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The sea, for all its ever-changing nature, is the one of the last constants Shanks finds he has left in his life. It laps familiarly against the ships moored to the docks, glittering with the rising sun. The sound is as comforting as the cloudless sky above him. As he steps out of the shadowed alleyway and into Loguetown’s harbor, it almost feels like coming home.
It’s the second morning after Captain’s execution and high-time he left this place. The Marines have been crawling through the streets like ants since the execution, hoping to catch any foolish, lingering pirates—and yes, Shanks is counting himself amongst those foolish, lingering pirates. He shouldn’t have stayed so long.
Buggy is gone. He’s probably been gone for days.
No matter how badly he hoped, Buggy had no reason to stick around and hear him out. Captain just announced the greatest treasure hunt in the world. Why would Buggy agree to come pirating with him, who already cost him one? Why shouldn't Buggy go after Captain's treasure?
It’s your fault I lost that treasure map!
Shanks sighs.
If only he could have made it up to him. He would have gone on a thousand treasure hunts with Buggy. He just couldn't join him on this one.
He starts down the docks to his boat, salt-stained rucksack over his shoulder. It’s time to leave this place behind, time to move on. Along the docks, workers load cargo onto merchant ships, bouncing quips off of each other with the practiced ease of longtime comradery. It makes his heart ache fiercely.
He walks past them to the boat slip he paid for, then has to double-check that he has the right one. He does.
It’s empty.
His hands fly to his head. “My ship!”
One of the nearby workers hisses in sympathy. “Stolen?”
Shanks nods, staring aghast at the empty slip.
“You’re not the only one,” the worker says. “A buddy of mine said that the docks were swarming after the Pirate King’s execution, the harbormaster could barely keep up with all the ships sailing out. It must have been taken by a pirate.” He scowls and shakes his head. “It’s one thing to take someone’s money, but to steal a man’s ship? That’s like taking their wife!”
Shanks nods affably at his words, though in truth he wasn’t attached to the small sloop. It was a means of getting here, that’s all. Barely sea-worthy enough for Reverse Mountain, though apparently sea-worthy enough for some overeager treasure-hunter to cut the lines and slip away with. It is, however, the cherry on top of the shitty couple of days Shanks has been having and he has to breathe very carefully in order not to fall apart right here on the dock.
Seeing that he won’t be getting a conversation out of him, the worker leaves him be. Shanks stares jaw-gritted into the waters where his boat should be.
He needs to get off this damn island.
He shouldn’t even be here anymore. He should have left right after the execution, right after Captain—
His eyes close.
The thought is useless. There’s no way he could have left so soon.
The instant the executioners’ swords came down, the crowd surged like a sea in storm. Pirates ravenous for Roger’s treasure crashed against civilians trying to not get trampled. Yells of riches, adventure, and fear collided with the Marines shouting for order. Shanks was tossed about in that crowd like a piece of shipwreck, blinded by his tears and the waves of shoving people.
Then, through it all, there was a flash of familiar blue.
He and Buggy latched onto each other. Together they bobbed through the crowd until they finally reached the edge, then they dragged each other down the streets and into an empty alleyway. Exhausted with adrenaline and grief, they clutched each other close and wept. Their captain was gone. Their family was no more. With his nose buried in Buggy’s hair, Shanks remembered thinking, At least we still have each other.
The sky opened shortly afterward.
Then he was alone, drenched to the bone and wondering when everything had gone so horribly wrong.
Shanks falls to his knees on the dock, uncaring of anyone watching. Heartache throbs in his chest, pushing against his throat until he can barely breathe. He feels sick with it.
On the dock, the workers go silent.
Shanks snaps out of his fugue, but doesn’t raise his head.
Someone’s walking up the dock. Their haki is distinct and contained, as sharp as a blade. Whoever they are, they’re experienced with it. That should set him on edge. At the moment, he can’t find it in himself to care. Shanks knows that he’s not the most intimidating figure, but kneeling there on the dock, bubbling with grief and regret, he knows that his haki radiates Do not talk to me like a seething bonfire.
So who is it that has the nerve to approach him?
They walk up to him and stop. When it becomes clear they aren’t going to offer any greeting, Shanks asks icily through gritted teeth, “Can I help you?” and looks up into the ringed, yellow eyes of Dracule Mihawk.
Holy shit.
He mentally pats himself on the back for only blinking in reaction.
Mihawk is younger than he thought, probably only a handful of years older than himself. His infamous black blade gleams on his back. Shanks can’t help but wonder how heavy it is.
Last he heard, Mihawk was dueling his way through the Grand Line. Any swordsman of some renown could expect a visit from Mihawk, and if deemed an acceptable challenge, a duel. The whole crew made bets on if the swordsman would eventually challenge Captain.
Buggy bet no simply because he never wanted to meet the terrifying man. Just look at his eyes! No thanks!
Shanks bet on yes.
But just what does Mihawk want with him?
He clears the grief from his throat and forces a smile. He stands.
“Dracule Mihawk. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Mihawk’s voice is deep and steady like the keel of a ship. His face is like a stone wall. “You were one of Roger’s, were you not?”
Shanks’ smile fades a touch. “I was,” he says guardedly.
Mihawk dips his head. “My condolences.”
Shanks blinks in surprise. “Thank you,” he says, and means it. It’s the first anyone has offered him since Captain’s death. But offering condolences can’t be all Mihawk is here to do.
Mihawk stares—and wow, the rumors don’t exaggerate. His eyes really are just like a hawk’s. They’re fixed on Shanks, unwavering even with the tiniest shifts of his head. They’re the eyes of a predator. Shanks is surprised to find himself feeling less like a mouse on pavement and more like another bird of prey himself. He meets Mihawk’s eyes.
Mihawk says, “I was under the impression that the Marines were eager to arrest any of the remaining Roger Pirates. I understand why you came for your Captain’s final moments, but you really should be gone by now.”
Yeah, yeah, I know, Shanks thinks, but he hears the unspoken question. Deciding on the least emotionally exhausting answer, he gestures toward his missing ship with a nonchalant shrug. “My ship was stolen. What about you? You’re not exactly favored by the Marines either. Why are you still hanging around?”
“Your captain was strong. I possess an admiration for his swordsmanship, one that I know is shared by others.” Mihawk pauses. He seems to expect something from Shanks, but Shanks has no clue what. Finally, Mihawk gives a huff and drones in explanation, “I have a stunning deficit of sparring partners and was hoping that some of them would be worthy.”
Shanks nods to himself. That makes sense. Seems like Mihawk didn’t find anybody to duel though, if he here was at the docks with him—
“Wait, me?” Shanks points to his chest in disbelief. “You’re asking me?”
Mihawk’s eyes rest on the sword at Shanks’ hip. “Did Roger train you to fight with that?”
Shanks straightens, his shoulders falling naturally into the posture that was drilled so mercilessly into him. Captain didn’t know how to hold back. He rests a steady hand on the sword. “Of course.”
“Then, yes. I’m asking you.” Mihawk sounds assured. Confident. Unblinking. Has he blinked at all this whole time? “So then, Red, if you’re—”
Shanks is unprepared for the bitterness that shoots through him at the nickname. It’s one half of a pair. “Don’t—” he starts, then remembers not to be a dick. He doesn’t want to drive Mihawk off.
The thought of Mihawk choosing him to duel with is thrilling—and not just to duel. To spar with. As a sparring partner. It’s exciting and Shanks needs excitement right now. Anything is better than the dull weight sitting in his chest.
He takes a breath and lets it go. “I’d rather you didn’t call me that.”
Mihawk takes a beat and Shanks learns that he can be a bit of dick too. “I notice that Blue isn’t with you.”
It’s a calculated stab and a swordsman like Mihawk doesn’t miss. The mere mention of Buggy hollows him out and a flash of anger shoots through him. But as much as Mihawk’s comment stings, it tells Shanks something. Mihawk did his research.
He knew enough about the Roger Pirates to know that he and Buggy were a pair—something you couldn’t get just from bounty posters. He admired Captain. He cared enough to come to his execution.
Mihawk really had planned on challenging Captain.
A year ago, that would have made Shanks a couple thousand belli richer. Now, it just makes him sad.
“No, he’s not with me,” Shanks says. “Now, don’t call me Red.”
“Red-Hair, then,” offers the swordsman, unphased. “It is your most striking feature. If you plan to make a name for yourself on the seas, it is what most will call you anyway. Might as well choose it yourself.”
Shanks raises an eyebrow at him. Mihawk has a point… though it isn’t Shanks’ plan to make a name for himself. Not really. Not yet. Honestly, all he wanted was to sail around the seas for a while; a carefree pirate, doing whatever the hell he wants with whoever the hell he wants.
That dream dulled when the only person he wanted to do it with no longer wanted to do it with him.
Red and Blue are no more. He’s just Red now.
“Red-Hair is fine,” he accepts begrudgingly. “But really, if we’re going to be friends, just call me Shanks.”
Mihawk makes the first expression Shanks has seen on him that doesn’t make him look like a stone wall of stoicism. His lip curls. “I said nothing about friendship.”
Shanks grins. “C’mon,” he says cheerily, then seeing how much his cheerful tone gets under Mihawk’s skin, cranks it up. “If we’re going to be sparring together, then we’re friends.”
Mihawk makes another face of displeasure.
For a moment, Shanks thinks that Mihawk is going to rescind his offer, that he’ll sweep a dramatic turn in that long coat of his and walk away. He glues his smile to his face and holds back the urge to wave his hands placatingly in front of Mihawk and plead, Hey, I was only joking! We don’t have to be friends, just don’t leave. Please, don’t leave.
Mihawk’s face twitches. He glares to the side with a long-suffering eye roll. “Call it what you want,” he says.
A smile grows on Shanks’ face, a genuine one. Relief blooms in his chest. “Well then, friend,” he starts—then holds up his hands in cheeky surrender as Mihawk glares at him. “If you want to spar, we can’t do it here. You said it yourself, I’m a wanted man. I can’t afford the Marines’ attention right now and I’m missing a ship. I need a ride.”
Mihawk glances at the empty boat slip. “Of course.” He turns to walk away, then stops. He pins Shanks under his eyes. “I may be headed for the Grand Line, Red-Hair, but I am not one of those foolish hopefuls that your captain sent scurrying like rabbits after his treasure. If that is your aim, I will get you off the island for our spar but you will have to find passage to the Grand Line elsewhere. I came to see Roger’s death. I have no interest in his tale.”
Shanks raises an eyebrow. “And when did I ever say I did?”
Mihawk’s eyes narrow. Shanks knows what he’s thinking.
Shanks was on Roger’s crew. He was Roger’s apprentice. Surely he knows something of the treasure his captain left behind?
Sure, Shanks knows a little.
Enough to cost him a friend. Enough to pique the interest of a new one.
For all that Mihawk claims to have no interest in what’s on Laugh Tale, his eyes say otherwise. There’s that glimmer of curiosity, the one that infected everyone who heard Captain’s words.
What’s really on that last island?
Maybe when the time is right, Shanks will be racing Mihawk there. Maybe Buggy will be racing there too and Shanks will get to see him again at the very end. Maybe Buggy will forgive him then.
Mihawk smiles; a sharp, feral thing, eyes gleaming above it. He barks a laugh. “You are an interesting one, Red-Hair.” Shanks takes it as a compliment. Mihawk turns and starts down the dock back toward Loguetown. His coat flares out around his sword just as dramatically as Shanks pictured it would. “I’m moored near a beach on the east side of the island,” Mihawk says aloud. He pauses and looks back. “Finish what business you have here and meet me there within the hour.”
Shanks picks up his rucksack and pushes down his hat, then adjusts his sword just for show. “Nothing left for me here,” he says and follows his new friend down the dock.