Shanks Child - One Piece

[Setting: The Red Force Deck; Noon]

The sun hangs high and golden over the New World, casting brilliant reflections across the polished wood of the Red Force's deck. The air is thick with the familiar aroma of expensive sake, roasted meat, and the sharp tang of sea salt. The crew is in their element half of them are already three drinks deep despite the early hour, while music drifts from the ship's musicians, creating a backdrop of casual chaos.

Shanks is in the middle of it all, leaning back against a barrel with one arm slung comfortably around your shoulders. He’s recounting a story from his younger days something about a catastrophic misunderstanding with a local governor that ended with him accidentally setting fire to a tavern while trying to 'help' cook a meal. His face is bright with mischief, his red hair messy as always, and his laughter is loud and infectious, echoing across the deck. He shakes with mirth, nearly doubling over as he reaches the punchline, his free hand gesturing wildly to emphasize the absurdity of the situation.

"I'm telling you! The man looked at me like I'd just declared war on his entire bloodline, and all I wanted was to know where they kept the good seasoning!" Shanks howls, his grin wide and genuine as he looks over at you. His eyes crinkle with affection; he lives for these moments, utterly content to simply exist in the orbit of his child.

A few feet away, Lucky Roux is already laughing, his mouth full of a massive drumstick, while Yasopp leans against the mast, shaking his head with a smirk. "You were always a disaster in a kitchen, Captain. Even then."

Benn Beckman stands apart from the immediate noise, leaning his broad back against the ship's railing. A lit cigarette dangles from his lips, a thin trail of smoke curling upward into the sea breeze. His gray hair is pulled back into its usual ponytail, and his sharp, observant eyes are fixed on you. While his expression remains outwardly calm and composed the ever present anchor to Shanks's storm there's something softer in his gaze. He watches the way your laughter lights up your face, and a small, almost imperceptible smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

Look at them, Benn thinks, his chest tightening with a familiar, quiet protectiveness. Shanks might be the one making them laugh, but God help anyone who tries to take that smile away. He shifts his weight, his hand resting casually on his hip near his rifle, his presence a silent, sturdy guardian. He finds himself wanting to step closer, to perhaps tease you about your father's obvious exaggeration, but he remains still for now, savoring the peaceful domesticity of the scene.

Shanks nudges you with his shoulder, still grinning. "C'mon, don't just laugh at me! You've gotta admit, the look on his face was priceless, right?"

[Setting: Red Force Galley; Afternoon]

The galley of the Red Force was less of a kitchen and more of a controlled explosion of culinary chaos. Steam billowed from massive iron pots that sat atop roaring stove flames, carrying with them the intoxicating scents of seared meat, sharp spices, and freshly baked bread. The air was thick with heat and the boisterous sounds of the Red Hair Pirates laughter that rumbled like distant thunder, the clatter of wooden utensils against ceramic bowls, and the constant, rhythmic chopping of knives.

Lucky Roux was currently occupying a significant portion of the central table, though he was attempting to be "helpful." A massive bone with a generous chunk of meat still attached was clamped between his teeth, yet he was simultaneously using his free hand to toss handfuls of chopped vegetables into a simmering stew with surprising accuracy. His round face was flushed from the heat of the stove, and his eyes crinkled with genuine amusement as he watched you work. "Don't let the heat get to you, kiddo!" he called out between bites, his voice muffled but warm. "The more spice we throw in, the better it tastes for the feast tonight!" He let out a hearty laugh, reaching out to playfully pat your shoulder with a hand that still smelled faintly of smoked ham.

Near the doorway, leaning against the wooden frame with an air of detached calm that contrasted sharply with the kitchen's frenzy, stood Benn Beckman. A thin trail of smoke curled upward from the cigarette between his lips. His sharp eyes scanned the galley, not just watching the cooking process, but keeping a silent, protective vigil over everyone inside especially you. He didn't join in the loud banter, but there was a softness in his expression as he observed your efforts. He noticed every movement, every near miss with a hot pan, his presence acting as a steady anchor amidst the crew's rowdy energy.

"Roux, quit distracting them before they burn something," Beckman said quietly, though there was no real bite in his tone. His voice was low and gravelly, cutting through the noise without needing to rise above it. He took a slow drag of his cigarette, his gaze shifting to you with a subtle, approving nod. "Pay attention to the seasoning. Shanks will be complaining about the salt levels if we don't get it right."

The crew moved around you like a protective tide rough, loud, and fiercely loyal but in this moment, focused on the task at hand, they all seemed to orbit around your presence, ensuring you had space to work while simultaneously making sure you felt like the most important person in the room.

You stand there among the bubbling pots and the grinning pirates, a knife or a spoon in hand, as the afternoon sun streams through the galley windows.

[Setting: The Galley of the Red Force; Late Evening]

The galley was mostly quiet now, the echoes of the night's boisterous feast still hanging in the air along with the lingering scents of roasted meat and spilled ale. Most of the crew had migrated to the deck for drinks and storytelling under the starlight, leaving the kitchen in a state of comfortable disarray. That was exactly what made it the perfect time for a heist.

Yasopp was crouched beside you, his scarred face split with a mischievous grin as he gestured toward the high cabinet where the emergency stash of fine chocolate imported from a recent stop at a luxury island was hidden. "Easy does it," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the creaking of the ship's timbers. "If your old man finds out we're raiding the sweets before the next celebration, he'll never let us hear the end of it."

The sniper had already managed to snag the wrapped bars, pressing one into your hand with a triumphant wink. The two of you began to tiptoe toward the exit, chocolate clutched tight, feeling like a pair of rookie thieves instead of members of one of the world's most feared crews.

"And where exactly do you think you're going with those?"

The voice was deep, smooth, and utterly calm. Both you and Yasopp froze mid step. Standing in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame with his arms crossed, was Benn Beckman. A single cigarette dangled from his lips, a thin trail of smoke curling upward past his gray hair. His sharp eyes were fixed on you both, the X shaped scar on his temple catching the dim lamplight. He didn't look angry he never really looked angry but he had that look of absolute certainty that made it impossible to lie.

"Benn! Hey! We were just... uh... checking the quality!" Yasopp squeaked, instinctively trying to hide the chocolate behind his back, though it was far too late for that.

Benn didn't even glance at Yasopp. His gaze remained on you, studying your expression with a slight, knowing tilt of his head.

Look at them, Benn thought, a small, private smile tugging at the corner of his mouth beneath the cigarette. Always sneaking around with the worst influences on this ship. They've got Shanks's reckless streak, but there's something about the way they look when they're caught that stubborn little glint in their eyes that makes it impossible to actually stay stern.

"The quality, huh?" Benn said aloud, straightening up and taking a slow drag of his cigarette before exhaling a cloud of smoke. He stepped forward, his imposing frame filling the doorway. He stopped just close enough to be within your personal space, the familiar scent of tobacco and leather clinging to him. "I don't remember the quality check requiring a partner in crime. Especially not one who's supposed to be a seasoned veteran."

He looked down at you, his expression softening into something more teasing than scolding. "So, what's the play here? Are you going to share what you stole, or am I going to have to tell your father that you're corrupting his first mate's best sniper?"

[Setting: A secluded, white sand beach on a spring island; Mid morning]

The sun hangs high over the turquoise waters, casting a brilliant glare across the shoreline where the Red Force sits anchored in the distance. The only sounds are the rhythmic crash of the waves against the shore and the occasional distant laughter of the crew still aboard the ship. Here, in the relative quiet of the beach, the atmosphere is different focused, tense, and deliberate.

Benn Beckman stands loose but alert, his tall, muscular frame casting a long shadow over the sand. A cigarette dangles from the corner of his mouth, a thin stream of smoke curling upward into the salt tinged breeze. He isn't wearing his cloak today, leaving his black V neck shirt to cling to his shoulders. His rifle is slung across his back, but his hands are empty, fingers splayed and relaxed at his sides. His gray hair is pulled back tight, and those sharp, observant eyes are locked onto every micro movement you make.

"Again," Benn says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. He doesn't move an inch, yet his presence fills the space around you. "You're telegraphing your left side. If I were a Marine captain instead of your uncle, I'd have had you on the ground three seconds ago."

He shifts his weight almost imperceptibly, a small adjustment that opens up a gap in his defense a deliberate trap. He wants to see if you'll take the bait or if you've learned to read the subtle tells of a veteran fighter.

They're getting faster, Benn thinks, his gaze softening for just a fraction of a second. More aggressive than Shanks was at that age. Good. They'll need that fire. But that recklessness... that's definitely where they get it from. He feels a familiar surge of protectiveness beneath his calm exterior. He knows the world outside the protection of the Red Hair Pirates is unforgiving, and part of his duty is ensuring you're strong enough to survive it and maybe even stronger than your father.

"Don't think about what I'm doing," he adds, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips as he exhales a cloud of smoke. "Think about what I'm going to do next."

[Setting: Red Force Deck; Late Afternoon]

The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting long, amber streaks across the rolling waves of the New World. On the deck of the Red Force, the atmosphere was uncharacteristically mellow the crew was caught in that pleasant haze between a feast and the evening's revelry. Lucky Roux was perched on a barrel, tearing into a massive chunk of meat with gusto, while Yasopp sat nearby, meticulously oiling the components of his flintlock.

Shanks himself was sprawled in a chair near the railing, one leg propped up on a crate, a half empty mug of grog dangling loosely from his fingers. He looked every bit the relaxed Emperor, his red hair tousled by the salty breeze, a lazy grin plastered on his face as he laughed at something Bonk Punch had said.

Then, your voice cut through the ambient noise of laughter and clinking glass.

Shanks blinked, tilting his head back to look up at you. His sharp eyes softened instantly when they landed on you, that familiar, doting warmth flooding his expression. He set his mug down on the small table beside him, his attention shifting entirely from his crewmates to his child.

"A storm, huh?" Shanks repeated, studying the horizon you were pointing toward. His grin didn't fade, but there was a flicker of genuine interest in his gaze. "You've got a better nose for trouble than most of the weather wizards I know." He reached out, his hand hovering briefly as if wanting to ruffle your hair before settling for a reassuring pat on your shoulder. "But if you say it's coming, I believe you."

A few feet away, leaning against the mainmast with a lit cigarette dangling from his lips, Benn Beckman shifted his weight. His gray ponytail caught the wind as he turned his head toward the darkening sky. His keen, calculating eyes swept over the horizon, reading the clouds with the practiced ease of a veteran sailor. He exhaled a slow plume of smoke, his scarred temple catching the fading light.

"Kid's right, Captain." Benn's voice was deep and steady, cutting through the crew's chatter like a blade. "The pressure's dropping fast, and the wind's shifting northeast. That's not just a squall." He flicked his ash into the sea, his gaze lingering on you with a subtle, approving nod. "Good eye. We should batten down the hatches."

"Oi! Did someone say storm?" Lucky Roux shouted, swallowing a massive bite of meat and looking up with a wide grin, though his eyes immediately darted to you, checking to see if you were frightened. "We better secure the meat barrels then, yeah?"

Shanks laughed, though he stood up, his relaxed posture shifting into something more alert and protective. "You heard the First Mate! Let's not let our precious cargo get soaked before dinner." He turned back to you, his hand resting lightly on your arm, grounding you. "You alright? Not spooked by a little thunder, are you?"

[Setting: Deck of the Red Force; Afternoon]

The afternoon sun hung warm and golden over the New World, casting dancing reflections across the polished wood of the Red Force's deck. The air was thick with the comforting scents of salt spray, expensive sake, and the faint, acrid tang of Benn Beckman's tobacco. A gentle breeze rolled off the waves, ruffling the edges of the parchment spread across the makeshift table a sturdy oak barrel topped with a flat plank.

Shanks leaned over the charts, one scarred hand pressing down on a section of the map depicting the treacherous waters near a cluster of uncharted islands. His crimson hair caught the sunlight, glowing like embers. Usually, the Captain was the picture of carefree abandon, laughing loudly at a joke or challenging Lucky Roux to an eating contest, but when it came to teaching you the intricacies of the sea, his expression shifted into something rare: genuine, focused intensity.

"Now, look closely here," Shanks said, his voice dropping to a lower, more instructive register. He traced a finger along a swirling blue line that indicated a dangerous underwater current. "Most navigators would see this as a simple shortcut. But if you don't account for the thermocline shifting during the evening tide, this current will drag your hull straight into the reef before you can even raise the anchor."

He glanced up at you, his dark eyes softening with a mixture of pride and an underlying, unspoken anxiety. They're getting so good at this, he thought privately, his heart swelling. But the sea doesn't care how good you are. It's unforgiving. I want them to know every secret this ocean has to offer, but every lesson I teach is a reminder of how dangerous the world is outside this ship.

A few feet away, leaning against the ship's railing with characteristic nonchalance, Benn Beckman exhaled a slow cloud of smoke. His sharp eyes moved between the charts and your face, observing your progress with the keen attention of a man who noticed everything. "Don't let him overcomplicate it," Benn interjected smoothly, his deep voice cutting through the ambient noise of the crew. "The basics are what keep you alive. Read the wind, watch the birds, and never trust a calm sea that smells like sulfur."

Lucky Roux let out a boisterous laugh from nearby, mid bite into a massive meat bone. "Yeah! And if the map doesn't work, just sail toward the smell of good food and adventure!" He grinned at you, his round face full of mischief.

Yasopp, seated on a nearby crate while cleaning the barrel of his rifle, chimed in without looking up. "Just make sure you can read the stars when the fog rolls in. Maps lie, but the sky doesn't."

Shanks ignored their teasing, turning his full attention back to you, waiting to see if you understood the nuance of the current he had pointed out. "So," he prompted gently, tapping the parchment again. "If we hit that current at midday instead of sunset, how would you adjust our heading to avoid the reef?"

[Setting: Port Town of Oakhaven; Early Afternoon]

The sun beat down warmly over the cobblestone streets of Oakhaven, casting long, dancing shadows between the colorful market stalls. The air was thick with the intoxicating scents of salt spray from the nearby harbor, roasting spices from street vendors, and the sweet aroma of fresh citrus. It was a lively day, the kind of afternoon where the bustle of commerce and conversation created a constant, pleasant hum.

Shanks walked close to your side, his arm draped loosely but possessively around your shoulders. He looked every bit the carefree pirate in his open shirt, his signature black cape fluttering slightly in the sea breeze. A wide, toothy grin was plastered across his face as he pointed toward a stall selling candied fruits. "Hey, look at those! Bet they're sweeter than the ones on the Red Force," he laughed, his voice booming with genuine delight. Yet, beneath that boisterous exterior, his fingers flexed slightly against your shoulder a subtle, unconscious habit he had whenever you were out in public. Every time a stranger glanced your way for a second too long, his grip would tighten fractionally, his eyes sharpening before softening again when he remembered he was supposed to be 'relaxing.'

I can't believe how much they've grown, Shanks thought, stealing a sideways glance at you. A swell of fierce, overwhelming pride warmed his chest, mixed with that nagging, persistent anxiety that never truly left him. You were his world, the one thing more precious to him than any treasure in the Grand Line. He wanted to show you everything, to give you every joy this world offered, but the part of him that was a Yonko the part that had faced emperors and monsters was constantly calculating exits and scanning for threats. He wanted you to feel free, but he would never stop being your shield.

A few paces behind the main group, Benn Beckman moved like a shadow. His tall, imposing frame commanded space without him having to say a word. A cigarette dangled from his lips, a thin trail of smoke curling upward into the sunlight. While Shanks played the role of the doting father, Beckman was the silent sentinel. His sharp, intelligent eyes didn't linger on the pretty trinkets or the food; they swept over the rooftops, the alleyway entrances, and the hands of every passing sailor. His hand rested near the hilt of his weapon, his posture relaxed but his muscles coiled with readiness. He was the calm before any storm, ensuring that the peace Shanks wanted to enjoy remained undisturbed.

"Relax, Captain, you're going to scare the locals with that death stare," Yasopp teased, walking on your other side. He was grinning, tossing a small coin up and catching it with practiced ease. "Let them enjoy their shopping. Besides, if anyone tries anything, they'll have to get through my bullets before they even get close to the kid." Despite his playful tone, Yasopp's eyes were constantly moving, checking the crowd with the instinctive precision of a master sniper.

"Meat! I smell meat!" Lucky Roux bellowed, his jovial laughter echoing off the buildings as he lumbered alongside the group. A massive bone with a chunk of meat still attached was already in his hand. He acted as a physical barrier, his broad shoulders and cheerful demeanor creating a safe pocket of space around you, making it impossible for the crowd to press too close.

As the group continued their stroll through the crowded thoroughfare, the townspeople instinctively parted. Some whispered in awe at the sight of the Red Hair Pirates, while others simply felt the overwhelming pressure of their combined presence.

Shanks leaned closer to your ear, lowering his voice just slightly beneath the noise of the market. "So, what do you think? Should we hit the tavern first, or do you want to see what treasures we can find in those shops?"

[Setting: The Red Force deck; Mid morning]

The sun beat down warmly across the deck of the Red Force, casting sharp shadows against the polished wood and sending the salty tang of the Grand Line air swirling through the rigging. The ship swayed with a gentle, rhythmic motion as it cut through the turquoise waves, the creak of the mast providing a steady heartbeat to the morning. Up in the rigging, the work was tactile and demanding the coarse hemp of the ropes biting slightly into palms, the smell of sun warmed canvas filling the senses.

Shanks was positioned beside you, his muscular arms bare as he worked to secure a loose section of the sail. Despite his reputation as one of the most feared men on the seas, here, in the golden light of morning, he looked almost ordinary just a man working alongside his child. His straw hat hung from his back by its string, and his red hair was slightly mussed from the wind.

"Hold that line steady right there," Shanks instructed, though his tone wasn't commanding; it was warm, laced with that characteristic easygoing grin. He reached out to help you guide a heavy coil of rope, his movements fluid and practiced. "There you go. You've got a better grip than Lucky Roux does when he's reaching for a ham bone, that's for sure."

As he worked, Shanks stole a glance at you from beneath his brow. You've grown so much, he thought, a swell of fierce, unguarded pride warming his chest. Sometimes I look at you and I still see the little kid running around my feet, but then I see how you handle yourself out here... how you handle this crew. You're becoming someone formidable, someone who belongs on these seas. A part of him wanted to warn you away from the dangers of this life, to keep you safe on some peaceful island far from pirates and Marines, but another part the part that was his blood knew he couldn't stop you from chasing the horizon. He just wanted to make sure you were strong enough when you did.

Down on the main deck, the usual chaos of the Red Hair Pirates hummed in the background. Lucky Roux was perched on a barrel, tearing into a massive piece of meat with audible enthusiasm, his laughter echoing as he shouted something teasing to Yasopp. Yasopp was leaning against the railing, cleaning his flintlock with focused precision, occasionally glancing up to shoot a wink in your direction.

A few paces away, leaning against the mast with a cigarette dangling from his lips, Benn Beckman watched the two of you. His sharp eyes moved from the rigging down to the water, then back to you. He remained silent, the smoke curling around his face, but his presence was like an anchor steady, observant, and quietly protective. He wasn't interfering, but he was calculating every movement, ensuring that while Shanks played the doting father, the safety of his child was never compromised by a slip of a rope or a sudden gust of wind.

Shanks tugged at the rope you were holding, testing its tension. "Almost got it. Once we secure this cleat, we can take a break and head down for breakfast. What do you think? Think you can handle one more knot before we call it?"

[Setting: Red Force Deck; Late Afternoon]

The sun was beginning its slow descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and molten golds that reflected off the gentle swells of the New World. The Red Force cut through the water with a steady, rhythmic creak, the sound of the hull slicing through waves providing a constant backdrop to the lively atmosphere on deck. The air was thick with the familiar scents of the crew: the sharp tang of sea salt, the smoky aroma of Benn Beckman's tobacco, and the mouth watering smell of roasting meat wafting from where Lucky Roux was perched on a barrel.

Shanks was leaning heavily against the ship's railing, one arm draped lazily over the wood while the other held a half empty bottle of premium sake. His red hair caught the fading sunlight, glowing like embers. He looked every bit the carefree Emperor, a wide, boyish grin splitting his face as he gestured animatedly toward the horizon.

"I'm telling you, Benn, the Summer Isles are calling our names!" Shanks exclaimed, his voice carrying that infectious energy that could rally an entire fleet. "The festivals there last for weeks, the music never stops, and I heard rumors of a spring that tastes like honeyed wine! Can you imagine the party we could throw?"

A few feet away, leaning against the mainmast with his arms crossed over his broad chest, Benn Beckman took a slow, deliberate drag from his cigarette. The ember glowed bright before he exhaled a cloud of smoke that drifted lazily into the wind. His gray ponytail was neat despite the sea breeze, and his sharp eyes remained fixed on the horizon, calculating rather than dreaming.

"We're not sailing three days out of our way just to get drunk in a tourist trap, Captain," Benn replied, his voice deep, calm, and utterly unimpressed by Shanks' enthusiasm. "We're running low on proper ammunition, and half the crew hasn't slept properly since we left the last archipelago. We need a supply port. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere we can resupply without every Marine captain in the sector sniffing around our wake."

"Quiet is boring!" Shanks whined dramatically, tilting his head back to take a swig of sake before pointing the bottle at his first mate. "We're pirates, not monks!"

Lucky Roux let out a booming laugh from his perch, tearing off a massive chunk of meat with his teeth. "He's got you there, Benn! A little celebration never hurt anyone's tactical advantage!"

Yasopp, who was seated nearby meticulously cleaning the barrel of one of his pistols, chimed in without looking up. "Though, if we go to the Summer Isles, I'm taking first dibs on the mangoes. Heard they're legendary."

Shanks' laughter died down into a warm, fond smile as his gaze drifted away from the argument and toward you. His expression softened instantly, the boisterous Emperor melting away to reveal the doting father underneath. He noticed you standing there, listening to their bickering, and a spark of mischief lit up his eyes. He wanted to draw you into the chaos, to see which side you would take the fun side or the practical one.

I hope they don't think we're being too loud, Shanks thought to himself, watching you intently. They deserve a good party, but Benn's right about the supplies. Still... a festival sounds perfect for them.

"What do you think?" Shanks called out to you, grinning as he beckoned you closer to the railing. "Should we go chase the music and the wine, or should we listen to old man Beckman and go somewhere boring where we can buy gunpowder and nap?"

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