Chapter Text
It is a soft and quiet early-morning on the Moby Dick as the Whitebeard Fourth Division Commander, Thatch, slowly transitions from sleep to the waking world. There are very few times that the enormous pirate ship is this quiet. It is usually only in the morning twilight hours, after any insomniac night owls have finally gone to bed and before the usual early birds have gotten up. However, after many years of being the ship’s commanding chef, Thatch naturally wakes at this time in order to get his division ready to feed the veritable hoard of hungry Whitebeard pirates that descend into the mess hall three times a day.
With a long full bodied stretch, Thatch starts to feel the blood pump through his body, waking him up further. A deep breath in and the red-headed chef makes his way out of bed. It is only a few steps to his bathroom, where he splashes his face with cool water. There are quite a few perks with being a division commander: larger room, personal bathroom, extra ‘allowance’ for shore time, etc. Bright silver eyes gaze into the mirror above his sink. Thatch takes in his wavy locks of red hair that travel passed his shoulders, the thin scar that wraps threateningly close around his eye, his neatly trimmed beard and finally he stops at the slight opening at the top of his sleep shirt.
Thatch reaches up a hand and gently pulls the thin fabric lower to reveal the skin of his chest. There, beneath his collar bone, just above his heart, in crooked blocky letters and a deep green ink the words ‘Sorry to disappoint’ stare back at him. Soul Marks are a very rare thing. Even in the New World of the Grand Line, less than five percent of the population have a Soul Mark. The mark, that one is born with, means that somewhere in the world there is a person out there made especially for you, a soul mate. There are a few types of Soul Marks. Most are pictures that either match, or go perfectly together, such as a stylized heart or a sun and moon. Very few are words and the rarest are complete names. The words are supposed to be the first thing your soul mate says to you.
Through the years since Thatch found out what the words on his chest meant, he has longed to hear them spoken. There have been a few close calls: ‘So Sorry to disappoint, sir’, ‘Sorry to disappoint you’, ‘ Sorry for being so disappointing’. All so close that he could pretend he heard wrong and they did speak the words engraved upon his chest. After spending some time with the speakers, however, Thatch had been one hundred percent glad their words were off. For his part, the Whitebeard chef tries to greet every new person with something nice. The words on his chest already sound lonely and sad, he wants to leave something positive on the one meant for him. Thatch likes to think himself an overall decent man and he knows how hurtful words can be. Especially if they have to be stained on a person’s skin for the entirety of their lives.
With a heavy sigh the red-head begins the daunting task of styling his hair into his traditional pompadour and getting ready for the day. Decked out in his usual chef whites and scarf artfully tied, Thatch exits his room and walks down the Fourth Division corridor, knocking on each door as he passes. He smiles as he hears the displeased grumbles of his breakfast team subordinates as they all wake with the sound. The red-head pauses at the end of the hallway for a few moments. His patience is rewarded with the startled yells and yips of full-grown battled hardened pirates as they cry out in surprise at their commander’s latest prank. Thatch knew that getting the glow in the dark paint was a good idea.
With a skip in his step the Fourth Division commander began working up the menu for the day.
Everything was going as usual until the lull between lunch and dinner. Boso, a member of the Soup Staff, walks nervously toward his commander. A letter sits clenched between his hands. Thatch is no stranger to the occasional brother or sister coming in for a small snack or to just to talk about anything from casual, like the weather, to serious ,like painful pasts. The division commander wipes his hands and station down while subtly checking over his subordinate. The slightly younger man is fit, yet hefty like most heavy weapon specialists, but his shoulders are currently slumped and make him appear smaller than his usual nearly two meters of height. Additionally, Thatch notices Boso’s dark blue hair isn’t in its short tight curls and there is a redness around his eyes.
The head chef puts his rag down and turns toward his subordinate to show the other has his complete attention. His usual small smile is present to show he is not bothered at all. Boso stands in front of his commander, eyes staring down at the table and hands continuing to wring the letter between them. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, but words for the most part fail him. With a slight hitch in his breath, Boso finally manages to begin, “I… I got a letter today.” Silence. Thatch doesn’t make any move or sound to indicate the clearly upset man should hurry in any way. “It-it was from Old Man Reggie… from, well, from my home island.” Boso’s eyes finally look up and Thatch can see the tears building up inside them. “He says my Ma’s…” Another stuttered breath, “My Ma’s gone… she’s dead.” A single tear falls and the final word is little more than an exhale.
Thatch purses his lips and maneuvers around the table to embrace his brother in a solid hug. Boso lets his tears fall and begins to describe his rocky relationship with his mother. How she raised him all by herself after his birth father left while she was pregnant. How he rebelled against becoming a tailor like her and wanted to taste the bounty that the world’s oceans provided. He talked about the terrible fight they had just before he left and how he wanted to make a soup with all of the flavors he has experienced since joining the crew to show her that he was able to accomplish so much. He cried as he lamented that now he will not be able to show to her that he has grown into a fine man.
The two stand together in silence once Boso’s tears run out. The curly blue-haired man takes in a last shuddering breath and steps back from the embrace. Thatch has made it his policy to never end a hug first. The Fourth Division commander waits a few moments for the other to gather himself together. After a minute, Thatch gently asks a question that has been pinging in the back of his head. “Not that I am not happy you feel like you can come to me for emotional support; I just would have thought that you would feel more comfortable with the others on the Soup Staff. Or is it that you wanted to schedule some grief time? ”
Boso lifts his gaze to meet his commanders and then drops it to the floor again. He opens and closes his mouth a few times trying to get the words out in a repeat of him starting the conversation. Exactly like the previous time, it takes a hitching breath for the man to begin. “You see… My home island has a bit of a tradition.” Boso’s eyes glance up again and return to the floor. “It is considered the duty of the child to carry their parent to the burial mountain after they… after they pass to honor the time that they carried and supported you as a child.” He chokes on a sob, but sucks in a breath and bravely continues on. “As much as we disagreed before I left, I still would like to respect her efforts in raising me.” Gleaming wet eyes stare hard into Thatch’s silvery orbs and Boso speaks with more strength than he has since the beginning of the conversation. “As such, I would like to request a short leave to return to my home island and participate in my island's Funeral March for my Ma.”
Thatch flashes a sympathetic smile. It is not too often that a Whitebeard crew member has a positive familial relation outside of the crew. Most join in order to obtain a Family or fill the void of loneliness. Thatch does not begrudge those that still have loved ones out there. “That is perfectly fine with me. But you know…” Boso perks up at the acceptance, but looks nervous at Thatch’s trailed off sentence. “It sounds like it's going to be a pretty emotional time for you. I’ll talk with Marco and Oyaji about taking one of the smaller vessels to Rosales Island; that’s your home island, right.” Thatch flashes a conspiratorial wink. “I think I can convince them that we need some of the wonderful fruits found there for our stores.” Boso looks at his commander’s kind smile with awe. “We are all family here and this is something that you don’t have to do alone.”
Boso sniffles a little and takes in a shuddery breath, but he is smiling. “Thanks, commander.” The two talk a little about lighter things until it is time to begin dinner preparation. It all goes smoothly as usual, the Fourth Division is well practiced in working together to feed the hungry hordes of Whitebeard pirates. Thatch makes sure to keep an extra eye on the soup stations. It seems as though a few others of the Soup Staff have learned of Boso’s situation and are gently teasing the other in an effort to keep his spirits up. The head chef smiles fondly at the bond that has grown within his division.
Thatch is just finishing up another cheesy casserole, when Ace, his newest brother, hooks an arm around his neck, “Come on Thatch,” The younger man says jovially, “You’ve gotta eat too, ya know. I know your division can handle the rest. You guys are the food superstars.” Ace tugs on his fellow commander and stuffs a bread roll in the other’s mouth. Thatch chuckles good-naturedly and signals to his sous-chef that he is leaving to eat. The two commanders walk toward the head table trading friendly barbs and laughing at the results of a recent prank.
They make it to their seats and give greetings to the other commanders. Thatch makes sure to casually take a seat next to Marco. The First Division commander gives his fellow crew mate a side eye, but continues his conversation with Izou. All of the commanders eat companionably, occasionally tossing a playful tease or witty remark back and forth. Thatch eats his food and participates, but most of his thought process goes toward how he is going to word his request. Finally there is a break in Marco and Izou’s debate over the most fashionable spring colors and Thatch turns toward his blonde brother. “So, I’ve been thinking.”
Marco turns a mildly suspicious look toward the red-head, “Should I be worried?”
The head chef chuckles a little and takes another bite of his chicken. “Nah, nothing too bad.” Thatch responds while making a mental note to remind Hank to not get distracted while tending the meats. “Just thinking about our stores and that we could always use a little more fruits. Giadelli has been wanting to experiment a little more on flower jams.”
The First Division commander raises his eyebrows questioningly, “Should we plan an extra stop soon to stock up.”
Thatch waves off the suggestion, “No, no, it’s nothing serious.” He releases a sigh, “More of an excuse really.” The blonde tilts his head curiously, silently requesting his fellow commander to continue. Thatch smiles and swirls his drink a little to keep the levity of the conversation going, but then takes a breath and looks at his brother seriously. Marco, sensing the change in tone, puts down his cup to give the other his full attention. “One of my subordinates got a letter saying his Ma’s passed.” They both sit silently within the cacophony of the mess hall, in their own little bubble. “He has a ceremony from his island he wants to do to properly put her to rest.” Thatch leans back in his chair and folds his arms over his chest. “I think that about ten of us Fourth Division could go along with a few others for navigation or if there is emergency construction needed.”
Marco raises a brow, “‘Us’? You gunna go too?”
The red-headed chef flashes a cocky smile, “Gotta show my support for the brothers and sisters under my command, yeah? Besides,” Thatch downs the last of his drink, “I have to rake in some more points for best brother.”
The First Division commander flashes a smirk toward his brother, “All right, I’ll work something into the schedule. How long do you think you’ll be? Do you need some time to prep meal schedules with the rest of your division for the duration of your trip?”
Thatch does some mental calculations, “No more than three weeks? Rosales is outside of Whitebeard territory, but it’s actually just a bit south of where we are now. As far as meals go…” The Fourth Division Commander flashes a teasing smirk while eyeing up the blonde next to him, “I think the crew could last a few days with a little less soup, and maybe a little less desserts too.” Marco retaliates by stuffing a bread roll into his fellow commander’s mouth. Thatch chuckles and chews the food before speaking again, “But seriously though, it will be fine. I always have basic plans written up in case I get pulled away for anything and my division knows how to keep a crew alive and healthy out in the ocean. Don’t underestimate cooks of the sea. It’s our duty to keep the crew fed and filled with the energy needed to survive the watery wilds.”
“I would never,” Marco murmurs back. “I just wanted to make sure you had everything you needed. I manage the schedules, routes, and supply runs, but I don’t know the logistics of the inner workings of every division. The seas only know how I manage my own group of siblings.”
“HEEEeeeyyy, What’cha talkin’ about?” The voice of Ace suddenly appears between the two commanders and the teen wraps an arm around each.
“Thatch is going to take a trip south to pick up some plum wine for Oyaji.” Marco smirks at the redhead “Hard liquor is too much for his stomach, but the gentler fruit wines might suit his taste for alcohol while not being too harsh.” The blonde casts a friendly genial smile to the chef, “I think about three barrels of plum, peach, apple, and you know what, blueberry too, should be good. All out of the Fourth Division Budget, of course.” Marco pats Thatch on the shoulder, “Such a wonderful son, so considerate.”
Ace, catching on that there is some joke present, stretches a face splitting grin. “Aaahh, Thatch, how kind of you.” The freckled division commander grabs a roll from the basket and takes a large bite. “Sounds like a great plan. You can pick me up some too. Ya gunna be gone long?”
Thatch elbows the young commander in the gut, “Aww, What’s wrong? Already missing me before I’m even gone? Not to worry littlest bro, I’ll only be gone for a bit, not even long enough for you to burn down the Second Division Wing of the Moby… again.” There is a light scuffle between the Fourth and Second Division commanders that ends with a pointed cough from Marco and a quiet mutter of ‘it was one time’ from Ace. “But seriously,” Thatch continues after a moment, “One of my division lost someone they cared about and it's hitting him hard. He doesn’t want to make a big deal of it, but let’s maybe keep the food fights to a minimum, yeah?”
Ace is quiet for a moment before easily agreeing to the request, “ I’ll play mediator the best I can, but there is only so much one can do with a pirate crew this big and a family this wild.” The Second Division commander stretches a fond grin, “Rowdy bunch that we are.”
“Thanks, that’s all I ask.” Thatch offers his newest brother a soft smile and Ace nods in return then makes his way farther down the table to greet the other division commanders for dinner. The red-headed chef turns back to his food, “We should be good to go by the end of the week. I can get some extra meal prep done and coordinate with navigation for the trip there and back.”
Marco continues to eat his own meal. “Do what you need. We’ll be here when you come home.”
The two commanders settle back into the usual jovial dinner mood. They eat, talk, joke, laugh, and just enjoy spending time with the family that they made out in the seas. Soon enough, meal time ends, the dishes are all cleaned up and Thatch and Marco begin work on planning the short journey for Boso’s late mother. The next few days pass by in a blur and sooner than expected, a small regiment of chefs with additional personnel are ready to split from the main crew for a mini adventure of their own. The good-byes are heartfelt with just a small side of teasing as most siblings are wont to do.
The sailing goes well, they make great timing in the first week, and only get hit by one small storm before they begin to see the island Rosales in the far distance a few hours after the sunrise on the tenth day. The bright and colorful flowering tops of the towering fruit bearing trees stretch high into the air. The gentle ocean breeze softly rustles the petals and spreads a sweet scent all around the island and out into the open sea. Rosales is a relatively peaceful spring island in the New World. It’s close enough to a Calm Belt that not many log poses lead down it’s path naturally and there is enough fresh produce and fruit processing that keeps the island financially secure.
Thatch glances over to Boso and watches as the man stares out at the place of his childhood. The blue haired soup chef gazes at the flowering treetops and his face twitches slightly as memories fly by in his mind at a rapid rate. “I haven’t been back since I first left. I never even wrote a single letter.” Boso’s voice is barely heard over the ocean winds. Thatch leaves the other to his reminiscing and sets about getting his group of brothers ready to dock. It is a flurry of activity as sails are turned, flags raised, ropes tied, and supplies rearranged.
The closer they get, the more they can make out the hustling and bustling dock workers as they perform their duties alongside their own ships. Each worker sports their own head of brightly colored hair that reflects the flowering treetops behind them. Their own crewmate’s head of dark blue locks clearly reveals his relation to the island natives.
Whitebeard’s reputation of being one of the ‘good’ pirates has spread to this edge of the New World, so their Jolly Roger doesn’t garner too much concern from the people currently on the dock, but there are a few wary looks. Their small vessel is guided to one of the empty spaces on the dock and the Whitebeard pirates work on tying the boat down and getting ready to visit the shore. Thatch meets with one of the dock workers at the end of the gangplank. They both speak politely, but the Fourth Division commander can sense an undercurrent of unease all around the port city.
A casual glance around the port city won't reveal anything too unusual. There are a few broken rails and walls, a building or two undergoing repairs, and some of the workmen sporting typical braces and coverings. A second look from an experienced pirate, however, will reveal a sadder story. The broken railings and walls are all on the sides facing the shoreline. The buildings undergoing repairs are the goods stores holding both alcohol and other provisions. There are fewer dock workers than would normally staff a dock the size the Whitebeard pirates are currently docked at, and those there all have bandages covering some sort of injury.
The dock worker organizing Thatch’s dock space rental notices the pirate’s searching gaze and lets his own narrowed eyes travel up and down the other man. He shifts his feet and grunts out, “Not here to cause trouble, are ya?”
Thatch returns his attention to the man in front of him and turns up his casual charm. “Of course not. One of my brothers was born here.” The red headed chef lowers his voice to a somber tone, “He just heard about his mother and wishes to send her off properly.” The dock worker eyes Thatch for a moment longer and then shifts his gaze toward the disembarking Whitebeard Pirates. He watches as Boso, with his shining blue curls, steps onto the wooden floors of the dock and he gazes around lost in some memory of a long ago time. The dockworker runs a hand through his own spring green curls and huffs out a noncommittal grunt. Thatch tilts his head curiously, “Been having troubles with Pirates?”
The green-haired man shifts a suspicious gaze toward Thatch. “Hmm ‘bout a month ago.” His voice is slow and considering as his eyes drift back to Boso. He purses his lips in displeasure. “We don’ usually get much strangers ‘round these parts, maybe two or three just passin’ through a year. Some merchants with our eternal poses fer trade and the occasional marine ship doin’ distance drills, or some such.” The dock worker looks back to Thatch and his voice hardens in disgust, “We ain’t fighters. Those bastards shot at us while still out at sea. We ‘ad no way a blockin’ cannon fire. Most folks just hid, some stayed to fight, and well.” The man glances back down at his papers. “Well, we performed the rights, and sent out letters to those we knew of. And Banri is the only one left.”
Thatch presses his lips into a thin line. He hates the cowardice scum that parade themselves around as pirates and blacken the reputation of others that live on and love the sea. The pirate chef rocks back onto his heels. “You wouldn’t have happened to remember the flag they fly under?” His voice is all cool detached nonchalance, but his eyes hold a fiery intensity. The green haired man looks back with equal parts confusion and suspicion. “We don’t pick fights.” Thatch lifts his shoulder in a careless shrug, but his grin sharpens a little at the corners, “But if we happen to cross paths and they strike first, well.” Another careless shrug, “We are pirates.”
The two stare into each other’s eyes for a long silent moment until the green haired man grunts and mumbles out a vague description about the skull wearing a hat with two needles and long tassels, and then he walks off. Thatch commits the description to memory. He didn’t lie in saying that Whitebeard doesn’t pick fights, but the commanders have a list they share with each other of names and crews that they keep an eye on or ear out in case they cross paths. Thatch turns toward his mourning crew mate and an elderly man with pale lavender hair talking to each other.
Boso watches his division commander approach and motions to the old man with a tight smile, “This is Reggie, he used to watch me when I was younger.” He pauses for a moment, “He is also the one that sent the letter about… about Ma”.
The elderly man looks toward Thatch with eyes as pale as his hair, “You must be the ‘commander’ then, huh?” He looks the chef from heat to toe, “Well, you musta’ done somethin’ good fer this rapscallion to follow you.” Boso gives a halfhearted complaint at the address, but it goes ignored. “The name’s Regamond, but folks ‘round here just call me Reggie.”
Thatch smiles companionably to the old man and reaches out a hand, “And I’m Thatch, Fourth Division Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates.” He points a thumb to the blue haired man, “And one of this knuckle head’s older brothers.” He chuckles as Boso again complains about the teasing. “It is certainly a pleasure to meet you.”
Reggie looks as if he is contemplating something, but then reaches an agreement within his own mind and nods definitively. “Come along then, I’ve got the only inn in this here town and you all will need a few days to get ready for the passing rights.” The old man turns from the two pirates without another word, clearly expecting them to follow.
The two Whitebeard brothers chuckle to each other good naturedly, and Thatch motions to the rest of the group to bring their gear. As they walk down the main road a short while in companionable silence, Thatch notices the overall dreary atmosphere of the town. There is a muted darkness within the eyes of many of the townsfolk, and anytime he lays eyes on a child, they are quickly shuffled inside or behind an adult. Thatch knows not to take it personally, but adds the observations to his mental list to be on the lookout for the lowlifes that attacked the peaceful town.
The Whitebeard group enters the slightly rickety tavern-inn after a few short minutes. Thatch has his other crewmates head up the stairs, while he and Boso settle for payment for the rooms and ordering an early lunch. The other Whitebeards return from setting up a few rooms and they all gather around a table to eat. Thatch ensures to include their host, and the small group regale the elderly man with stories of highjinx and adventures, mostly at the expense of Boso. The Fourth Division Commander smiles with pride as he watches some of the darkness lift from Reggie’s eyes by the time they finish eating.
Just as Thatch was beginning to convince their host to allow him use of the kitchen to whip up a dessert, a large man bursts through the front doors in a rushed panic yelling out, “Reggie!!!” The new man pants and rests his hands on his knees to catch his breath. When he glances up, his eyes are wide with fear, but he continues, “Th-They’re back!!” The man stands up from his crouch and yells. “Those pirates are back!!”
The announcement is met with a tense silence. Reggie himself begins to pale at the news. The two locals can only stare at each other with increasing worry over the possibility of a repeat of the disaster from barely a month ago. “They must have left the boundary too soon for their log pose needles.” Reggie stands shakily from his seat. “Our island has a very short layover for that, but if you leave too soon,” he swallows his thick fear, “then the needles just point right back here.” The elderly man glances to the ground “I had hoped… but it seems that was foolish.”
Another silence fills the room. Thatch intentionally places his cup down slightly harsher than needed, resulting in a hollow clatter that grabs the attention of the occupants of the inn. The redhead slowly allows a smirk to crawl along his face. He glances up at the two standing, “Weeeelllll,” he drawls out slowly, “That was a fabulous lunch. Such a wonderful meal should be repaid in kind.” Thatch’s eyes flash with malicious intent, “Please allow us to…” he trails off and adds a knowing lilt to his voice, “Take out the trash.” He stands up and begins to head out the door. “Come on guys, let’s show those bastards the might of the New World.”
Reggie, the kind man that he is, tries to stop them. The memories of the destruction from a month ago are still fresh in his mind. Boso is the one to respond, “Come on, Reggie. Don’t underestimate the Whitebeard crew.” He smiles softly at the elderly man. “These are the brothers that I chose to follow. Please have some faith.” With those last words, the Whitebeard pirates exit the building and begin walking back to the docks.
Outside, the Rosales citizens are all calling out to each other in warning and directing the women and the children deeper into the fruit tree forest. The men of the town gather behind corners and buildings in anticipation of cannon fire, all holding farming equipment and makeshift weapons, ready to defend their homes with their lives. A few attempt to encourage the Whitebeard group to evacuate as well, but are brushed off with easy smiles. Boso on the other hand is the only member of their small group with fire and vengeance in his eyes. His form is tense as his mother’s murderers get closer and closer.
In a repeat of their attack last month, the invading pirate crew launch an initial barrage of cannon fire. Nearly a dozen solid lead projectiles fly through the air toward the port town. The townsfolk all tense at the loud explosions of the firing weapons, they hunker down and brace themselves for impact. Thatch and the other Whitebeard pirates grin with varying levels of excitement at the chance for immediate revenge for one of their own. They each jump into the air and face off against a cannon ball.
It isn’t much of a match. The New World pirates all have unique weapons and years of experience fighting far stronger opponents than mere chunks of metal. Most of the crew catch their self designated projectile and send it back into the water, while a few cut theirs up into various pieces. Thatch uses one of his swords to slice his selected projectile in half. One half of the cannonball twists and drives itself right into the ground, while the other half somehow twists off into a new direction and smashes into a small dockside shack.
Thatch gimices at the destruction he inadvertently caused and silently vows to help repair it. The dust settles around the Whitebeard crew and the townsfolk all stare in awe at the might of pirates that had just defended them. Boso, with his dark blue colored hair, looks back to the fearful locals. “No need to worry anymore.” He grins as a few begin to recognize him from so many years ago. “We got this handled.” The townsfolk all begin to gain hope at the presence of the pirates in front of them. They slowly leave their hiding spots and stand to gaze at their possible saviors.
The growing hope in the air is suddenly interrupted by the slamming open of a door and a grumbling voice.
“What the bloody fuck was that?!”