How do I get rid of it?"

They stood there a moment, the tension easing just enough for Juno to breathe. Marco studied him again, not like Blenheim had, not like a tool or a problem, but like a person whose shape he was still figuring out.

"You know," Marco said, almost absently, "I realized something, yoi."

Juno’s shoulders tensed. Here it comes.

Marco smiled. "I’ve been talking to you this whole time and never actually asked."

"…Asked what?"

Marco tilted his head, blue eyes kind. "Your name, yoi."

Juno froze.

Actually froze. Like the question had stopped his brain.

"My—" He cleared his throat. "My name?"

"Yeah," Marco said, amused. "Unless you prefer ‘Rookie With the Posters,’ which is a bit long."

"Oh," Juno breathed, then laughed under his breath, embarrassed. "Right. Sorry. I just— no one’s really asked yet."

Marco raised a brow. "Rude of us, yoi."

Internally, Juno laughed. That was the whole situation he avoided, why he poured over posters— to avoid being rude. And he failed to realized that no one had asked for his name.

"Juno," he answered. "Just... Juno."

Marco repeated it once, testing the weight of it. "Juno, yoi."

Something in his chest loosened when Marco nodded, satisfied.

"Good," Marco said. "Nice to finally put a name to the chaos."

"Alright," Marco said, straightening. "Come on, Juno. Let’s go see where you land."

The room they entered was quieter than the rest of the ship, the kind of quiet that meant important conversations happened there and survived. Sunlight filtered in through wide windows, catching dust motes midair like they were holding their breath too. A table sat at the center, scarred and solid, surrounded by chairs that had seen better decades. At the head of it was a large throne, fit for a giant.

And out of the 17 chairs, three were there.

Juno’s brain did a very unhelpful thing where it went blank and loud at the same time.

He recognized them immediately.

Thatch was impossible not to, broad-shouldered, grinning even when standing still, hair styled into that immaculate pompadour. Haruta sat sideways in a chair, legs hooked over the armrest, chin propped in his hands with open curiosity. And Izo— standing near the window, light catching on the edge of his kimono, turned slowly, eyes sharp and amused all at once.

All three turned as Marco stepped aside to let Juno in.

"Well," Thatch said, smile widening. "There he is."

Juno stopped just inside the doorway, posture stiff, hands clenched at his sides. "Hi," he said, intelligently.

Haruta waved. "Hey! You made it without tripping!"

"I didn't," Juno muttered.

The room still felt like a place where decisions were made, but the mood inside it had shifted. Less solemn. More… predatory, in the affectionate pirate sense.

Marco cleared his throat lightly, stepping forward. "Alright. Since you’re already intimidated, we might as well do this properly."

He rested a hand on the back of a chair, relaxed but unmistakably in charge. "I’m Marco. First Division Commander, yoi."

Juno straightened instinctively.

"First Division handles medical operations," The blonde continued, voice calm and practiced, "As well as the crew assigned to protect them. Doctors, nurses, support staff. I oversee all that. You’ve already spent time around my division, yoi."

Juno nodded. "They just had me arrange things."

"And they liked you."

Thatch grinned and clapped his hands together once. "Alright! My turn. I’m Thatch, Fourth Division Commander. Head of the cooks, keepers of the galley, defenders of food-related peace."

He gestured broadly, nearly smacking Haruta in the face. "We run the kitchen. Chefs, supply hands, food logistics. If it’s edible— we handle it."

Haruta saluted badly. "Also the reason we’re all alive."

"Correct," Thatch said proudly. He leaned down a little, grin softening. "You’ve eaten my cooking already."

"Several times," Juno said earnestly. "I think it changed me as a person."

"I’ll take that as a glowing review!"

Haruta hopped fully to his feet. "Okay, me! I’m Haruta, Twelfth Division Commander."

He pointed between himself and an invisible network only he could see. "Communications. Signal flags, runners, Den Den Mushi, coordination between divisions. If something needs to get from one end of the ship to the other fast—"

"—they talk to him, yoi," Marco finished.

Haruta beamed. 'Or through me! Or around me, but I still hear about it."

Juno blinked. "You’re… in charge?"

"Yup!"

"That’s amazing."

Haruta grinned. "You think so?"

Izo finally stepped forward, unhurried. "Izo. Sixteenth Division."

His voice was smooth, unforced, and Juno had to suppress his shudder. "Intelligence. Reconnaissance. Information gathering. Verification."

"And occasionally," Thatch added, "Scaring people into honesty."

Izo smiled sweetly. "Only when necessary."

His gaze settled on Juno. "We’ve met."

Juno flushed. "You called me a kitten."

"I stand by that."

Marco gestured for Juno to sit. "You’re not on trial."

Juno sat anyway like he might be.

The blonde continued smoothly, “Blenheim gave us his report.”

Thatch folded his arms again. "So we've been discussing where to place you."

Juno’s heart attempted to escape his ribcage.

"Relax," Marco said. "This isn’t a punishment."

Haruta leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You’re not in trouble! We just— well, you’re weird."

"Affectionately," Thatch said.

Marco nodded. "You adapt quickly. You don’t panic the way most do."

Juno opened his mouth, then closed it.

"You do panic," Marco clarified. " But you keep moving anyway, yoi."

Izo tilted his head. "You observe. You listen. You retain information even when you think you aren’t."

Thatch added, "And you don’t complain when things go wrong. You just… improvise."

"With your whole body," Haruta said cheerfully.

Juno stared at them. "I fell into three barrels."

"And moved all of them," Thatch replied. "Somehow."

Marco crossed his arms. "Each of us thinks you’d do well in our division."

Thatch grinned. "Which is why—"

"We want you," Haruta said at the same time.

Juno laughed weakly. "All of you?"

Izo smiled. "That is the problem."

"You’re not being judged on perfection," Marco said gently. "We’re deciding where you’ll grow best, yoi."

Haruta nodded enthusiastically. "I want him. He notices things! He hears stuff!"

Thatch shrugged. "He’s got galley potential. Anyone who survives breakfast line politics has guts."

Izo smiled faintly. "And he has a talent for being underestimated."

Marco looked at Juno steadily. "Which is why this is a conversation. Not a verdict."

Juno exhaled slowly, something warm and frightening settling in his chest.

They wanted him.

Not because he was useful yet, but because he could be.

And that realization was somehow more terrifying than the ocean.

Chapter Text

The discussion had started as a meeting.

This was generous phrasing.

At some point— somewhere between Thatch stealing Marco’s chair because it was closer to the window and Haruta climbing onto the back of his own seat like an opinionated gargoyle —the topic of Juno had stopped being hypothetical and become alarmingly concrete.

"So," Thatch said, palms flat on the table and grinning, "We keep him."

Marco didn’t look up from the papers in front of him. "That was never in question, yoi."

Izo’s fan clicked open with a soft, deliberate snap. "The question," he said calmly, "Is where."

Haruta leaned forward, eyes bright. "And who gets to keep him."

Juno, seated slightly too far from the table and very aware of it, stared straight ahead and pretended his soul had not briefly exited his body.

Thatch hooked a thumb toward his chest. "Galley."

"No," Marco said immediately.

"Yes!" Thatch countered just as quickly. "He’s already functional there. He listens, he follows instructions, and he hasn’t set anything on fire. That’s better than half my division."

"He nearly cried when you yelled about the onions," Haruta said.

"I was passionate about the onions."

Izo tilted his head. "He did, however, take notes."

All eyes turned to Juno.

"I—" Juno cleared his throat. "You said the knife angles mattered."

Thatch beamed. "See?"

Marco finally looked up. "That doesn’t mean the galley is the best fit long-term, yoi."

"No one said long-term," Haruta cut in, waving a hand. "We’re not adopting him like a stray cat."

Juno flinched.

Haruta winced. "I mean! Not abandoning him either. Bad metaphor. Moving on!"

Izo folded his fan closed. "The boy is observant. Quiet. He understands patterns. Information would suit him."

"He panics," Thatch said bluntly.

"I can manage my panic," Juno said defensively.

Marco hummed. "You nearly jumped when Blenheim sneezed."

"He did it violently."

Haruta laughed. "Okay, but that’s exactly why comms works. He notices everything? He asks good questions. He doesn’t interrupt unless he’s dying."

"I was not dying," Juno protested.

"You thought you were!" Haruta shot back.

Izo’s gaze softened slightly. "He’s adaptable," he said. "But he’s fragile in unfamiliar structures. Forcing him into a single role immediately would be… inefficient."

Thatch scratched his chin. "You’re saying… rotate him."

Marco straightened a fraction. "A trial period," he said thoughtfully. "Short. Structured. Let him experience different divisions without pressure to perform perfectly."

Juno’s head snapped up. "Without pressure?"

All four of them paused.

"… Minimal pressure," Marco amended.

"That’s the most comforting thing anyone here has said," Juno muttered.

Haruta clapped his hands together. "Yes! A rotation! Like- like a buffet!"

"Please don't compare my development to food," Juno begged.

Thatch ignored him. "I like it. Couple weeks each. See where he clicks."

Izo nodded once. "Observation before commitment."

Marco considered them all, then looked back at Juno.

"You’d have a say," he added gently. "This isn’t a test you can fail, yoi. It’s to see where you’re most comfortable."

Juno swallowed.

"… I won’t get in trouble if I’m bad at everything?"

Thatch snorted. "Kid, that’s just being a pirate."

Haruta grinned. "Worst case, we make you a mascot."

"Please don’t."

"It’s decided then," Izo said, standing. "A short trial period. Under our divisions."

Marco nodded. "I’ll supervise."

Everyone looked at him.

"… When I'm available, yoi," Marco added, after a beat.

The meeting, having reached consensus, immediately began to fall apart.

Voices overlapped, chairs scraped back, and whatever fragile sense of structure had been holding the discussion together quietly gave up and left. Someone laughed. Someone else argued about something that was definitely no longer on the agenda.

Juno lost track of who was talking to whom within seconds, which felt appropriate, considering he was still processing the fact that multiple division heads had just argued over him like he was a very nervous prize goat.

Marco’s hand found the back of Juno’s collar before he could drift too far or be swept away by the noise.

"Come on," Marco muttered mildly. "Before Thatch decides to demonstrate his point with a knife, yoi."

"Obviously I go first," Thatch said, oblivious to Marco's comment and already halfway to standing. "He’s already been in my galley. Continuity matters."

Haruta scoffed. "No, no, no. You feed him. That’s not training, that’s bribery. Communications should go first! Ease him in, teach him how not to panic when five people yell at him at once."

Juno opened his mouth to say that five people yelling at him at once was, statistically speaking, a guaranteed outcome no matter what, but Izo beat him to it.

"I believe," Izo said mildly, "That observation should precede instruction. Let him see how information flows. How subtlety works."

Thatch squinted. "You just want him to spy with you."

"I want him to learn," Izo corrected. "Spying is merely a side effect."

Marco leaned against the wall, arms crossed, expression placid as he watched them bicker like children arguing over whose turn it was to use the Xbox.

Juno sat very straight in his chair, hands folded like a kid in the principal’s office, trying to radiate I am calm and not a liability. It was not working.

"So," he ventured, "Just checking— this is still not an execution, right?"

Four heads turned toward him.

Haruta blinked. "Why do you keep thinking we’re going to kill you?"

"History," Juno said weakly.

Thatch laughed. "Kid, if we wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be scheduled."

Marco hummed in agreement. "And you already met the nurses, yoi."

The room paused.

Izo glanced sideways at Marco. "Ah. Yes."

Haruta winced. "Right. That."

Thatch rubbed the back of his neck. "They did kind of… swarm him."

Juno flushed instantly. "They didn't! They were very nice," he said quickly.

Marco raised a brow. "You were in there for a while, yoi."

Juno brightened slightly. "I arranged the bandages really well."

There was a pause.

Oops. That was the wrong thing to say, apparently.

"… Bandages?" Haruta echoed.

"Yes," Juno said, clinging to it. "Very neat. Symmetrical. I think it helped morale."

Marco’s mouth twitched. Izo hid a smile behind his sleeve. Thatch snorted.

"Well," Thatch said, clearing his throat, "Regardless. Marco goes last."

Marco sighed. "Again?"

"You’re too gentle," Haruta said. "He’ll think this is a normal workplace."

Marco sighed. "I thought we were past this, yoi."

"You patted his head," Izo said gently. "That alone disqualifies you from going first."

Marco's eye twitched. "… Fine."

So the order was set.

Thatch. Haruta. Izo. Marco.

Juno’s soul stayed put, mostly because it was too exhausted to attempt escape again.

Thatch dropped Juno straight back into the galley.

"Alright kid," Thatch said, clapping him on the shoulder hard enough to nearly dislocate his optimism. "No freezing."

"I don’t freeze," Juno said. "I just... Pause."

Thatch laughed and handed him a stack of plates. "Run these to the tables. Don’t drop them."

Juno nodded confidently.

He took three steps.

A fourth.

Someone shouted behind him.

He startled.

The plates wobbled—

And then somehow stacked themselves back into balance as another pirate tripped, bumped into him, and accidentally corrected the angle.

Juno stared at the plates.

Thatch stared at Juno.

"… You meant to do that?" Thatch asked.

"Absolutely not," Juno said honestly.

"Good instincts," Thatch decided anyway. "Next!"

The chef slapping an apron onto Juno with ceremonial flair. "Today you learn the sacred art of not poisoning your crewmates."

Juno stared down at the apron. It had stains that looked older than him. "Is this even sanitary?.."

"Dishes first!"

Juno was shoved toward a mountain of plates that could reasonably qualify as terrain. He rolled up his sleeves and got to work, scrubbing fast, methodical and surprisingly efficient. He fell into a rhythm almost immediately.

Thatch paused mid-yell. "… Huh."

By the time lunch prep hit full swing, Juno was drying plates, dodging elbows, and sliding stacks into place without dropping a single one. Someone barked for bowls. Juno handed them over before they finished speaking.

Thatch was nowhere to be seen, probably cooking up something elsewhere.

Then came food distribution.

"Okay," Thatch appeared suddenly beside Juno (Juno nearly jumped), pointing. "That line. Move fast. Don’t play favorites."

Juno nodded and immediately panicked internally. Everyone here can crush me like a soda can. Do not spill stew.

He didn’t spill stew.

But he did trip once, but the ladle somehow stayed upright, the bowl landed cleanly in a pirate’s hands, and the man blinked in confusion like he’d just witnessed a magic trick.

"Nice save!" someone exclaimed.

Juno stared at his hands. "… Yeah. Totally intentional."

Then Thatch shoved a spoon at him. "Taste test." He gestured to a plate filled with meat and broth.

Juno tasted. It was tangy, savory. But it missed something.

He paused.

And adjusted the seasoning (it lacked salt) without asking.

Thatch’s eyebrows climbed.

"Where’d you learn that?"

Juno shrugged. "My mom. She cooked a lot and loved seasoning, perks of being Filipino I guess?"

"Huh," Thatch said again, longer this time. "Cook this."

He was handed ingredients and a recipe.

Juno swallowed, focused, and moved. He chopped, stirred, tasted, corrected. When Thatch tried it, he froze.

"This is..."

Juno braced.

"... Dangerously close to mine."

Juno blinked. "… Is that good?"

Thatch laughed, loud and delighted, and clapped him on the back hard enough to reset his spine. "Kid! If you wanted a division, you could stay right here."

Juno beamed, then immediately burned his hand.

After the lunch rush, Juno sat down on an empty table, exhausted and hungry. His hand ached, numb from the cooling cream and wrapped tightly in bandages.

He was just about to reach for the leftovers when Haruta dragged him onto the deck, shoved a transponder into his hands, and said, "Okay! Relaying messages! Repeat what I say, exactly!"

"Okay!?" Juno yelped, already panicking.

Haruta rattled off three directions, two names, and one insult that may or may not have been affectionate.

Juno opened his mouth and immediately forgot everything except the insult.

He relayed it anyway.

To the right person.

Haruta doubled over laughing. "YOU DID IT!"

"I insulted someone," Juno hissed.

"Correctly!" Haruta said. "Tone, timing, audience— flawless!"

The pirate nodded solemnly and walked away.

Juno stared after him. "Why did that work."

Haruta grinned. "You're really empathetic."

That did not reassure him.

The Commander dragged him straight into communications.

"Okay!" Haruta said cheerfully. "Den Den Mushi duty!"

Juno stared at the snails.

The snails stared back.

They blinked.

He hated it.

"I just want to say," Juno began, "I respect them deeply. From a distance."

Haruta shoved one into his hands.

It squished.

Juno made a noise that should not have come from a human throat. Its slime seeped into his bandaged hand and he sobbed.

"Messages! Again!" Haruta barked. "Repeat exactly!"

Juno repeated them. Stuttered twice but managed to get the insults through.

He did not like how the snail's face transformed into someone elses. It was terrifying.

Yet the bustle continued. Maps were unrolled. Routes were pointed out. Juno got lost once, panicked, and somehow delivered the message faster by taking a shortcut he didn’t remember learning.

Haruta watched him go. "…He’s terrible," he said fondly. "I love him."

Juno was still fumbling with rearranging the bandages on his hand while the Den Den Mushi rested on a table when Izo steered him away from Communications and into a quieter stretch of the ship. Not empty (Juno suspected no part of the ship was ever empty) but muted, like the noise had been folded neatly and put away.

It made Juno nervous.

The air was too calm on a pirate ship. It felt suspicious.

Izo stopped near a stack of crates overlooking a cross-corridor where crew members passed in loose clusters. He adjusted his stance, casual, elegant, entirely unassuming.

"Watch," he said softly.

Juno watched.

...

Nothing happened.

A pair of pirates argued quietly about cards. Someone complained about night watch. Another laughed too loud, then lowered their voice when someone important walked by.

Juno squinted, like concentration alone might force the secrets out.

Still… Nothing.

He shifted his weight. Watched harder. Considered blinking less.

Izo, unbothered, leaned slightly toward a passing crewmate. "Morning. You look tired."

The man scoffed. "Try sleeping when someone dumps an anchor on your door."

"Ah," Izo said, sympathetic. "That explains the limp."

The pirate snorted, grumbled something about revenge, then wandered off.

Izo turned back to Juno and placed a small notepad and pencil into his hands.

"Now," he murmured, "Write what you hear."

Juno stared at the page, panic fluttering. What mattered? What didn’t? Was this a test? A trap?

So he wrote everything.

Who spoke first. Who cut in. Who didn’t laugh when everyone else did. Complaints about food rations. A whispered mention of cargo being moved early. A joke that fell flat and the awkward silence after. He noted tone, posture, pauses. He underlined names he’d heard more than once (Juno hoped he didn't butcher the spelling of the names).

They moved as Izo drifted, never obviously following anyone. Juno followed half a step behind, scribbling while walking, nearly colliding with a barrel before catching himself and pretending very hard to adjust his shoe instead.

Izo saw and said nothing. But the corner of his mouth twitched.

They stopped again near the railing. Izo spoke briefly with another crewmate, all warmth and ease, asking after their division, their schedule, their thoughts. Juno wrote until his hand cramped.

When Izo finally glanced over his shoulder and took the notepad, Juno braced himself.

Izo read slowly.

Then smiled.

Not sharp. Not mocking. Genuinely pleased.

"You notice patterns," he said lightly. "And you don’t assume you know what they mean yet."

Juno’s ears went hot. "I- I didn’t know what was important, so I just—"

"That is important," Izo said, handing the notepad back. "You listen before deciding."

Juno nodded so fast he nearly dropped the pencil.

"You’re useful," Izo added, tone smooth as silk.

Juno’s brain promptly short-circuited.

He stared at the page like it might explain how to respond to that without combusting. "… Thank you?"

Izo chuckled softly and turned to walk again, already blending back into the ship’s quiet currents.

Praise or warning, Juno wasn’t sure.

By the time Marco finally pulled him aside, Juno was running on fumes, adrenaline, and pure stubbornness. His brain felt scrambled, his feet ached, and his right hand throbbed with a sharp, persistent sting he’d been doing his best to ignore since the galley.

Marco noticed immediately.

He always did.

"Sit, yoi," Marco said, gentle but not optional, guiding him onto a low crate near the infirmary wall.

Juno obeyed without argument. The moment he stopped moving, exhaustion crashed into him full force.

Marco took his wrist carefully, and removed the bandages as he was turning Juno’s hand palm-up. The skin across his fingers was red, blistered in places where he’d grabbed something hot without thinking.

"Ah," Marco murmured. "You got burnt, yoi."

Juno winced belatedly. "It’s not that bad. I think. I mean, it hurts, but I’ve had worse. Probably. Maybe."

Blue fire bloomed around Marco’s fingers.

Juno’s soul screamed.

WHY IS HE ON FIRE?!

Not my hand is on fire. Not I am in danger. No. His brain skipped straight to THE DOCTOR IS ACTIVELY COMBUSTING!

"Marco—" Juno choked, half-rising, eyes wide with genuine horror. "You’re- you’re on fire?! IS THIS A NORMAL THING?! Do I get water- do I yell—"

Marco gently but firmly pushed him back down. "Relax," he said, amused. "I’m fine, yoi."

"You are NOT FINE," Juno hissed, staring at the flames like they might suddenly remember how fire worked. "You’re the doctor! You can’t just be on fire! That defeats the whole theme!"

The flames touched Juno’s injured hand.

They weren’t hot. That was the first thing he noticed. The fire was cool, almost soothing, like standing near a warm lamp instead of a bonfire. Marco cupped Juno’s injured hand, blue fire curling gently around his fingers.

The pain ebbed almost instantly.

Juno’s breath hitched. "Oh."

Marco watched his face with open entertainment as the blisters faded, skin knitting back together like it had never been injured at all. The fire curled softly, controlled, alive in a way that felt deliberate rather than destructive.

"… Oh," he repeated, quieter this time.

Marco withdrew his hand, the flames dissipating like mist. "There. Good as new."

Juno flexed his fingers slowly. No pain. No stiffness. Nothing.

Marco pulled his hand back, the flames dispersing like mist. "It's my Devil Fruit," he said calmly.

Juno stared at his perfectly healed hand. Then at Marco. Then at where the fire had been.

"…You were on fire," he said again, because his brain had not caught up.

Marco smiled. "Comes with being a Phoenix, yoi."

"That is not an explanation," Juno said weakly. "That’s a species."

Marco leaned back against the wall, arms loose at his sides. "You've heard of Devil Fruits, right, yoi?"

Juno nodded.

"They give abilities. Mine lets me turn into a phoenix and regenerate. The flames can either heal or burn, yoi."

Juno swallowed. "And the downside?"

"I sink like a rock."

"… And... You're... On a ship."

"I'm on a ship, yoi," Marco agreed.

Juno rubbed his face with both hands. "Okay. Cool. Great. I’m just. Processing the part where you’re a flaming bird doctor."

Marco laughed softly. "You did well. Most people panic for themselves."

"I panicked for you," Juno said. "Which feels worse, actually."

Marco tilted his head, studying him. "That says good things about you, yoi."

Juno peeked at him through his fingers. "… It does?”

"Yeah." Marco smiled, warm and easy. "Means you care."

Juno exhaled, long and shaky, then looked down at his healed hand again. "… Thank you."

"Anytime," Marco said.

He handed him water. Then food. Then told him to sit.

No instructions.

No tests.

Just quiet.

"Didn't you already see my Devil Fruit on my posters?" Marco asked.

Juno suppressed a flinch and stared into the cup. "… I- I uh, forgot?" He was lying.

Marco eyes narrowed before he hummed. "Makes sense, yoi."

Juno relaxed when Marco didn't push any further.

They talked about everything and nothing. Slowly. Casually.

And somehow, that was the hardest part.

Marco was gentle. He let Juno take a breather first before he stood up and gestured to follow him, towards a dummy used for medical practice.

Juno stood behind him, watching intently as the doctor worked.

"This is how you wrap," he said. "You apply just the right amount of pressure. And this is when you call for help, yoi."

The nurses hovered, correcting Juno’s hands, murmuring encouragement.

He did well.

Then the door burst open.

"DOC!"

Stork stumbled in, clutching his wrist. His parrot squawked, wing bent at an alarming angle.

Marco turned to Juno. "Live practice."

Juno’s soul screamed.

He breathed. Focused. Remembered the bandage. The symmetry.

He stabilized the wrist. He supported the wing. His hands shook, but they didn’t falter.

Marco watched. Nodded.

When it was done, Stork flexed carefully. The parrot chirped.

"… Huh," Stork said. "That worked."

Juno slumped. "I need to lie down forever."

Marco smiled. "You did well."

By the time Juno finally made his way back to his tiny closet-room, the ship was noiser as everyone had seeked refuge from the sun high up in the sky. He trudged inside, carefully avoiding the mop, the bucket, and anything else that might revolt, and sank onto the crates.

His hands still smelled faintly of food and soap, rope fibers clung to his sleeves, and his notebook was full of scribbled chaos that made sense to him alone. He let out a long, shaky breath and stared at the ceiling.

Everything had been… A lot. Too much, probably.

He’d cooked, cleaned, delivered messages, eavesdropped, tied knots that defied physics, and survived being nearly flattened by his own clumsiness.

He’d also panicked, flustered, stumbled, and somehow, somehow, managed to impress people who seemed impossible to impress.

He flexed his fingers and traced the faint scars of burns, still tingling from Blenheim’s and Thatch's training. Somehow, that sting felt like a proof of existence, of progress. Progress that would continue for the next few weeks until his Division was decided.

He thought of Marco, calmly healing him with flames that shouldn’t exist, of Izo nodding at his frantic notes, of Haruta shouting instructions, of Thatch barely hiding his amused approval. And of the four background pirates, who had cheered him on in their chaotic, brotherly way.

Juno rolled onto his side, staring at the dim light in the corner. He wasn’t anywhere close to understanding this world (or how he was going to survive it) but for the first time since waking up on this ship, he felt like maybe he could.

Maybe he belonged here.

And if he could just stay away from falling mops, maybe tomorrow would hurt a little less.

"HEY ROOKIE!"

Juno jolted so hard the crates slammed against the wall and the mop hit his head.

Goddamnit.

Chapter Text

Juno cracked the door open and peeked out, eyes bleary. "If this is an emergency involving barrels," he muttered, "I’m unionizing."

Instead, he was met with a sight so bizarre his brain rebooted.

Scar Cheek stood in the hallway, arms crossed like a proud foreman.

Bandana hovered nearby, giving directions that contradicted.

Shirtless and Mohawk were carrying a very real, very solid bed.

A bed.

A whole bed.

"Surprise!" Scar Cheek said, grinning.

Juno stared. "Is that… for me?"

Mohawk nodded. "Measured it."

Bandana added, "Three times."

Shirtless beamed. "Only had to break one rule."

Juno’s heart did something uncomfortable. "You... Why? This is—" He swallowed. "It won’t fit."

"Oh, it fits," Scar Cheek said confidently. "It has to."

They shoved the bed forward, and Juno watched in stunned silence as it slid into the closet with a precision that suggested either teamwork or divine intervention. It stopped with a soft thump, wedged perfectly wall to wall.

Juno stepped closer, reverent.

Then he noticed it.

Right in the center of the mattress was a neatly mended hole. Clean stitching. Careful work. The bedframe beneath it bore the same circular repair, reinforced like someone had very specifically tried to fix a problem caused by one very specific incident.

He pointed slowly. "… Why was there a hole?"

All four men reacted instantly.

"LOOK OVER THERE," Shirtless yelled, pointing violently at the hall.

Bandana lunged past Juno. "We’ll move your stuff!"

Before Juno could protest, they burst into the closet like they were storming a cursed tomb.

Everything inside attacked them.

The lamp tangled around Mohawk’s arms like sentient fabric. The bucket clanged. The shelf tipped over and bonked Bandana in the shin. Posters flew everywhere.

"Why does his stuff hate us?!" Mohawk shouted.

Juno deadpanned. He did not own the murderous cleaning supplies. Nor the lamp. It was already there when he got here.

"IT STARTED IT," Shirtless yelled, wrestling the cursed mop.

Juno stood frozen as the four engaged in a surprisingly even battle with his belongings, dodging, counterattacking, and occasionally apologizing to inanimate objects. Scar Cheek took a direct hit from the shelf and retaliated by gently placing it outside the room.

The hallway became a disaster zone.

And yet...

Nothing broke.

No cracks. No spills. No damage. Just chaos, neatly contained.

Ten minutes later, the closet was empty except for the bed. The four pirates stood panting, victorious.

Bandana wiped his brow. "Done."

Mohawk nodded. "Much more spacious now."

Shirtless gave a thumbs up. "Don’t ask about the hole."

Juno opened his mouth.

Scar Cheek clapped a hand on his shoulder. "No need to thank us, Rookie."

And just like that, they dispersed, leaving Juno alone with his new bed, his relocated mess, and a thousand unanswered questions.

He sat down carefully.

The bed did not collapse.

"Oh thank god."

They came back five minutes later.

Juno had just finished smoothing the blanket, still half-convinced the bed would vanish if he blinked too hard, when the hallway erupted again with familiar footfalls and poorly coordinated whisper-yelling.

"Angle it, no, the other angle!"

"I said turn, not tilt?!"

"Why is it heavier now?"

The doorframe filled.

Scar Cheek entered first, holding a cork board almost as wide as Thatch's shoulders. Bandana followed with a fistful of pins clenched between his teeth like a deranged seamstress. Mohawk ducked in with a small crate under one arm. Shirtless brought up the rear, empty-handed but radiating enthusiasm.

Juno blinked. "Did I miss something?"

"Nope," Scar Cheek smiled. "We just remembered something."

Bandana spat the pins into his palm. "Your wall shrine."

"My what."

"For your poster collection," Mohawk answered.

Juno’s ears went warm. "I don’t need... Okay, I do, but where did you even get that?"

"Built it," Shirtless said, already wedging the cork board against the wall.

Right. That made sense. Not.

They crammed into the closet-room with the ease of people who did not believe in personal space. Someone’s elbow hit Juno in the ribs. Someone else stepped on his foot. He sobbed internally, atleast he could dodge cleaning supplies. But pirates? He can't.

Scar Cheek held the board up. "Here or higher?"

"Uh, here is fine," Juno said, then added automatically, "Please."

The board went up crooked.

Mohawk adjusted it without comment.

Pins were handed over like contraband. Juno took them, heart thudding, and pulled out the rolled posters he’d just managed to clean up earlier. His hands shook at first. Then steadied.

He pinned the first one.

Bandana leaned in. "That one’s dramatic."

"It’s really not," Juno said without thinking.

Shirtless snorted. "He’s got opinions."

"Shhh," Scar Cheek said. "Let him curate."

Juno paused, surprised by the word. Then kept going.

They talked while he worked. About nothing important. About the galley’s bread being too hard today. About whose turn it was to clean the stairs. About whether the repaired hole in the bed was structurally sound (it was).

At some point, Bandana said, "So, Rookie—"

"Juno."

A beat.

Mohawk nodded. "Good name."

Scar Cheek repeated it once, like filing it away. Shirtless tried it out loud and grinned. No one commented on the fact that no one had actually asked.

Juno finished the last poster and stepped back. The cork board was crowded, colorful, chaotic.

Perfect.

He looked around at the four of them jammed into his room, arguing about whether the board needed leveling.

"… You’re blocking my bed," he said.

Bandana scoffed. "Our bed now."

"Don’t push it," Juno shot back.

They all froze for half a second.

Then Scar Cheek laughed. Shirtless whooped. Mohawk smiled, just barely.

Juno realized, distantly, that he hadn’t thought before speaking.

He didn’t take it back.

No one actually left.

They shifted. Which somehow made it worse.

Scarcheek sat on the edge of the bed while Bandana claimed the doorway and became a living obstacle. Mohawk crouched because there was nowhere left to sit and Shirtless sprawled on the floor like he’d paid rent.

Juno stood there, hands at his sides, brain still catching up.

"So," Scar Cheek started, settling in, "Since you’re officially stuck with us now."

"I am?"

Bandana waved a hand. "You’ve got a bed. That’s tenure."

"And a cork board," Shirtless added. "That we gave to you. You're in our debt now."

Juno opened his mouth to argue. Then closed it.

The pirates took it as a sign to begin.

The stories started the way waves do. One at a time. Then overlapping.

Scar Cheek told him about the time the ship outran a storm so bad the sea turned white and someone got hit by lightning because he held his sword out by accident. Bandana jumped in to clarify it was him and he was still mad about it. Shirtless swore the lightning had aimed for him personally. Mohawk quietly corrected the timeline. Juno asked how someone could hold out a sword by accident, and no one answered.

Instead, they talked about fights. Not the heroic kind, mostly the stupid ones. A crate that turned out to be full of snakes. A bet involving rum and a very angry octopus. A week where nobody spoke to Thatch because he’d tried to "innovate" breakfast.

"Never innovate breakfast," Bandana said solemnly.

Juno nodded like he’d been there.

Somewhere in the middle, the tone shifted.

They started updating him.

Apparently the anchor prank had escalated. The victim was fine but planning revenge. Someone was convinced the nurses were running an underground betting pool (Juno asked about what. They gave mixed answers.). There was a rumor that a Den Den Mushi had gone missing and everyone was pretending not to notice because the last person who lost one had to scrub the deck for a month.

"But Haruta probably knows," Mohawk shivered.

"Haruta always knows," Scar Cheek replied.

Juno listened. Asked questions no one answered properly. He laughed at the right moments. Filed names and appearances away. 

At some point, Bandana pointed at his cork board. "You should add dates."

"I should not," Juno shook his head. That sounded like a hassle.

"Add context," Shirtless insisted. "It's for the memories!"

Scar Cheek waved them off. "It's his cork board, guys."

They stayed until the lantern burned lower and the ship’s noises softened into something almost gentle.

A bell was hit like divine judgment.

GOOONG!

The sound rolled through the ship, vibrating the walls, rattling the corkboard pins behind Juno, and making several pirates down the hall yell "DINNER?" in varying states of disbelief.

The cramped little room froze mid-chaos.

Then Bandana lit up. "Oh! Dinner."

Scar Cheek was already on his feet. "That’s early."

Shirtless grinned. "Means Pops woke up."

That made Juno’s brain skid. "Wait, early? Why would dinner start early?"

No one answered him right away. They were already moving. Mohawk grabbed his sleeve. Bandana nudged him toward the door. He was steered out into the corridor by sheer pirate momentum.

Mohawk answered, casual as ever. "He had a fever. Been out most of the day."

Juno stumbled a little. "A fever?"

"Yeah," Scar Cheek added. "Nothing bad. Just Pops being mortal for a few hours."

Bandana nodded. "If he’s up for dinner, he’s fine."

"That’s… comforting," Juno said weakly, unsure how any of that worked.

They merged with the rest of the ship, the corridors swelling with sound. Boots thundered. Laughter bounced off the walls. Someone argued about stolen socks. Someone else claimed victory over a card game that apparently ended three hours ago.

The galley doors came into view.

Juno stepped inside—

And the world resized itself violently.

Whitebeard was already seated.

Seated yet still somehow bigger than the room, like the galley had been built politely around him and then apologized for the inconvenience. His presence warped the air. His laugh boomed even when he wasn’t laughing yet.

Juno’s legs gave out.

"Oh," he said quietly. "Oh no."

Scar Cheek picked him up and planted him back on his feet. "You’re doing great!"

"I am not," Juno said, eyes locked straight ahead. "I am standing very still and hoping to survive."

They joined the line. Pirates queued up with bowls and plates, shuffling forward with surprising discipline, because the laws of order briefly applied when their very large and only recently recovered from a fever Captain was seated at the front and had a clear view of everyone.

Juno folded his hands. He did not trip. He did not faint (barely, but that was a victory for him). He did not scream.

Beside Whitebeard, Marco was arguing with him.

"No alcohol, yoi," Marco said, tone easy but immovable, the way you spoke to a force of nature you’d already negotiated with a thousand times.

Whitebeard scowled, massive arms folding over his chest. "I am fine."

"You had a fever," One of the nurses shot back, exasperated. "A high one."

Whitebeard grunted. "I slept it off."

"That is not how fevers work," Another nurse retorted flatly.

"I am awake," Whitebeard countered. "I am sitting. I am hungry."

"And that’s great," Marco replied, smiling. "That means soup, yoi."

Whitebeard’s eye twitched. "I want sake."

"No," said three voices at once.

Marco didn’t even blink. "You want water."

Whitebeard stared at him. The galley held its breath.

"… Tea,” Whitebeard tried, clearly compromising.

Marco hummed, considering. "After you eat, yoi."

A long pause. Then Whitebeard huffed, reaching for the bowl instead. "You are all very annoying."

One of the nurses beamed. "Thank you, Pops."

Whitebeard grumbled, but he ate. The ship, satisfied, carried on.

Juno stared straight ahead at the back of the pirate in front of him, hands folded, posture immaculate, pretending he was not in the presence of a living legend arguing with his medical staff like a sulky grandpa.

He shuffled forward with the line.

He did not look directly at Whitebeard again.

He was polite. He was quiet. He was alive.

(He hoped no one would point out how shaky his legs had gotten.)

There was a lost deer in his ship.

He was subtle, but impossible to ignore once felt. The galley thundered with noise, his sons arguing, bowls and plates scraping, laughter cracking through the air. Life as it always was.

And there, threaded between the chaos, was the deer.

All skittish grace and contained tension. Long limbs folded in on themselves, movements careful and measured, like he expected the floor to give way if he trusted it too much. He waited his turn. And by the looks of it, prayed internally when things got too rowdy.

And there was the jacket.

Whitebeard’s eyes lingered there, sharp beneath the weight of age. ROOKIE, stamped boldly across the back as if the world needed reminding. Beneath it, his Jolly Roger stitched on with careful hands. Not the mark of a man who’d been born into this life, but the mark of someone trying very hard to belong.

The boy queued properly. Didn’t shove. Didn’t brag. Accepted his plate with both hands.

Whitebeard ate, thoughtful.

He knew every face on his ship. Every laugh. Every scar. He could trace his family through bloodlines of battle and grief and shared storms. And yet, he couldn't do it for the boy. This one carried none of it. No resemblance. No history written into his bones.

A deer with no herd.

Whitebeard’s gaze slid to Marco, who was hovering nearby, half-watching the nurses, half-watching everyone else like he always did.

"That one," he said, nodding faintly toward Juno.

Marco followed the motion. Watched as Juno startled when someone laughed too loud, then relaxed when Bandana elbowed him and said something reassuring.

Marco hummed. "That’s Juno, yoi. He’s new-new."

Whitebeard followed the line of Marco’s gaze again, slower this time. The boy was still in line, shoulders slightly hunched, hands clasped around his bowl like it might anchor him to the floor. He laughed at something Simon said then immediately looked around, as if checking whether he was allowed to.

A deer, still. Learning which noises meant danger and which meant safety.

Whitebeard finally glanced at Marco, one heavy brow lifting. "You didn’t tell me."

There was no accusation in it. Just fact. Whitebeard knew every new face aboard his ship. Or he should have.

Marco smiled, easy and unapologetic, and gave a small shrug. "You were sick, yoi. Fevered, cranky, threatening to fight the nurses."

"Wouldn't have if they let me drink," Whitebeard muttered.

Marco ignored that. "It didn't seem like the right time to add paperwork and a very nervous rookie to the pile. I’ll hand you a report later, yoi."

Whitebeard huffed, amused despite himself. His gaze drifted back to Juno, who had just nearly dropped his spoon when someone clapped too close to him, then froze, then slowly relaxed when nothing terrible happened.

"…He doesn’t move like a pirate," Whitebeard said.

"No," Marco agreed. "Not yet."

Whitebeard took another bite of his food, thoughtful. "Why is he here?"

Marco smiled as if he recalled something amusing. "Izo asked around, and apparently Axel and his group just saw him and ordered him around, yoi. Then Thatch dragged him in."

Whitebeard let out a low chuckle. "Dragged in, was he?" he said, eyes still on the boy. "That’s how half this family started."

"Yeah," Marco said lightly. "Thought you’d say that."

Whitebeard watched as Simon shoved food toward Juno’s bowl and Bandana leaned in to say something that made the boy flush and sputter. The deer didn’t bolt. He stayed.

"… See that he grows," Whitebeard said at last.

Marco blinked. Then grinned. "I’ll put it in the report, yoi."

Whitebeard snorted, lifting his cup. Amid the noise, the warmth, and the careless affection of his sons, the deer stayed where it was, no longer quite so lost.

Chapter Text

Juno woke up to the distinct, deeply unsettling sensation of being watched.

He did not open his eyes immediately. This had, historically, never led to anything good.

Unfortunately, the presence hovering above him did not respect his survival instincts.

"You’re awake!" Ace said cheerfully.

Juno cracked one eye open. A freckled face greeted him. A grin that screamed bad decisions before breakfast.

"No I’m not," Juno mumbled, rolling onto his side and pulling the blanket over his head. "This is a dream. Or a hallucination. Or the afterlife. Please leave."

The blanket was immediately yanked away.

"Wow," Ace said. "Rude. I haven’t even kidnapped you yet."

Juno groaned into his pillow. "It’s too early for whatever crime you’re planning."

"It’s New Year’s Eve!" Ace declared, spreading his arms like this explained everything. "Which means decorating."

"People usually do that weeks before..."

Ace squinted at him. "Not on this ship."

Somewhere in the distance, there was a crash, followed by Blamenco yelling something that sounded like, "WHO GAVE HIM ROPE?"

Ace grinned wider. "See? Festive already."

Juno sat up slowly, hair a mess, brain lagging several crucial seconds behind reality. "Why are you in charge of decorations?"

"I’m not," Ace said. "But Blenheim told me to ‘keep you busy,’ and I took that personally."

That explained nothing and somehow everything.

Before Juno could formulate a protest strong enough to be legally binding, Ace grabbed his wrist and hauled him upright.

"C’mon!” Ace exclaimed. "You’re helping me string lanterns."

"I don’t know how!"

"Neither do I!"

"Then why are we doing it?!"

Ace was already dragging him out the door.

The ship transformed over the course of the day.

What started as organized chaos slowly evolved into decorated chaos, which Juno learned was a very specific Whitebeard Pirate aesthetic. Lanterns were hung wherever someone could reach. Streamers crisscrossed the rigging in colors that absolutely did not match. Someone (probably Haruta) had tied ribbons around the cannons.

Juno spent most of the afternoon holding ladders, untangling knots, and questioning his life choices.

Ace, meanwhile, treated the entire operation like a personal challenge.

"I'm going higher," Ace said, standing on a railing while Juno clung to the ladder beneath him. "It needs to look dramatic."

"You’re going to fall," Juno warned.

"Nah."

Ace immediately slipped.

Juno yelped, grabbing his ankle on instinct. "I TOLD YOU—"

Ace laughed as he dangled upside down for a moment before righting himself with Haki assisted balance. "See? Fine!"

Marco appeared at some point, watching the two of them. "You still alive, yoi?"

"Barely," Juno sighed flatly.

"Great," Marco replied. "Ace, stop terrorizing him. We need him functional for tonight, yoi."

Ace gasped. "You wound me."

Marco walked away.

As the sun dipped lower, the ship glowed with warm light. Music drifted across the deck. Food appeared in quantities that defied logic. Laughter rolled over everything, loud and easy.

Juno found himself slowing down, leaning against the railing with a cup of something warm in his hands.

Ace leaned beside him, quieter now. "You doin’ okay?"

Juno hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Just… didn’t think I’d be here."

Ace followed his gaze out to sea. "That makes two of us. Funny how that works."

The Moby Dick did not do quiet celebrations.

This was what Juno remembered about parties aboard Whitebeard’s ship, right after learning that someone had figured out how to modify spare cannon parts into fireworks, and that alcohol tasted exponentially worse when consumed competitively.

The deck was not celebrating.

The deck was rioting.

Lanterns hung from every railing, mast, and surface that had once been considered structural. They swayed with the tide, the wind, and the collective confidence of people who had decided gravity was a suggestion. Streamers tangled themselves in rigging. Confetti— paper, fabric, and at least one suspiciously metallic variety —drifted through the air like it had lost its will to live.

Music assaulted the senses from multiple directions. Someone pounded drums with heroic enthusiasm and no sense of rhythm. Someone else hacked at a shamisen with all the delicacy of a bar fight. From overhead came a series of sharp pops and flares that suggested Ace had decided fire counted as a musical instrument.

Juno stood near the outskirts, cup clutched in hand, absorbing it all with the wary stillness of someone who had wandered into a natural disaster and decided to observe instead of flee.

A long time ago, New Year’s had involved instant noodles and the cheapest cake available on the rooftop with his roommate shouting the countdown, and dread wrapped neatly in cheap neighborhood fireworks and regret.

Now it involved pirates.

"I still think it’s insane," Juno muttered, watching someone attempt to dance while holding three plates of food, "That people celebrate the calendar changing."

Marco, reclining against the railing beside him, sipped his drink. "You did it in your world too, yoi.”

"That was different," Juno said immediately.

Marco glanced at him. "How?"

"We didn’t pretend it meant anything."

Marco hummed. "Then why stay up?"

"…Social obligation."

"And fireworks."

"… Okay, fireworks."

Marco smiled, sharp and knowing. "Sounds the same to me, yoi."

Across the deck, Thatch had turned half a table into a drinking competition without ever announcing it as such. There were flames, knives, yelling, and a growing audience taking bets. Izo stood off to the side, arms crossed, posture immaculate, eyes sharp, silently judging everything from knife technique to drinking habits to the audacity of the participants themselves. Haruta darted through the chaos, laughing loudly, occasionally stealing food and sprinting away before consequences could find him.

And then there was Ace.

Ace was on top of a crate.

Juno had not witnessed the ascent. There had been no buildup. But Ace was there now, boots planted confidently. He bowed with theatrical flair to the cheering crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" Ace called. "Brothers, sisters, and whatever it is you guys are doing over there—"

"HEY!" several people shouted.

"—it has come to my attention," Ace continued, completely unshaken, "That it is almost midnight!"

The deck erupted.

Whitebeard’s laughter thundered from the upper deck, deep and booming, rattling lanterns and spirits alike. “Gurararara! Then start the count!”

The countdown began immediately and incorrectly.

"TEN!"

"SEVEN!"

"YOU SKIPPED EIGHT!"

“SIX— NO, SEVEN—”

"WHO’S COUNTING?!"

Juno laughed before he could stop himself. The sound startled him. It felt unguarded, slipped out between the noise and the warmth and the fact that nobody here was watching him too closely.

Ace hopped down from the crate and slid into the space beside him with practiced ease, shoulder bumping his. "You good, Juno?"

"Only a little."

Ace tilted his head, eyes sharp beneath the grin. He considered that, then nodded. "Fair."

They watched the deck together. Lantern light. Movement. People shouting and laughing and arguing and existing with reckless confidence. A family Juno hadn’t meant to find and still didn’t know how to hold.

"You miss it?" Ace asked, quieter.

Juno didn’t pretend to misunderstand. Home flickered through his mind. A different ceiling. A different version of himself. Someone who hadn’t learned how easily the world could tilt.

"Yeah," he said. "Just not in the way I expected."

Ace hummed. "That checks out."

The countdown staggered toward coherence. Somehow, Izo had managed to wrangle them together that it was only two minutes to midnight. Not ten seconds.

"BOOOO!"

Ace leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "For the record," he said, "Starting a new year here could be less worse."

Juno snorted. "That’s not comforting."

Ace tugged on Juno’s sleeve. "Hey. Come with me."

"… Where?"

Ace did not dignify that with an answer. He just grabbed Juno’s wrist and started dragging.

"Hey, Ace! Ace—" Juno stumbled as they cut through the crowd, narrowly avoiding a near-collision with Thatch carrying something on fire. "You can’t just abduct people during holidays!"

"Yes I can," Ace said brightly. "It’s tradition."

They slipped off the main deck and down toward the side, where the Striker was tied off and bobbing impatiently against the hull. Lantern light fractured across the water, the noise of the celebration still loud but distant enough to feel unreal.

Juno stopped short. "Why is your boat involved?.."

Ace hopped down into the Striker without hesitation, landing light and steady. He looked up, grin sharp. "Best view on the sea."

"I doubt that."

Ace held out a hand.

Juno stared at it. Then at the water. Then back at Ace.

"... If I die," Juno said, "I’m haunting you."

Juno took his hand.

The moment he stepped in, the Striker pulled away from the Moby Dick, Ace already untethering it with one smooth movement. The distance widened quickly, too quickly, and Juno grabbed the mast of the boat on instinct.

"Ace," he called out, voice tight, "Why are we moving?"

Ace sat at the front of the mast, relaxed. "Because it goes."

"That’s not an answer!"

Ace kicked the boat into overdrive.

Juno yelped as the Striker surged forward, the wind snapping against his face. "ACE?!"

Ace laughed. Actually laughed, loud and delighted. "C’mon, you’re doing great!"

"I’M GOING TO DIE DOING GREAT!"

The shouts from the ship carried faintly over the water.

"TEN!"

"NINE!"

The Striker picked up speed.

Juno clung to the side, knuckles white, heart trying to exit his ribcage. "THIS IS NOT THE TIME!"

Ace glanced back, eyes bright. "Relax! I’ve done this a hundred times."

"That does not help!"

"EIGHT!"

"SEVEN!"

Ace leaned into the wind, pushing the Striker faster just to hear Juno swear.

"FUCK— ACE! SLOW DOWN!"

"CAN’T HEAR YOU OVER THE NEW YEAR’S SPIRIT!"

"FIVE!"

The sea stretched ahead of them, dark and endless, the Moby Dick glowing behind them like a floating city of light.

"FOUR!"

Juno’s panic stuttered, caught somewhere between terror and awe.

"THREE!"

Ace straightened.

"TWO!"

The Striker didn’t slow.

"ONE!"

Ace lifted his hands, one holding onto a bundle of fireworks.

Fire bloomed.

Not a single flare, but a cascade— brilliant arcs of flame spiraling into the sky as the Striker tore across the water. Fireworks burst overhead in perfect, impossible symmetry, Ace guiding them effortlessly while the boat kept moving, the flames reflected in the waves below.

The sky exploded into color.

Gold. Red. White.

Cheers thundered from the ship, rolling across the sea.

Juno forgot to breathe.

The wind roared past his ears, the boat cutting through the water, fireworks blazing overhead while the night opened up around them. The world felt huge. Terrifying, beautiful and alive all at once.

Ace laughed, fire dancing around him, unshaken, unstoppable.

Juno tipped his head back, staring at the sky, heart hammering not with fear now, but something brighter.

Ace glanced back at him, grin softened by firelight. "Happy New Year, Juno!"

Juno swallowed, breath shaky, eyes still on the sky. "… Happy New Year," he said.

The Striker surged forward beneath them, the Moby Dick glowing behind them, and Juno let the moment carry him, into a year he didn’t understand yet, but no longer felt afraid to meet.

Whitebeard raised his cup, laughter shaking the ship. "TO A NEW YEAR!"

"To a new year!" the crew roared back.

Juno sighed as his eyes following the sparks as they faded into smoke and night.

He didn’t know what this year would take from him. He didn’t know what it might give. He didn’t know if home still meant the same thing.

But the thought no longer pressed tight against his ribs.

Ace threw an arm around his shoulders, easy and unasked. "Hey," he said, grinning. "You made it through one year already. That’s gotta count for something!"

Juno looked at the sea, the ship, the pirates who’d somehow become his people.

"… Yeah," he said softly. "I guess it does."

The Moby Dick sailed on, loud and alive, carrying them into a year none of them could predict.

And for once, Juno didn’t feel the urge to run.

The Striker eased back toward the Moby Dick in a lazy arc, engine ticking down from a roar to a contented hum. The ship loomed larger with every second, lanterns glowing warm against the dark, silhouettes moving across the deck in restless celebration.

Juno realized, belatedly, that his hands still hurt.

He loosened his grip on the mast of the boat and flexed his fingers, trying to get feeling back into them. His heart was still going too fast, but it wasn’t fear anymore. Just leftover adrenaline, buzzing and aimless, like it didn’t know what to do with itself now that the danger, Ace, had stopped actively trying to kill him.

Ace cut the engine and stood, reaching out to grab the rope tossed down from above.

"Still alive?" Ace asked, grinning.

Juno let out a breath. "Against my better judgment."

"See? Perfect New Year’s activity."

They climbed back aboard amid shouted greetings and off-key cheering. Music crashed over them. Laughter ricocheted from every direction. The air smelled like food, smoke, and spilled alcohol.

For exactly half a second, things felt normal.

Then...

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ACE!"

The words hit him from every side at once.

Juno froze mid-step.

Ace stopped dead.

Lanterns flared brighter as more voices joined in, overlapping and loud enough to rattle the rigging.

"'BOUT TIME YOU GOT BACK!"

"YOU CAN’T HIDE FROM US!"

"WE SAVED YOU THE BIGGEST CUP!"

Ace stared, mouth open, clearly trying to process the ambush. "W- wait! What?—"

Thatch barreled in first, shoving a cup into Ace’s hand hard enough to slosh it. "Happy birthday, firecracker!"

"Don’t pretend you forgot," Marco added smoothly, appearing at Ace’s other side. "You did that last year, yoi."

Izo approached more calmly, offering a small smile. "You're another year older. Try not to set the ship on fire."

"No promises!" Ace shot back, laughing now, surprise melting into something bright and unguarded.

Juno stood slightly behind him, watching the moment unfold. Watching the way Ace accepted the attention without deflecting it, how the crew closed in around him, loud and affectionate and entirely unashamed of it.

Jozu approached, holding a platter fit for his size, "We made more food for you."

Haruta popped up at Ace’s side, practically vibrating. "We saved the good food for you, too!"

Ace looked around at the crowd closing in, cheeks flushed, grin wide and genuine. "You guys...! I thought- I didn’t think—"

Whitebeard’s laughter rolled across the deck, deep and booming, shaking lanterns. "Gurararara! A fine day to be born, Ace!"

Ace barked out a laugh and lifted his cup high. "Alright! Alright! I get it!"

Someone clapped him on the back hard enough to stagger him forward. Another pirate immediately caught him, cheering louder. Juno found himself pulled along by the tide of bodies, a hand catching his sleeve as Ace was dragged toward the center of the deck.

Juno was pulled along by proximity and a warm hand on his sleeve.

The night blurred after that.

Food appeared in Juno's hands whether he asked for it or not. Thatch insisted that he try everything, including a dish that hissed faintly and something fried that might once have been meat. Haruta climbed onto a table to announce Ace’s greatest “accomplishments,” all of which grew more ridiculous by the second.

Ace was everywhere at once, laughing, shouting, hugging people without warning. He lost his hat almost immediately. Marco definitely had it. Ace pretended not to notice and then spent twenty minutes trying to steal it back.

Someone started a drinking contest. Ace joined. Juno did not. Ace lost anyway and declared it a victory.

Music got louder. Then worse. Someone danced badly enough to draw a crowd. Someone else joined them out of spite. At some point, Juno realized Haruta was sitting on his shoulders again, cheering at absolutely nothing.

"WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN?!" Juno yelled.

"DON’T THINK ABOUT IT!" Haruta yelled back.

Later, after Juno managed to deposit Haruta to the railings so he could puke, Ace reappeared at his side, slinging an arm around his shoulders and nearly knocking them both over. "Hey," he said, voice warm and loose, "You survived a year and my birthday!"

"I feel accomplished," Juno said, laughing despite himself.

Stories followed, loud, exaggerated retellings of past birthdays, near-death experiences reframed as comedy, moments that had somehow become legend. Juno listened from the edge of the group, cup warm in his hands, Ace close enough that their shoulders brushed.

The lanterns burned lower as the night stretched on. The music softened, drifting into something almost calm. Laughter still bubbled up everywhere, but slower now, warmer.

Juno had stepped back to take a breather and leaned against the railing, watching the sea roll steady and dark beyond the glow of the ship.

Ace joined him again, quieter at last, hat reclaimed and crooked on his head. He bumped Juno lightly with his shoulder. "Juno."

"Ace."

"Thanks for coming with me earlier," Ace said, gaze on the water.

Juno considered that. Then nodded. "Of course. Anything for you, Ace."

Ace smiled, large and real.

Behind them, the party continued. It was loud, messy, alive. And for once, Juno didn’t feel like an outsider hovering at the edge of it all.

When Ace raised his cup again, laughing as someone shouted his name, Juno raised his too with no hesitation.

The Moby Dick sailed on through the night, heavy with light and voices and years worth celebrating, carrying them forward together.

Chapter Text

Dinner ended loudly at first, then gradually thinned into pockets of conversation, clattering bowls, and the satisfied inertia of men who had eaten well and planned to do absolutely nothing productive for a while.

Juno was in the middle of helping stack dishes when Marco appeared at his side, casual as a sea breeze.

"Hey," Marco said lightly. "Pops wants a word, yoi."

Juno’s soul exited his body. It left a note this time. Sorry.

"Oh," Juno replied, because his mouth was committed to betraying him. "Cool. Yeah. Sure. Of course he does."

Marco glanced at him, one brow lifting. "It isn't an execution, yoi."

Juno laughed a little too fast. "I don’t know why you’d think that."

Marco did not comment further. A small mercy.

They walked together through the galley, past benches and pillars that suddenly felt much farther apart than before. He wondered if he should bow. Or kneel. Or simply lie flat on the floor and accept his fate.

Whitebeard was still seated, his massive frame relaxed and one hand resting near his cup while the last echoes of dinner died down around him.

Juno stopped a few paces away and bowed so low he nearly tipped over.

"S-sir."

Whitebeard looked at him.

It felt like standing in front of a mountain that had decided, for the moment, not to move.

"Lift your head," Whitebeard said.

Juno obeyed, heart trying to claw its way out through his ribs.

Whitebeard studied him for a long moment. Then he spoke.

"Are you eating enough?"

Juno blinked.

Once. Twice.

"… Sir?"

Marco, behind him, very deliberately did not intervene.

Whitebeard frowned slightly, not in anger, but in consideration. "You’re thin. Food disappears fast on this ship."

"Oh. Um." Juno swallowed. "Yes, sir. I think so. I mean. I ate. A lot. I think. They kept giving me more."

"Hm," Whitebeard said, satisfied in the vague way of a man checking off a mental list.

Then, after a beat, "How is it so far on the ship?"

That was worse.

That question had weight. It wasn’t a test of skill or strength. It was an invitation, and Juno had no idea what the correct answer was.

He hesitated, then decided that if he was going to die, he might as well do it honestly.

"I—" He swallowed. "It’s loud. And confusing. And I think a mop tried to kill me."

Marco’s mouth twitched.

"But," Juno continued, words spilling out before he could think them through, "Everyone’s been, uh, nice. In a way that involves a lot of yelling. And being thrown into tasks before I can think too hard about them." He paused. "Which might be on purpose."

Whitebeard let out a low, rumbling chuckle.

"That’s our family," he commented simply.

Juno didn’t know what to do with that, so he nodded like he understood.

Whitebeard regarded him for a moment longer, then lifted his cup. "If anything is lacking, you speak. This is your home now."

Juno’s chest felt tight. Not from fear this time.

"Yes, sir," he managed.

Whitebeard studied him for a moment longer, eyes sharp beneath the weight of age and power.

"If it ever stops feeling that way," he added, tone calm but final, "You tell someone."

Juno blinked. "S-Sir?"

Whitebeard’s mouth curved, just barely. "This sea eats the lost."

The words settled heavy in the air, not a threat but a promise turned inside out.

"You are not lost here," Whitebeard finished.

That was it.

Whitebeard returned to his meal, conversation apparently concluded.

Marco pushed off the pillar. "That’s your cue, yoi."

Juno bowed again, less stiff this time, and backed away carefully, his heart still hammering. He had walked in expecting execution. He had walked out having been asked if he was eating enough.

As he retreated, Whitebeard watched him go, gaze lingering just a second longer than necessary.

A soft thing, that one. Alert. Skittish. Alive. 

And the world, Whitebeard knew, had a way of noticing such people eventually.

When it did...

Well.

He lifted his bowl and drank, surrounded by the noise and warmth of his sons, already decided.

If the sea came looking for that deer, it would find teeth waiting.

Plates clattered as they were stacked too high. Someone argued loudly about whose turn it was to scrub tables. Laughter rose and fell in waves, punctuated by the unmistakable sound of someone being lightly but earnestly threatened with a ladle. The air was warm with food and bodies and the hum of people who had survived another day at sea and intended to celebrate that fact by doing as little as possible.

Juno hovered at the edge of it, bowl empty, unsure what the correct post-dinner behavior was when you were new, disoriented, and just had a quick "chat" with the ship's captain.

So he did what he was doing earlier. He picked up a plate. Then another. Then three more.

"Oi, Rookie," a pirate that Juno recognised vaguely as Boltz from way back when (this was the guy who stole his Rakuyo poster!) called from behind him. "You don’t gotta steal the chores! They’ll come find you eventually."

Juno startled and nearly dropped everything. "I’m not stealing them! I’m... preemptively doing them?"

Boltz squinted. "That’s worse."

A man wearing a Hawaiian shirt leaned over the table, pointing at Juno’s jacket. "You really keeping the Rookie label on?"

Juno blinked.

He looked at his back.

There it was. Bold white letters across the back, unmistakable even to someone who couldn't read.

ROOKIE

And beneath it—

Oh.

Oh no.

The Whitebeard Jolly Roger, stitched big and proud like a declaration to the world. Hello, yes, I am new here and looking to be bullied. No wonder even the Marines knew he was new!

His brain helpfully supplied a highlight reel of him walking around the ship all day. Past crews. Past officers. Past Whitebeard himself.

Fantastic, Juno thought. I’ve been wearing a walking name tag that says “Kick Me, I’m Intern!”.

"I—" he started, then stopped, because his mouth hadn’t checked in with his thoughts first. He tried again. "That’s not- I didn’t— it wasn’t—!"

Several faces turned toward him with interest.

This was worse. This was an audience.

"I didn’t know it said that," Juno blurted. "I mean, I knew it was a jacket. Obviously. I’m not blind! But I didn’t know it said that. On the back. ...In letters that large. Or— or that symbol. I thought it was just… Uh, decorative?"

Someone snorted.

"In my defense, I haven't been in front of a mirror for a few days." Juno tried weakly.

"Decorative," another repeated, delighted. "Kid thought the Jolly Roger was fashion!"

Juno felt his face heat up. "I didn’t choose it! It was just there!" No it wasn't. Before he died, it was just a plain old hoodie. Actually, now that he thought about it, what was he wearing before he died? "Er, someone gave it to me!" That was a lie. Juno was doing a lot of that these days.

"Oh?" Boltz raised a brow. "So you didn’t make it?"

"No!"

There was a collective pause.

Then—

"Damn," someone huffed, sounding almost disappointed. "Thought you were handy with a needle."

"Yeah," another chimed in. "We didn’t get cool jackets when we were new."

"Speak for yourself," a third added. "I got punched."

Juno waved his hands frantically. "I can’t sew! I can barely— I once stabbed myself with a safety pin trying to fix a button!"

That earned him laughter.

"You sure?" Boltz asked, eyeing the stitching with mock seriousness. "That’s clean work."

"I promise you," Juno answered fervently, "If I had made this, it would be falling apart at the seams."

A random guy clapped him on the shoulder. "Guess the old man really likes you, huh? Rookie jacket and all."

Juno made a strangled noise somewhere between a laugh and a plea for mercy. There's way too many people!

Before he could spiral any further, a shadow loomed to his left.

"Well," Hook appeared out of nowhere as he talked, hooking an arm over Juno’s shoulder, "Rookie jacket or not, you smell like galley grease and dread!"

"Hey," Sunglasses Indoors added from the other side, pushing his shades up slightly, "When was the last time you took a proper bath?"

Juno stiffened. Where did these guys come from? And— how dare they.

"I bathe!" he said quickly, offended. "I am very pro-bathing. Huge fan. Big supporter of hygiene."

Hook sniffed theatrically. "Mm. Could’ve fooled me."

"I smell like hard work!" Juno protested. "I was just too busy with—"

"You smell like soup," Sunglasses Indoors cut him off. "And fear."

They exchanged a look.

"To the baths!" Hook announced. "Come on."

"What? No— wait!" Juno’s mind scrambled. "I’m busy!"

"Doing what?" Hook asked.

Juno looked down at the plates still in his hands. One slipped and clattered back onto the table.

"Cleaning?" he tried.

Sunglasses Indoors grinned. "Not anymore!"

They steered him toward the door despite his half-hearted resistance.

"I don’t need supervision to bathe!" Juno yelled, offended.

Hook laughed. "Relax, kid. We’re just making sure you don’t drown."

Great, Juno thought as his feet carried him forward. I’ve been upgraded from Rookie to Liability.

As they hauled him out of the galley, someone called after them, "Don’t forget your jacket!"

Juno made a sound of pure despair.

Juno noticed the foot traffic first.

He was being tugged along by Hook on one side and herded by Sunglasses Indoors on the other, and it took him a moment to register that they were not alone. A lot of pirates were heading in the same direction, they laughing, arguing, towels slung over shoulders, some already half-undressed like this was a scheduled event he had somehow missed. Juno frowned, trying to piece it together as he was pulled forward.

Why, he wondered dimly, are we all walking like this is a field trip?

The realization hit Juno the moment the doors slid open.

Steam rolled out in a thick, humid wave. Voices echoed. Water sloshed. Someone laughed loudly enough to bounce off tile and wood and poor life choices.

Juno stopped walking.

Hook did not.

Which meant Juno was dragged exactly three steps forward before his brain finally caught up and screamed.

Oh.

Those are—

Those are PEOPLE?!

Rows of bathing areas stretched out before them— wide tubs, wooden benches, towels slung over railings, pirates milling about like this was the most normal thing in the world. Which, horrifyingly, it clearly was.

Juno stiffened so hard he nearly achieved petrification.

"... Why," he said faintly, "are there so many people in here."

Hook blinked. Sunglasses Indoors looked around, confused. Juno would've laughed at his foggy glasses if he wasn't panicking.

"…Because it’s the baths?" Sunglasses Indoors offered.

"No..! I mean," Juno gestured helplessly at everything.

Hook finally stopped and looked at him properly. Then he laughed.

"Oh," he said. "You didn’t know?"

Juno’s stomach dropped. That tone never leads anywhere safe.

"Didn’t know what," Juno asked, already knowing he was about to regret it.

"That the baths are public,” Hook said.

"Yes," Juno snapped. "That part. Why."

They stared at him.

Sunglasses Indoors tilted his head. "Because there’s a lot of us."

Hook nodded, like this was the most obvious thing in the world. "And this way saves water."

There was a beat.

"… Duh."

Juno deadpanned.

"You’re telling me," He said slowly, carefully, "That this is- this is normal."

"Yeah."

"That everyone just... Bathes. Together."

"Yeah."

"And no one thought to, I don’t know, make it not like this."

Hook snorted. "Kid, this ship has over a thousand people on it."

Sunglasses Indoors shrugged. "You wanna take turns?"

Juno opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

Say something normal, his brain urged. Say something that doesn’t make you sound like a sheltered disaster.

"… I feel like," Juno said weakly, "This is information I should have been emotionally prepared for."

Hook clapped him on the back. "You’ll get used to it!"

That was not reassuring.

Juno stared at the steam, the noise, the complete lack of personal space.

Okay, he thought desperately. Okay. You can do this. It’s just bathing. With pirates. Who could kill you. Casually. While... Naked.

Fantastic.

Hook tugged at the collar of Juno’s jacket. "C’mon, Rookie. Can’t wear that thing in the water."

I am going to pass away, he thought. Right here. For water conservation.

They veered off before Juno could fully work himself into a meltdown.

Instead of steering him deeper into the steamy chaos, Hook took a sharp turn down a quieter corridor tucked along the side of the baths. The noise dulled. The air cooled just a little. Wooden doors lined the wall— simple, narrow, blessedly closed.

Juno slowed. Then stopped.

"…These," he said, staring, "are private stalls?"

Hook nodded, easy. Sunglasses Indoors reached out and slid one door open with a practiced flick.

Inside? A single bathing space. Complete with a bench, bucket and curtain. But more importantly , privacy.

Juno felt something snap.

"You..." He turned slowly to face them, eyes narrowed. "You had these the entire time?"

Hook handed him a folded towel, expression far too smug for someone who had just ruined his emotional stability. "Yep."

"You dragged me past the public baths," Juno huffed, voice rising, "Let me think I was about to be traumatized for the sake of water conservation, and you could’ve just- just brought me here?"

Sunglasses Indoors grinned as he passed over a sack. "Wouldn’t have been as funny."

Juno stared at them, clutching the items like it was the only thing tethering him to reality. "I hate you both."

"Nah," Hook said cheerfully. "You’re just dirty and cranky."

"We’ll be over there," Sunglasses Indoors added, jerking a thumb back toward the louder side of the baths. "If you change your mind!"

Hook paused at the corner, glancing back. "You’re free to join us anytime, Rookie."

Then they were gone, laughter echoing faintly down the corridor.

Juno stood there for a long moment.

Private stall. Closed door. Towel and sack in hand.

"Unbelievable," he muttered and reached for the latch.

Juno looked down at the sack in his arms. The towel Hook had given him was hung near the shower, but what was this for?

Curiosity won. He loosened the tie and peeked inside.

Inside were clean clothes. Simple, loose, unmistakably not soaked in sweat, salt, and galley grease. There was soap, folded towels, something that smelled faintly herbal, and a small cloth bundle tied neatly shut. Bathing essentials. Thoughtful ones.

The tension in his shoulders collapsed all at once, relief hitting him so hard it nearly hurt. He hugged the sack closer, exhaling shakily.

"Oh, thank God," he whispered, clutching the fabric like it might vanish. He hadn't even thought about that he needed these items, too busy with everything else that happened the past two days.

The water washed the day off him.

Heat soaked into his muscles, uncoiling tension he’d been carrying since- since everything. He scrubbed until the smell of the sea faded, until his hands stopped shaking, until the noise in his head dulled to something manageable.

By the time he shut the water off and toweled himself dry, he felt lighter.

That was when he noticed the mirror.

It was small, attached to the inside of the stall door, its surface slightly fogged from steam. Juno wiped it clear with his palm without thinking.

Then froze.

The person staring back at him blinked.

He wasn't wrong, not exactly. But he wasn't right, either.

His hair wasn’t black. No, it had changed.

It was rust-brown, warm and uneven, curling slightly where it dried against his forehead. He leaned closer, frowning. Freckles dotted his face, across his nose, his cheeks, faint constellations he’d never had before.

He looked down at himself.

He was taller. Lankier. Where he’d once been short and thin, all angles and softness, this body was lean in a way that suggested work, movement, a life lived physically. Freckles trailed down his shoulders, his arms, scattered across skin that felt… unfamiliar.

Real.

Too real.

His breath hitched as his eyes dropped lower.

There. On his torso.

A scar.

Old. Cleanly healed. A stab wound, right where he’d been hit before everything went dark. Before the world broke open and rearranged itself around him.

Juno pressed his fingers lightly to it.

It was solid. Warm. His.

“I…” His voice came out thin. I don’t look like me

The thought spiraled before he could stop it.

This isn’t my body.

So whose was it?

His stomach twisted.

Had he swapped places with someone? Was there another person waking up somewhere else, confused and terrified in a body that wasn’t theirs? Or worse—

Did that person die?

Did this body belong to someone who had lived here, laughed here, existed before Juno dropped into it like an unwanted guest?

"I stole someone’s body," he whispered, staring at his reflection like it might answer back. "Didn’t I?"

His thoughts tangled, frantic and circular.

If the original owner was gone... Where did they go? Were they erased? Pushed aside? Did Juno overwrite them?

And if they weren’t gone...

Where were they now?

His chest tightened. The mirror showed a boy who looked calm, clean, alive.

Juno felt anything but.

"I didn’t mean to," he said softly, to no one. "I didn’t choose this."

The reflection didn’t argue. The steam covered it up again.

He wrapped the towel tighter around himself, suddenly cold despite the steam, and looked away from the mirror.

Whatever this body was, whoever it had been, it was his now.

And that thought scared him more than anything else.

Juno dressed on autopilot.

Shirt first. He slipped it over his head and paused, fingers caught in the fabric as it settled against his shoulders. It fit too easily. Not snug, not loose, but right. That alone made his chest tighten. He adjusted the collar, tugged at the hem, waiting for the familiar irritation of sleeves that never quite sat where they should.

It never came.

He swallowed.

Trousers next. He stepped into them, bracing a hand against the wall for balance. The movement came naturally. No wobble. No awkward recalibration. His body knew where its center was, how to shift with the subtle sway of the ship beneath his feet.

Whose instincts are these, he wondered, pulling the shirt straight. Mine, or his?

He tied the belt, fingers moving with practiced efficiency, and stared down at his hands like they might betray him. They were freckled too, he noticed belatedly. Long-fingered. Stronger than he remembered. These weren’t the hands that used to fumble with zippers and drop coins and cramp after writing too long.

Had they always been like this?

Or had he simply inherited them?

The thought slid sideways and kept going.

How did isekai even work?

Had he been chosen? Summoned? Punished? Was there some cosmic paperwork he’d missed, some checkbox he’d accidentally ticked that said yes, please relocate me and overwrite a stranger?

What if this body had lived a whole life before him?

What if he hadn’t fallen overboard because this body already knew how to keep its footing? What if he hadn’t collapsed from exhaustion because these lungs were stronger, this heart steadier? What if the way he’d reacted, ducking, flinching, moving, had nothing to do with his own instincts?

What if he’d been coasting on someone else’s muscle memory the entire time?

His chest tightened.

Then what had the last two days even been?

The thought made his stomach churn.

"How did I not notice," he muttered. "How did I not notice for two days?"

Two days of being overwhelmed, terrified, distracted by pirates and captains and survival. Two days where he’d chalked everything up to adrenaline and shock and well, of course things feel weird, I’m in another world.

Convenient excuses. All of them.

A sharp, bitter laugh slipped out.

"So I’m not even doing this," he whispered. "I’m just… wearing it."

The idea hollowed him out.

He leaned back against the wall, cool wood pressing into his spine, and squeezed his eyes shut. Two days. Two days of not noticing. Of being too busy panicking about pirates and captains and not dying to question the most important thing.

You didn’t notice because you didn’t want to, a quiet voice in his head said.

He dragged a hand through his damp hair.

"Shut up," he muttered, but it didn’t help.

His thoughts scrambled, desperate for something solid to latch onto.

Okay. Okay. Think. What would—

His roommate appeared in his mind with vivid clarity, sprawled across their shared space, surrounded by anime posters and half-finished model kits. He could practically hear the excited rambling.

Dude, They would say, their eyes shining, Do you have any idea how awesome this is? Reincarnation or body swap, doesn’t matter, you're living the dream!

Juno huffed, rubbing at his face.

"You’d be way too excited about this," he said quietly.

His roommate would be pacing by now, listing tropes like they were bullet points in a presentation. Okay, first question, did the original owner die, or did you swap? If there’s a scar from the transfer point, that suggests continuity. That means you didn’t overwrite—

"Quit it," Juno whispered, but the imagined lecture kept going.

Second, if the body responds to you, then congrats, it’s yours! Ethical nightmare, sureee, but you didn’t cause it. At least you've got a body now!

Juno’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

"What if I did cause it," he argued with the empty room. "What if I’m the reason they’re gone?"

His roommate would shrug, annoyingly calm. Then the best thing you can do is live well in it. Panicking doesn’t bring anyone back.

Juno exhaled shakily.

He hated that it made sense.

He hated that this was how he was coping— filtering an existential crisis through someone else’s hypothetical anime logic because it was easier than sitting with the raw fear of it.

"Okay," he murmured, echoing the advice he could almost hear. "I can do this."

He straightened slowly, smoothing down his clothes one last time. The person in the mirror —freckled, rust-haired, unfamiliar —looked steadier than he felt.

Chapter Text

The knock came before Juno could spiral himself into nonexistence.

It wasn’t a polite knock, either. It was the sharp rap of knuckles against wood, followed immediately by,

"Oi, Rookie!" Hook’s voice echoed through the stall door. "You drown in there or you just getting squeaky clean?"

"But if you are drowning," Sunglasses Indoors added helpfully from somewhere nearby, "Can I have your soap?"

Juno flinched so hard his head hit the door.

Right, he thought wildly. People. Reality.

"I’m alive!" he called back, "I was just, uh, bathing thoroughly!"

There was a pause.

"... Thorough?" Sunglasses Indoors tilted his head.

Hook snorted. "Told you he was fancy."

Juno yanked the door open just enough to peer out, clutching his shirt to steady himself. Steam poured out around him, dramatic and unhelpful.

"I’m not fancy," he said. "I just like making sure I’m really clean."

Hook leaned against the wall, arms crossed, completely unbothered by the steam or Juno’s barely-contained existential crisis. Sunglasses Indoors squinted at him through his shades.

"You look like you fought the water and lost," Sunglasses Indoors observed.

"I had a moment," Juno snapped.

Hook grinned. "Yeah, we heard. You went real quiet."

"That’s because I was relaxing," Juno lied. "Like a normal person. In the shower."

Sunglasses Indoors hummed. "Uh-huh. That explains the haunted look."

Juno straightened, forcing his face into something resembling neutral. Act normal, he told himself desperately. You are fine. You are just a guy. On a pirate ship. Having a totally normal day.

He stepped out fully, sack slung over one shoulder.

Hook gave an approving nod. "Look at that. Our Rookie emerges reborn!"

"Don’t say that," Juno said too quickly.

Sunglasses Indoors tilted his head. "Say what?"

"Nothing," Juno replied immediately. "Just— don’t."

They exchanged a look.

"… He’s still weird," Hook concluded.

"I’m not being weird," Juno huffed, and he realized something. "You’re the weird ones. Did you time your baths to end with mine?"

The two pirates looked at each other before back at Juno.

Hook clapped him on the shoulder, steering him gently toward the exit. "Not answering that. Now c’mon! You took long enough that I’m starting to wrinkle."

"I didn’t take that long."

"You absolutely did," Sunglasses Indoors teased. "I aged a year."

Juno rolled his eyes and let them herd him out, laughing when they bickered over how they definitely didn't time their bath and whose turn it was to scrub the bath benches. On the surface, it felt almost normal, the banter, noise, movement.

Underneath, his thoughts were still buzzing.

He made his escape the first chance he got, ducking away with a quick "I’m tired!" that was only eighty percent a lie.

The corridor outside the baths was cooler, quieter, mercifully empty enough that Juno could finally breathe.

He adjusted the strap of the sack on his shoulder and started walking, determined to make it back to his room without thinking too hard about earlier.

"Juno."

He flinched, surprised. Who?—

Izo leaned against one of the support beams, arms folded loosely, posture relaxed in the way of someone who had never once in his life been rushed by an existential crisis. He looked Juno over slowly, eyes sharp but not unkind.

Ah. It makes sense. Of course Izo would know his name right after he told Marco.

"Well," Izo said, lips curling. "You look like you survived."

Juno laughed automatically. "Barely. The water was hostile."

"I can tell." Izo’s gaze lingered, thoughtful. "But you clean up nice. I didn’t realize you had freckles."

The words hit like a dropped plate.

Juno’s brain blanked.

Izo’s gaze flicked to his face, amused. "They suit you."

His smile stuttered.

"Oh, yeah. Uh. Soap," he said, waving a hand vaguely at his face. "Really brings them out."

Izo hummed, clearly unconvinced. He pushed off the beam and circled Juno half a step, like he was inspecting a painting that had subtly changed when no one was looking.

"Funny," Izo mused. "You didn’t look like this earlier."

Juno’s stomach dropped.

"I— I was dirty earlier," he replied quickly. "That’s what bathing does. Removes dirt. Reveals… my freckles. It's normal."

Izo smiled, amused rather than accusatory. "You’re flustered."

"I am not!"

"You’re absolutely flustered."

Juno’s ears burned. "I just don’t like being perceived."

Izo laughed quietly at that. "Fair enough. But you’re shaking."

Juno glanced down, horrified to realize it was true. He clenched his hands, trying to still them. "I’m tired," he said. "Long day."

"Mm." Izo tilted his head. "You’ve been having a lot of those."

Juno swallowed.

Izo stepped closer, not crowding him, but close enough that Juno felt seen. His voice softened just a touch.

"You know," Izo hummed lightly, "Most people relax after a bath. You look like you ran from something."

Juno forced another laugh. "Maybe I did."

"From what?"

"Pirates," Juno replied weakly. "Very scary. Would not recommend."

Izo snorted. "You’re on a ship full of them."

"... These ones were naked."

For a moment, Izo just studied him. Not pressing. Not letting go, either.

"You don’t have to explain," Izo said finally, tone casual. "Just thought I’d check. You’re acting… different."

There it was again.

Different.

Juno’s chest tightened. He shifted his weight, suddenly very aware of his freckles, his hair, his body—

"I’m fine," he said, too quickly. "Just getting used to things."

Izo’s eyes softened, just a fraction. "Getting used to the crew, or the ship?"

Juno’s mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

Izo chuckled, stepping back before the silence could stretch too far. "Careful, Rookie. You keep looking like that, people will think you’re hiding something."

Juno laughed, breathless. "That would be ridiculous."

"Of course," Izo agreed easily. "Sleep well."

Juno nodded and escaped down the corridor before his face could give him away completely. "Night, Izo."

Behind him, Izo watched him go, expression thoughtful.

As he walked away, the laughter faded, leaving only the echo of that casual observation behind.

They’re seeing this as me, he thought, heart thudding.

Why can't I?

Juno had hung the jacket on the doorknob the night before, smoothing it out with more care than he meant to. In the morning, it waited for him where he’d left it, the white letters bold against the dark fabric, the Jolly Roger staring back like an accusation.

He reached for it, then stopped.

The jacket felt heavier than it had any right to be, not because of what it marked him as, but because he could not shake the thought that it belonged to someone else first.

After a moment, he turned away and left it hanging there.

The kitchen was already loud when he arrived.

Thatch had claimed the center like always, sleeves rolled up, knives flashing, voice cutting through the din with practiced ease.

"Morning, Rookie," Thatch called without looking. "Congratulations! You are promoted."

Juno eyed the cutting board warily. "To what..?"

"Onions," Thatch said, sliding a knife toward him. "Try not to lose a finger. I need those."

"Thought I was gonna be an ingredient," Juno muttered.

"Nah," Thatch grinned and squinted at Juno, "If you cry, I will laugh."

Juno did, in fact, nearly cry. Not from the onions. From the speed.

He worked beside Thatch, chopping, stirring, tasting when permitted. The pace was relentless. His wrist began to ache. His shoulders burned from stirring. Sweat trickled down his spine.

His body responded without hesitation.

It adjusted its grip. It leaned into the work. It tired in a way that felt earned rather than alarming.

"That angle’s fighting you," Thatch said, stepping in to guide his hand. "Relax. Let the knife do the work."

Juno obeyed. The blade moved smoother. Easier.

"Nice," Thatch said. "You listen well."

The door banged open mid-chop.

"Oi!" a voice called from outside. "We’re out of food in the galley!"

Thatch did not even look up. "We are always out of food in the galley."

"Yeah, well, they’re getting restless about it!"

Thatch slapped a heavy hand on Juno's shoulder. He squawked and looked up. "Hi?"

"Hello," The chef grinned, already scooping food into a large tray. "Congratulations again! You’ve been promoted!"

"Again? To what?" Juno asked warily.

"Food delivery," Was the answer, along with the tray shoved into his arms. It was heavier than expected, heat soaking through the metal. "Take this out before they riot. Or eat it. I’m not picky, just don’t let them steal my pots."

The pirate by the door laughed. "Good luck, Rookie."

Juno stared down at the tray, then back at Thatch. "Do I get hazard pay?"

"You get experience," Thatch replied brightly. "And if you trip, try not to die with my food!"

Juno sighed and adjusted his grip. The weight pulled at his arms. His muscles complained immediately.

Still, he held it.

As he stepped out toward the deck, heat and noise washing over him, Juno focused on the simple facts. The tray was real. The weight was real. His arms burned because they were holding something heavy, not because he was borrowing the sensation from someone else.

He squared his shoulders and kept walking.

Later, when the worst of the rush passed, Thatch jerked his chin toward a side door. "Come on."

Juno followed him into a smaller adjoining kitchen. Quieter. Cleaner. No shouting. No crowd.

"My test kitchen," Thatch said proudly. "So no one sees me mess up."

"You," Juno blinked. "Mess up?"

"Oh, constantly," Thatch replied. "Just better at hiding it."

They worked together in companionable silence for a while. Thatch explained heat, timing, the way certain flavors should sit back instead of shouting. Juno copied him, adjusting instinctively.

Thatch paused.

"... Huh."

Juno looked up. "What?"

Thatch leaned closer, watching Juno stir. "You cook like me."

Juno froze. "Uh, no."

"You do," Thatch said easily. "It even tastes the same, y'know?"

Juno’s throat tightened. "I just… Watch you."

Thatch hummed, unconvinced. "Maybe. Or maybe you learned somewhere else."

He studied Juno’s face, the easy grin softening into something more careful.

"You alright, kid?"

Juno laughed. It came out wrong. "I’m fine."

"Mm," Thatch said. "You’ve been a little off."

Juno stirred harder than necessary. "I dropped into a pirate ship full of lunatics. Feels reasonable."

Thatch smiled, but he did not laugh. "Still. If something’s weighing on you, you don’t have to carry it alone."

The words landed heavier than expected.

Juno focused on the pot. On the steam. On the simple fact that his arm ached.

"I’m just tired,” he said finally.

Thatch clapped him on the shoulder. "It'll work out."

They returned to the main galley soon after. The noise rushed back in, drowning the moment before it could deepen.

Later, Haruta dragged him into Communications.

"Keep up!" Haruta chirped.

Juno did not keep up.

He tripped. Slipped. Missed steps. But he stayed on his feet longer than before. His lungs burned. His legs trembled. When he finally collapsed onto the deck, Haruta beamed.

"Failing successfully," Haruta declared. "You’re improving."

Juno stared up at the sky, chest heaving. "That sounds fake."

"To you," Haruta grinned.

Everything hurt.

And that was the problem.

The pain was real. Specific. His muscles protested. His hands shook with exhaustion.

If I can feel this, Juno thought, does that make this mine?

The question followed him everywhere.

In Izo’s department, he was handed a stack of files.

"Sort these," Izo said calmly.

Juno nodded with confidence he did not possess. He recognized just enough words to fake it. Patterns helped. So did luck.

Izo watched him work. Said nothing. Juno suspected he knew anyway.

The files ended up correct.

Juno did not ask how.

Later, the nurses set him to cleaning instruments and folding bandages. Marco was away tending to Whitebeard. The room smelled sharp and clean.

"Careful," Tate, the head nurse, warned gently when he nearly dropped a scalpel.

Juno adjusted his grip. His fingers remembered. Or learned quickly.

By evening, his body ached everywhere.

At dinner, Thatch clapped him on the back. "Not bad for someone who dropped into our lives out of nowhere."

Juno laughed. Too quick. "Yeah."

Thatch grinned. "Funny how that happens. One day someone’s not here, next day they are."

Something in Juno twisted.

He opened his mouth. Tell him, he thought, Tell him everything.

"That's life," Juno said instead.

"Or bad planning," Thatch replied.

The moment passed.

Later, alone in his room, Juno regretted it.

He sat on the edge of his bed, hands clasped, replaying the conversation. How close it had come. How easily he had dodged it.

You could have said something, he thought. Anything.

But the words still felt too big. Too dangerous.

He leaned back and stared at the jacket. At the Jolly Roger.

He thought of his roommate. How they would tilt their head, grin like they were about to say something deeply unhelpful and annoyingly correct.

Write what you can’t say, then.

Or, more likely, Do what the average isekai protagonist does and write down what you remember!

Juno huffed out a quiet, humorless laugh.

"Yeah," he murmured. "Sure. That."

He picked up the notepad Izo had given him again. The cover was a little scuffed, the pages not quite white. Real. Solid. Safer than his thoughts.

He did not write I’m terrified.

He did not write this body isn’t mine or what if I never go back?

The page stared back at him, blank and patient, like it had all the time in the world.

Juno did not.

He sat there with the notebook braced against his knee, pen hovering uselessly above the paper. For a few seconds he just breathed, listening to the low, constant sounds of the ship. The wood creaking, distant voices, the ocean pressing itself against the hull as if curious.

"Okay," he muttered, mostly to convince himself.

He started writing.

The first line slanted downward like it was trying to escape the page.

One Piece.

He stared at the words, then added beneath it, smaller, cramped into the margin like an afterthought.

Long. Very long. 1000+ episodes? Chapters??

A question mark, doubled, then circled.

He tapped the pen against the paper, rhythm uneven, eyes unfocusing as he reached back for things that had never felt important until now. Half-remembered rants. Tangents delivered with evangelical fervor while Juno had been half-listening, half-dozing, scrolling through his phone and nodding at the right intervals.

He could almost hear his roommate’s voice again— excited, breathless, words stacking on top of each other faster than they could be caught.

"Haki," Juno murmured, writing it down carefully, as if spelling it wrong might doom him.

He underlined it once. Then twice.

Something about willpower. Not magic. Definitely not magic, his roommate had insisted, except it absolutely functioned like magic. Everyone had it, apparently, but not everyone could use it. Or awaken it. Or train it. Or whatever the distinction was.

He frowned and started a bulleted list, the handwriting growing tighter.

– Observation: sensing intent? Feeling danger? Seeing attacks before they happen?? (future sight?? unfair???)

That one came with a faint, remembered indignation. His roommate had complained about it at length, pacing the room, declaring certain characters walking plot armor because of it.

– Armament: hardening. Defense + offense. Hitting things you shouldn’t be able to hit.

Juno paused there, pen tip pressing a little too hard into the page.

He added, quieter, almost reluctantly:

Important. Probably?

– Supreme King: rare. Absurd. Kings?? Pressure?? Knocking people out by sheer will.

He stared at that line for a long moment.

"…Great," he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. "No pressure."

At the back of that page, he wrote down what he knew about Devil Fruits.

– Logia: elements. fire, light, etc. hard to hit, needs armament.

His brow furrowed. He really hoped he was spelling everything right.

– Paramecia/Paramesia?: random things?? rubber, spring, a jacket??? souls?

– Zoan Soan? Zosan?: animals, normal ones to mythical (Marco's one)

Juno really hoped he had the spelling right. With a sigh, he flipped to another page, the paper whispering softly, and wrote a new heading.

Order of events???

This part immediately went bad.

He knew there was a Pirate King. He knew there was a treasure. A big one. Possibly metaphorical. Possibly not. Fans argued about that too, if he remembered correctly. He knew the story took a very long time to get anywhere, and that “it gets good after [number] episodes” was both a joke and completely sincere.

He drew a messy arrow.

Pirate King → Luffy wants this → everything explodes

Then he stopped and added another note.

(Not sure where now is.)

He chewed on the pen cap before writing the next thing that surfaced.

Agenda Piece.

He snorted quietly, then hesitated.

Agenda Piece was a meme. His roommate would say it with mock gravity, insisting the story was not about plot or themes but about pushing agendas. Which characters were frauds. Which ones were secretly the strongest. Which arc proved everything and nothing at the same time.

Juno added, smaller: (Probably not helpful. Still writing it).

Akainu. Dragon. Desk Haki??

Black paint?? Upscaling?? Potential man??

He rubbed his face with both hands.

"So helpful," he told the notebook flatly.

Still, he kept going. Any little thing helped.

Whitebeard.

The pen slowed.

Important. That word felt inadequate, but it was all he had. His roommate had gone quiet once when talking about him, uncharacteristically sincere, and said something about family. About a man who took in strays and made them sons. About loyalty that did not have to be earned because it was given freely.

Juno swallowed and underlined the name. Once. Then again, harder.

Family. Crew as sons. Big deal. Very strong. Dies? (I think?)

The question mark looked accusatory.

Marineford.

He remembered that one because his roommate had called it "depressing" and then, immediately after, started rewatching clips. It was a big war. A turning point. There was shouting and crying. People running towards a tragedy they could not stop.

Deaths that mattered.

Juno’s hand stilled.

He did not add anything else to that line. But he circled it twice to add emphasis. He'll go back to that later.

The silence stretched. The ship creaked. Somewhere above him, someone laughed.

"Okay," Juno said softly, breaking it before it broke him. "What else do I remember?"

He flipped back through the pages, taking stock of what he had done. The notebook was a mess. Half facts. Half vibes. Arrows pointing nowhere. Names underlined like talismans. Question marks multiplying unchecked.

It was not a plan.

But it was something. A thin, shaky thread connecting him to a future that already existed without him.

The ship shifted beneath him, steady and indifferent. Outside, the sea stretched on, vast and uncaring about timelines or spoilers or whether Juno had done his homework before getting dropped into someone else’s epic.

He flipped to another page.

"Characters", he wrote at the top, then hesitated and added, People?? beside it, slanted and uncertain.

He took a breath and started with the easiest one. The one even he could not forget.

Luffy.

He underlined it, then stared at the name like it might explain itself.

Rubber, he wrote. A god??, he added.

Body stretches. Immune to blunt damage?

Very stupid. Very determined.

He paused, frowning, then added:

Future Pirate King.

Eats a lot. A LOT.

Punches solve most problems.

That felt accurate.

Next came a name that sat heavier in his chest.

Whitebeard.

He wrote it carefully this time. Slower.

Old. Huge. Father vibes.

Controls… earthquakes? Shockwaves?

He remembered a hand slamming down, the world cracking in response. Or maybe that was just how his roommate had described it, voice low, reverent.

Strong enough to fight the world, he added. Loved his crew.

The pen hovered, then moved on before he could linger.

Ace.

He hesitated, then underlined the name twice without thinking.

Fire, he wrote. Literally fire. Smiles a lot. Had self-esteem issues?? And narcolepsy??? Has another brother? Blonde and scarred??

He huffed at the last bit. He can't remember his name, but it seemed important to add. Probably. "I should've listened more," he sighed.

Related to Luffy. Dies? (Marineford)

He closed his eyes for a second, then forced himself to keep going. He can only properly recall who his roommate's favourites were clearly, where it was genuine or just slander.

Mihawk.

That one came with a faint sense of dread.

Swords. The best swordsman?? Lives alone. Broody.

Juno squinted at his own handwriting.

Eye thing. Hawk eyes? Cuts ships in half like it’s normal.

He drew a small, aggressive underline beneath that last point.

Shanks.

This name felt… strange. Important, but slippery.

Red hair. Missing an arm. Very strong despite that.

He tapped the pen.

Uses Haki a lot? Stops wars by showing up????

That sounded fake. Unfortunately, he was pretty sure it was not.

Buggy.

He snorted as he wrote this one.

Clown. Falling upward constantly. Becomes an emperor???

Then, grudgingly:

Body splits apart. Can’t be cut. Marin's favourite.

Juno stared at the list. Six names. Six wildly different levels of threat. Gods, idiots, monsters, and whatever Buggy was.

"This is insane," he murmured.

He flipped back a page, then another, eyes scanning his earlier notes. Timelines. Powers. Vibes. Trying to remember if he forgot anything else. And then, abruptly, something clicked.

Posters.

Bounty posters.

They were everywhere. Tacked to walls. Pinned near bars. Passed around like gossip. He had seen them— faces and names with numbers so large they barely felt real.

He had a whole bit going on that he was collecting them!

He could've learned more if he wasn't so focused on names, like who mattered, WHO was dangerous, who to avoid. It was a visual guide to the world, updating itself as chaos unfolded.

Juno sat up straighter, heart thumping.

"That’s actually—"

He turned his head to his corkboard. He stopped.

The thought collapsed in on itself, imploding with humiliating efficiency.

He stared at the posters. At the words written below the names. At the words he could barely make sense of unless he already knew what they meant.

"…I can’t read," he said flatly.

The realization landed like a lead weight. All these posters. All this information. Completely useless beyond the pictures and the vague vibes of this person looks like a problem.

Juno let himself fall back onto the mattress, notebook sliding onto his chest.

"Of course," he muttered to the ceiling. "Of course that would’ve been too easy."

The ship creaked on, uncaring. He had the answers plastered on his wall, written in a language he could not decipher.

Juno closed the notebook again, fingers tightening around it.

"Guess I’m learning the hard way," he sighed.

The sea rocked the ship gently, as if in agreement.

How embarrassing can it be to ask to be taught to read?

"At my grown age," Juno groaned.

He lay there for a while, staring at nothing in particular.

The notebook rested on his chest, warm from his body heat, rising and falling with each breath. The ship’s motion had settled into something steady, no sharp lurches, no surprises. Just the quiet, repetitive reassurance that it was still moving, still holding together.

His thoughts, for once, did not immediately spiral.

That alone felt strange.

He listened. Wood shifting. Water rushing past the hull. A distant shout from somewhere above deck, followed by laughter. Ordinary sounds. Repetitive sounds. Proof that the world was continuing without requiring anything from him at this exact second.

Juno inhaled slowly.

Then again.

He realized, dimly, that his shoulders did not feel locked up around his ears anymore. That the tight band around his ribs had loosened enough for his lungs to actually do their job. The panic (sharp, electric, constantly buzzing under his skin) had dulled into something quieter. Still there. Still watchful. But no longer screaming.

Huh.

He lifted the notebook and cracked it open again, not to add anything, just to look. Messy pages. Crooked headings. Names he barely understood and notes that were more vibes than facts.

He lifted the notebook and cracked it open again, not to add anything, just to look. Messy pages. Crooked headings. Names he barely understood, notes that were more vibes than facts, arrows pointing at things he did not fully grasp yet.

Information.

That was what it was. Incomplete, secondhand, unreliable, but still more than nothing.

His gaze slid over the names again, over the powers, the wars, the underlined important scribbles. Patterns began to emerge where there had only been noise before. Certain people drew attention. Certain events swallowed anyone nearby. Some places, some moments, were disasters waiting to happen.

And others… were not.

The realization came belatedly, settling into his chest with a quiet, practical weight.

He did not need to change anything.

He just needed to avoid it.

Avoid the battles. Avoid the turning points. Avoid the names that dragged fate behind them like a wake. If he knew where the story flared brightest, then he also knew where the shadows were.

Where someone small and forgettable could slip through.

Juno swallowed, pulse steadying.

"I can work with this," he murmured.

Not heroics. Not messing with destiny. Just survival. Staying out of the way. Keeping his head down. Let the legends clash while he stayed off the page entirely.

He traced a finger along the edge of the paper, grounding himself in the texture, the slight tooth of it, the indentations where he had pressed too hard. Tangible. Real. A plan, however flimsy, taking shape.

Not answers. Not certainty.

Just enough foresight to stay unnoticed.

The notebook closed with a soft sound, final without being heavy.