Chapter Text
The Fleet Admiral kept calling him ‘son’. When was the last time he’d been called ‘son’?
Pops had always used the old nickname Ma had come up with when he was just a baby- ‘Dory’- and the rest of the crew just called him ‘boy’. It had always grated at his nerves, not that he’d let it show- lashing out only ever gained him more bruises and longer periods without food.
‘Dory’ always felt like a name that belonged to someone he hadn’t been since he was twelve and their home burned- and ‘boy’ was a title he should’ve left behind when he’d become a man at thirteen, when he’d completed the rites.
But he was alright with ‘son’.
Sengoku was a kind man, and Drake wasn’t accustomed to it. Pops had been kind once, he could remember it- but Drake had been young, then. He hadn’t yet been the only thing pops had left, hadn’t yet been a man.
There had been so little time between his completion of the rites and his consumption of the fruit, before pops had become captain and jailer instead of father and mentor.
He’d never gotten the almost-camaraderie of an adult son with his father. Was this what that was supposed to feel like?
He hadn’t discovered until weeks later that the crow man who’d freed him had been the Fleet Admiral’s own son. The man Drake remembered as a giant feathered shadow, a burst of silenced gunfire that tore his chains free, a painted grimace mouthing ‘Run’.
The same crow man had apparently also been killed that day, by the string man who’d slaughtered pops and his crew.
Drake still had no idea why the Fleet Admiral would even want to look at him, after being so closely connected to his son’s death, but the man seemed personally invested in his success, and even proud when Drake advanced.
He wasn’t a replacement son, certainly- everything Drake heard about Commander Donquixote (‘Roci’ in his mind, from Smoker’s stories) told him the other was irreplaceable- but he was a protégé, at least.
The man sought his presence frequently- sometimes to check in and make sure he was settling in alright, sometimes just to chat. It was a kindness Drake was unused to, but which he was coming to covet.
This time, Sengoku pulled a metal case from his pocket- it was beaten and worn, with the letters ‘DR’ stamped at the base.
“Do you know how to play cards, son?” Drake nodded slowly- he’d been a pirate for seven years, of course he knew how to play cards. The man hummed knowingly, shuffled the pack in his hands, asked evenly, “Do you know how to cheat at cards?”
Drake hesitated, this time- was this some sort of test? What was the right answer? If he said ‘yes’, would he be a failure as a Marine, deemed too corrupted to uphold justice? But he’d be lying to deny it, and no doubt the Fleet Admiral would see right through him. He squared his shoulders, committed himself to honesty. “Yes, sir.”
Sengoku set his chin in a solid nod, the same kind of dip his pet goat made after having made up her mind to ram something. “There’s no shame in it, son- we’re sailors like any other. And all good Marines have to be able to think like pirates- it’s how we catch them. You’re a step ahead of most.”
Drake blinked, stunned- none of the others had said his time as a reluctant pirate could be a good thing, and for the Fleet Admiral…? It was… he had to think about that.
The man dealt them both cards, Drake’s eyes automatically following his hands as they passed cards back and forth across the table. “Do you know the rules of cheating?”
“Rules, sir?” Wasn’t that the point of cheating, that there were no rules, as long as you could circumvent them sneakily enough? Was this the test?
He ventured warily, “…Don’t get caught?” The older man chuckled, “That’s certainly one of them, yes. But there are a few critical rules to keep in mind, when cheating at cards.”
His voice dipped into a sort of soft but authoritative tone, and it made Drake’s instincts perk up, listening intently. “Always keep something in reserve- this counts for both cards and resources.
“This is important to ensure you’re not taken for everything you have, and also to keep you from being blindsided by others’ tricks. If you never show all your cards, you always have an extra plan stowed away.”
There was the slightest waver in his voice at the next sentence- nothing anyone without predator senses would have caught. “I always say- ‘if you have one, you have none’. Contingencies, contingencies. The most important thing a sailor can have is an extra plan in their pocket- quick wits and a quick hand.”
Sengoku patted his breast pocket in illustration, and from it came the slightest sound of crinkling paper. He stilled a moment, only half a breath, but Drake could see the slightest gritting of teeth in his mild frown- pain, the beast told him.
The man forged on, “The next rule- don’t draw attention. Or more accurately, only draw the kind of attention that will benefit you. Whether you’re a perfect winner or a fighting gambler, no one will want to sit at your table, so you have to become whatever will get you what you need in that moment. Reading a room and adapting to its atmosphere will take you anywhere. Ready?”
They played a few rounds, and Drake dutifully paid close attention to the man’s movements, trying to read his tells, figure him out- still, his mind was caught on what Sengoku had said. It felt unfinished, something left hanging in the air.
Drake lost every hand, slowly becoming more and more frustrated with himself. He’d counted every card, the tally second-nature to him after years of these games being the only way to stay on the crew’s good side. So what was he missing? Where was he going wrong?
After one final round, where Sengoku nonchalantly laid down a perfect hand, he took pity on Drake at last, something like mirth in his voice, “The last rule is by far the most important.”
He rolled up first one sleeve then the other, revealing aces hidden in both. “You’re never the only one cheating.”
Drake froze. Something in the world, in him, shifted just a bit to the side. He thought he was starting to see the lesson here- this was about more than cards, it was strategy. It was power.
If you knew the rules of the game, knew how to play it and how to break them better than anyone else, you could control the outcome.
The games Sengoku played were the monumental kind, with millions of lives in the balance. Any wrong move could result in a death toll the likes of which Drake had never seen before.
The king of Oykot had played these sorts of games badly, and Drake’s people had been slaughtered as a consequence- collateral damage in a political power play none of them had any knowledge or part of.
If learning how to play these sorts of games- how to weigh the balance of power and keep it from tipping against him- was how he could keep that from happening again to others, he would do it.
Drake shadowed Sengoku when he wasn’t training with Smoker, following him through meetings and negotiations.
The Fleet Admiral would assign him posts of great trust as the years went on, following around Admirals and attending Warlord meetings alongside him. He seemed intent on training Drake in the functions of power.
And slowly, Drake started seeing the world as it really was, behind all the facades. He could see the mechanisms in the machinery of society, find where to press to tip the scales and how to maneuver situations into more favorable outcomes.
It made him feel like he was, in fact, human- like he was good for something other than violence, beyond the fangs and claws and muscle pops had exploited to strike fear into his enemies.
Drake was more than just that- he was clever and observant, and he could use those traits to better their world. Even important people like Sengoku saw potential in him.
He had to wonder sometimes, what Sengoku really saw, when he looked at Drake. Did he see the boy his son had saved, on his last day alive? A part of Rocinante’s legacy? It was why Smoker had taken him on, to begin with.
He hadn’t yet figured out why Sengoku had done the same. Was it guilt from pops’ defection, that he’d evaded capture by the Marines for seven years? That Drake had spent so long an unwilling pirate? Was it, perhaps, the same reason as Smoker, hoarding any small remnant of his son’s legacy in his grief?
Either way, Drake was grateful- he’d gained an irreplaceable friend in Smoker and a mentor (second father?) in Sengoku.
If it meant taking on the legacy of the man who’d freed him… that wasn’t such a heavy burden at all.