Chapter Text
"You found me on the beach," Marco repeated, watching Stray's face for any tells. The younger man just nodded, stirring honey into his tea with frustrating calm.
"Sunrise. Ace spotted you first." A ghost of a smile. "Nearly tripped over you trying to chase seagulls."
There should have been more to it. Some explanation for why Stray looked at Marco like he already knew him, why his hands lingered a second too long when checking bandages, why his voice softened whenever he said "Whitebeard Pirates" like it was something precious. But Stray just sipped his tea, offering nothing else.
The silence left Marco with an odd ache in his chest—not from his wounds, but something like he'd forgotten something important.
｡･::･ﾟ★,｡･::･ﾟ☆
A crayon snapped in Ace's fist as he scribbled violently across the page. "This is you," he declared, shoving the drawing at Marco. The stick figure had yellow hair and what might've been pineapple-shaped flames coming out of its head.
"Flattering," Marco deadpanned.
Stray snorted, reaching over to wipe blue crayon off Ace's cheek. "He draws everyone like that. Last week I was a ‘fire man' with—"
"Fire hair!" Ace interrupted, flailing his arms. "Like this—" He knocked over the crayon box. Marco expected scolding. Instead, Stray just pinched Ace's nose. "Little shit."
"Butthole breath!" Ace shot back gleefully.
Stray gasped in mock outrage. "Where'd you learn that?!"
"You!"
The easy affection between them was...strange. Not the performative kind nobles used, nor the roughhousing Marco saw among pirates. Just Stray's playful shoves always calculated to avoid actually toppling the toddler, Ace's insults delivered while clinging to his brother's sleeve.
Eventually, the crayon drawing stopped, and it was late afternoon. Sunlight came through the kitchen window. Stray was busy cooking, and the sound of him chopping vegetables blended with Ace talking. Marco sat at the table, just watching Stray. He saw how relaxed Stray's shoulders got when he cooked, and that his rolled-up sleeves showed freckles on his forearms, the same kind Ace had on his nose.
Ace, now bored with colouring, had taken to "helping" by handing Stray random utensils. "Big spoon!" he announced, thrusting a ladle at his brother's hip.
Stray accepted the offering, using it to stir the pot one-handed while the other arm kept Ace from climbing the cabinets. A smile naturally spread across Marco's face. He just watched their natural flow in the kitchen.
As shadows lengthened across the floorboards, Stray finally shooed Ace toward the table. "Go bother Marco. I'm banning you from the danger zone."
"Danger zone!" Ace parroted delightedly, scampering to Marco with flour handprints on his overalls. He paused, studying Marco's face with sudden seriousness. "You happy now?"
The question caught Marco off guard. He realized his shoulders had lost their usual tension, his fingers no longer checking reflexively for absent weapons. "Yeah," he murmured, brushing flour from Ace's hair. "I am."
Ace beamed before promptly climbing onto Marco's lap, declaring, "Good. Now you're my chair," just as Stray brought the food to the table. The stew steamed between them, rich with herbs and chunks of tender meat.
Ace’s little feet kicked absently against Marco's shins. "I help you pick carrots," he informed Marco solemnly. "'Cause you hurt."
Stray snorted. "He means he'll steal all your carrots."
"No! I share!" To demonstrate, he plucked a single carrot slice from Marco's bowl and ate it with exaggerated care. "See?"
Marco laughed. The kid's logic was impeccable.
Stray shook his head, but his eyes were soft as he reached over to wipe broth from Ace's chin. "You’re real generous, Ace."
Ace beamed, then promptly stole another carrot.
Across the table, Stray rolled his eyes. "That's not sharing. That's theft." He speared a piece of meat from his own plate and held it out. "Here, firecracker. This is sharing."
Ace obediently leaned forward, mouth opening like a baby bird—only to jerk back at the last second when Stray pretended to eat it himself. The resulting pout could have powered a ship across the Calm Belt.
"Mean!" Ace huffed, crossing his arms.
Stray laughed, finally offering the bite properly. Marco watched the exchange with amusement. There was something mesmerizing about how easily Stray navigated Ace's moods. Teasing just enough to make the toddler giggle, but never crossing into genuine upset.
Then Ace turned those big grey eyes on Marco again. Without breaking eye contact, he reached over and plucked another carrot from Marco's bowl.
"Okay, now you're just robbing me," Marco said, though he made no move to stop him.
Ace chewed thoughtfully before pointing at Marco's spoon. "You eat now."
Marco obliged, taking a bite of stew. Ace's sticky fingers were poking his cheek the moment Marco swallowed,
"No," the toddler corrected, shaking his head. He grabbed Marco's spoon and clumsily scooped up some mashed potatoes. "Like this."
Stray choked on his water. "Oh my god. He's trying to mother you."
Ace ignored him, holding the overloaded spoon toward Marco's mouth with both hands. "Open! Or no heal!"
Marco should have refused. He was a grown man, a Whitebeard Pirate commander, perfectly capable of feeding himself. But something about Ace's determined expression and Stray's barely-contained laughter made him lean forward obediently. The potatoes were warm and slightly smashed from Ace's enthusiastic scooping, but Marco ate them without complaint.
"Happy?" he asked, wiping his mouth.
Ace beamed, then immediately turned to Stray. "Your turn!"
Stray made a show of considering it. "Hmm. Do I get a magic heal if I eat it?"
"Yes."
"Better make it a big bite, then."
Ace dutifully piled the spoon high, then somehow managed to smear half of it on Stray's cheek in his enthusiasm.
Stray gasped. "Assault. By my own brother."
Ace giggled wildly as Stray grabbed him, blowing raspberries against his neck. "Noooo! Pwease! I sowwy!"
The resulting mess, potato on cheeks and Ace's triumphant giggles, left Marco with a strange warmth in his chest. It felt suspiciously like home.
｡･::･ﾟ★,｡･::･ﾟ☆
Stray waved away Marco's offer to help with the clattering dishes. "Nah. You've got a more important job," he said, drying his hands on a towel, then turned to them.
Ace, who had been clinging to Marco’s leg like a tiny barnacle, perked up. "What job?"
Stray grinned, sharp and mischievous, before lunging. Ace shrieked with laughter as his brother scooped him up, dangled him upside down for a brief, dizzying second and then tossed him straight into Marco’s arms.
"Bath time," Stray declared. "And you’re on toddler-wrangling duty."
Ace immediately latched onto Marco’s neck, vibrating with excitement. "Bubbles! Ducks! Bubbles!"
Marco barely had time to process before the kid was dragging him down the hall, tiny hands tugging at his shirt. Behind them, Stray called out, "Don’t let him flood the bathroom again!"
Marco had expected resistance. Most kids hated baths—or at least that’s what his crewmates with children always complained about.
Ace, apparently, was not most kids.
The second the water started running, the toddler was stripping off his clothes with alarming efficiency, tossing them haphazardly across the floor. "In! In!" he demanded, bouncing on his toes.
Marco sighed and reached for the temperature knob. "Hold on, Ace, we gotta—"
"BUBBLES!" Ace interrupted, shoving a bottle of soap into Marco’s hands.
Five minutes later, the tub was more foam than water, and Ace was submerged up to his chin in suds, a fleet of rubber ducks bobbing around him. He looked triumphant.
Marco, now damp up to his elbows, resigned himself to his fate.
｡･::･ﾟ★,｡･::･ﾟ☆
"Scrubby time!" Ace announced, holding up a pair of exfoliating gloves like they were sacred relics.
Marco blinked. "Yoi?"
Ace wiggled the gloves insistently. "For you. Big bwuvver says I can’t use ‘em ‘cause baby skin is del-i-cate." He said the word carefully, like he was proud of remembering it.
Marco opened his mouth to refuse, then closed it. The kid’s expression was determined.
"...Fine."
Ace cheered and immediately went to work, scrubbing at Marco’s back with all the finesse of a tiny, overenthusiastic deckhand. It was painful.
"You’re supposed to exfoliate, yoi. Not flay," Marco muttered.
Ace paused. "Huh?"
"Never mind."
After the bath, Ace toddled over to a neatly folded stack of clothes on the counter.
"Here!" He shoved a bundle at Marco. "For you!"
Marco unfolded them, a soft cotton shirt and loose linen pants. They were his size. He stared. "...How did your brother know?"
Ace shrugged. "Sta’y knows evwything."
Marco filed that away for later.
After dressing in the bathroom, Marco helped Ace into his pyjamas. "Alright, let's get that hair dry," Marco said, lifting him. Ace immediately pointed towards a bedroom. "This is your room now! I'm sleeping with big bwuvver!" he declared, pointing to another room. Marco brought Ace inside, seating him on the edge of the dresser.
The commander ran the towel gently over Ace’s damp hair, the soft curls springing back stubbornly no matter how much he tried to smooth them. The boy hummed contentedly, swinging his legs.
"You and your brother," Marco mused, more to himself than to the toddler, "look so familiar. Like I’ve seen you somewhere before."
Ace tilted his head, water droplets flicking onto Marco’s shirt. "Hmm. Maybe ‘cause of Papa?"
Marco paused. "Your…papa?"
Ace nodded, utterly casual, as if he were commenting on the weather. "Yeah! Gol D. Roger. The Pirate King!"
The towel slipped from Marco’s fingers.
Ace kept talking, oblivious to Marco’s frozen shock. "Big bwuvver says Papa didn’t know ‘bout him, but then Mama had me, and Sta’y took care of me after Mama died. Grandpa took us here ‘cause he was Papa’s friend."
Marco’s mind reeled. Gol D. Roger’s sons. The Pirate King, executed before the world, had left behind two children, one a toddler who shouldn’t exist by normal timelines, the other a young man who carried himself like he’d lived decades longer than his body suggested.
Ace frowned at Marco’s silence. "You okay? You look weird."
Marco opened his mouth. Closed it. His throat felt too tight.
Ace, ever perceptive, patted Marco’s arm. "It’s okay. Sta’y says it’s not my fault. Or his. Or even Papa’s, really." He scrunched his nose, recalling the words with impressive clarity for a three-year-old. "Big bwuvver used to be so mad at Papa. Said…said he hated that evwyone will only see Pirate King’s sons as bad. Sta’y wanted to be strong enough to protect me. And if he was wanted, it was ‘cause of him, not ‘cause of Papa."
The words settled like stones in Marco’s chest.
Ace swung his legs faster. "But then Sta’y came back to help Mama with me, and he stopped being mad! Mama said no promises, but he promised me he wouldn’t waste time being angry. Because love is bigger. So he loves me extra hard every day so I know." He beamed, utterly certain. "And I do know!"
Marco didn’t realize he’d moved until his arms were already wrapping around Ace, pulling the toddler against his chest. The boy smelled like lavender soap and innocence, his tiny heartbeat a steady rhythm against Marco’s own racing pulse.
Ace wiggled but didn’t pull away. "Macco? You crying?"
Marco swallowed hard. "No," he lied, voice rough.
Ace pulled back just enough to squint at him. "Liar," he declared, then, with devastating simplicity, wiped Marco’s cheek with his sleeve. "It’s okay. Sta’y cries sometimes too. But only when he thinks I’m asleep."
The confession shattered what little composure Marco had left. He pressed his forehead to Ace’s, breathing through the ache in his ribs that had nothing to do with his injuries.
"Yoi," Marco managed, "looks like you've got a really good brother there."
The toddler’s face lit up. "The bestest!"
｡･::･ﾟ★,｡･::･ﾟ☆
The living room of the small cottage was lit by the flickering fire in the hearth. Long shadows fell across the wooden floors because of the flames. The fire crackled softly, pushing back the cold evening air coming through the windows. A single oil lamp on the low table added its soft light to the fire's orange glow, making the room feel cosy and sleepy.
Ace was curled up in Marco’s lap, his tiny fingers clutching the fabric of Marco’s shirt as he listened to the end of the story. His eyes were wide, reflecting the firelight.
“And then Pops lifted the whole ship—” Marco began.
“With one hand?!” Ace gasped, bouncing slightly.
Marco chuckled. “With one hand.”
Ace twisted around, looking excitedly at Stray, who had just stepped into the room, his hair still damp from his shower. The firelight caught the droplets clinging to his skin, turning them to gold. He wore loose sleep pants and a well-worn shirt.
“Sta’y! Macco’s Pops was Papa’s rival! And fwiend!” Ace announced, as if this were breaking news.
Stray didn’t even blink. He just smirked, rubbing a towel over his hair before tossing it aside. “Yeah, I know,” he said, voice warm with amusement.
Marco watched him. Ace’s big brother sank onto the rug in front of the hearth, stretching his legs out with a sigh. Ace didn’t hesitate. He wriggled out of Marco’s lap and launched himself at Stray, who caught him effortlessly, pulling him into his arms with familiarity.
Stray blew a raspberry against Ace’s cheek, and the toddler shrieked with laughter, the sound bright and clear in the quiet room. Marco couldn’t help but smile. There was something infectious about Ace’s joy, something that made the air feel lighter.
Then Ace, still giggling, decided to retell Marco’s story, with embellishments.
“And then the old man punched the big mean sea king, but the sea king was nice actually, so they shared meat and juice and then Pops said—”
Stray burst out laughing, his shoulders shaking as Ace proudly butchered the tale. Marco, meanwhile, looked vaguely traumatized.
“That’s not how it happened,” Marco interjected weakly.
“It’s better this way,” Stray said, grinning as Ace nodded sagely. “More drama.”
Marco opened his mouth to protest, but the words died when Stray leaned back against the couch. The firelight caught the curve of his smile, the freckles dusted across his nose, His eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed.
Oh.
Something warm and unnameable curled in Marco’s ribs.
Ace, oblivious, clambered onto Stray’s chest, babbling about how he would be even stronger than Whitebeard and Roger combined. Stray humoured him, nodding along while his fingers idly combed through the toddler’s wild hair.
“You’ll have to beat me first,” Stray teased.
“Nooo,” Ace whined, flopping dramatically onto his brother. “You’re cheating!”
Stray’s laugh was bright, unrestrained, and Marco realized, with a jolt, that he wanted to hear it forever.
｡･::･ﾟ★,｡･::･ﾟ☆
The fire crackled softly as Stray carefully gathered the sleeping toddler into his arms. Ace barely stirred, his little face smashed against his brother's shoulder, one chubby hand still loosely clutching the fabric of Stray's shirt.
"Shhh," Stray murmured when Marco moved to stand. "Stay. I'll just put him down and be right back."
Marco nodded, watching as Stray carried Ace down the dimly lit hallway. The cottage was quiet. Marco could just make out Stray's low voice singing a lullaby before a door clicked shut with barely a sound.
Marco’s elbows rested on his knees. The fingers steepled together as he stared into the dying flames. His mind raced, trying to piece together memories that didn’t exist, trying to recall a moment where the Whitebeards might have crossed paths with Stray.
When? Where?
The creak of the floorboards made him glance up. Stray padded back into the room, his steps quiet, his silhouette outlined by the soft light. He ran a hand through his hair, still slightly damp from his shower, before sinking onto the sofa beside Marco, close enough that their arms brushed.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Marco turned slightly, studying Stray’s profile, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his lashes cast shadows over his cheeks in the dim light. “You said the Whitebeards helped you before,” he started carefully. “But I don’t remember you.”
Stray didn’t look at him. Instead, he leaned back against the cushions, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. “It was a long time ago,” he said simply. “Your crew helped a lot of people. I doubt you remember all of them.”
Plausible. Marco frowned. But…
“Where was it?” he pressed.
Stray shrugged. “Some island. Doesn’t matter now.” His lips quirked into a small smile. “Point is, you did. And I never forgot.”
The answer was vague, but there was no lie in it. Marco could feel that. Stray wasn’t hiding anything, not in the way liars did. He was just… selective. And yet, Marco couldn’t shake the nagging sense that there was more.
But before he could push further, his thoughts derailed entirely, because Stray shifted beside him, stretching his arms above his head with a quiet sigh, the fabric of his shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin.
Marco’s throat went dry.
Oh.
It hit him like a tidal wave. Marco’s pulse jumped when Stray laughed. His chest tightened when Stray ruffled Ace’s hair, his breath caught now at something as simple as skin.
I like him.
Not just as a person. Not just as someone admirable.
I like him.
The realization didn’t panic him. It didn’t send him spiralling. It just… settled. Warm. Certain. And then, because Marco’s brain-to-mouth filter had apparently short-circuited, he blurted out:
“You and Ace… I still think you look more like your mother than Roger.”
Stray froze.
For a heartbeat, the room was utterly still. Then, slowly, Stray turned to face him. His cheeks were tinged pink, his lips parted slightly in surprise. And then he laughed. Bright, unrestrained, his shoulders shaking with it.
Marco stared, utterly captivated.
Yeah. I’m falling hard.
｡･::･ﾟ★,｡･::･ﾟ☆
Golden light filtered through the thin curtains when Marco stirred. For a disoriented moment, he forgot where he was, until a weight settled on his stomach.
"Macco breathing."
The toddler's face hovered inches above his own. Before Marco could respond, Ace plopped down onto his chest with a giggle, tiny fingers poking at the bandages peeking beneath his shirt.
"All better now?"
Outside, seabirds cried over the distant crash of waves, a sound that usually called him to the sea, but today just made him tighten his grip around the child.
Marco had planned to leave at dawn.
He hadn't.
Now, as afternoon sun warmed the wooden floors, he stood by the door, his bag slung over one shoulder. Stray leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching him with that same quiet understanding that both comforted and unnerved Marco.
Ace was nowhere to be seen.
"I told him," Stray said softly, answering Marco's unspoken question. "He...needed a minute."
Marco's chest tightened. He opened his mouth—to say what, he wasn't sure—when small, hurried footsteps pattered down the hall.
Ace skidded to a stop in front of Marco, his face suspiciously red around the eyes, his breaths coming in little hiccups. He clutched something behind his back, his tiny shoulders squared with determination.
"You...you leaving."
Marco crouched to his level. "Yeah."
Ace's lips trembled. For a terrifying second, Marco thought the kid might cry. Then, with a sniffle, Ace thrust his arms forward, revealing a worn, floppy-eared stuffed rabbit. Its fur was matted from years of love, one button eye hanging by a thread.
"This is Old Hag," Ace announced solemnly.
Marco blinked. "Old Hag, yoi?"
Ace nodded, utterly serious. "She's my bestest friend. But you're my friend too, so...so… you take her. So you don't forget me."
Marco's throat closed. "Ace, I can't—"
"Yes!" Ace stomped his foot, tears finally spilling over. "Sta'y says… says friends protect each other! And Old Hag protects me, so now she'll protect you!"
Over Ace's head, Marco met Stray's gaze. The younger man's eyes were bright. "Take it," Stray murmured. "Or he'll scream."
Marco swallowed hard and carefully tucked the rabbit into his bag.
"Thank you, Ace."
Ace scrubbed at his face with his sleeve, then launched himself at Marco, tiny arms wrapping around his neck in a crushing hug. Marco held him tight, committing to memory the feel of the toddler's wild hair against his cheek, the way he smelled like sunshine and stubbornness.
When Ace pulled back, he grabbed Marco's hand, dragging him to the couch. "Sit! I gotta tell you Old Hag's story!"
Marco obeyed, letting the toddler clamber onto his lap. Stray settled beside them, his shoulder brushing Marco's.
"Old Hag lived on a super scary island. Bad people came all the time to steal stuff. And...and no one helped them." His tiny brows furrowed, repeating words clearly memorized from Stray. "They had to fight all by themselves. But then!" Ace bounced suddenly. "A giant came on a big ship! And he said—" Ace deepened his voice in a terrible imitation of Whitebeard's rumble, "'Little rabbit, you don't gotta fight alone no more!'"
Stray's hand tightened on the couch cushion beside Marco.
"The giant had lots of friends," Ace continued, counting on his fingers. "Big sisters who fixed boo-boos, and uncles who told jokes, and… and everyone loved Old Hag even when she was grumpy!" He hugged the rabbit fiercely. "The giant said family isn't just blood. it's when people choose to love you forever."
Marco's throat burned.
Ace peered up at Marco, suddenly shy. "Old Hag was really brave. But the giant was braver. He let her be soft sometimes." He thrust the rabbit forward. "So you gotta take her. So you remember being soft is okay too."
Marco reached out with trembling hands, accepting the worn toy. Its fur was damp from Ace's tears.
｡･::･ﾟ★,｡･::･ﾟ☆
The wind whipped across the cliffs of Foosha Village. Marco adjusted the strap of his makeshift bag, a simple cloth bundle holding some provisions and, of course, Old Hag the rabbit, as he stood facing Stray and Ace.
Ace was perched on Stray’s hip, his small arms wrapped tightly around his brother’s neck, his face still a little red from earlier tears. But he wasn’t crying now. He just watched Marco with those big, serious grey eyes, as if memorizing every detail.
Marco exhaled, then reached up to the thin cord around his neck. Tied to it was a simple silver ring, worn smooth from years against his skin. He tugged it free, the metal warm from his body heat.
Stray raised an eyebrow as Marco stepped closer. "What’s this?"
Marco didn’t answer. Instead, he took Stray’s free hand, the one not holding Ace, and slid the ring onto his finger. It fit perfectly. The ring had once belonged to his mother, a simple thing she'd worn until her last breath. When Marco set sail with Whitebeard, he'd threaded it onto a cord, keeping it close as a reminder of where he came from.
Stray blinked. Then his lips curled into a dry smirk. "You proposing, pineapple?"
Marco’s lazy grin was answer enough.
Ace, ever observant, gasped. "You kiss now too?" He slapped his hands over his eyes dramatically. "I close eyes! You kiss!"
Stray groaned. "You little sh—"
Marco just chuckled, ruffling Ace’s wild hair before leaning in to press a kiss to the toddler’s forehead. "Be good, Ace."
Ace peeked through his fingers. "You come back?"
Marco didn’t promise. He couldn’t. Not when the sea was unpredictable, not when the world was vast, but he squeezed Stray’s hand, the one now wearing his ring, and said, "We’ll see."
They stood there for a moment longer, the wind tugging at their clothes, the waves crashing below. Then, just as Marco turned to leave, Stray caught his wrist.
Marco glanced back, just in time for Stray to lean up and press a quick, firm kiss to his cheek.
"Don’t get too comfortable," Stray murmured, his smirk sharpening. "Might have some competition soon."
Marco’s grin widened. The sky burned gold as the commander stepped to the cliff’s edge, the sun dipping low over the sea. He could still feel the ghost of Stray’s lips on his skin. Maybe in another life, they had met. Maybe in another world, their paths hadn’t been drawn apart so soon.
Flames wreathed Marco’s shoulders as his phoenix form ignited, blue and brilliant against the dusk. Behind him, Ace’s awed gasp carried on the wind, tiny hands clapping together.
One last look.
Stray stood tall, the setting sun painting him in fire and shadow, Ace balanced on his hip. The silver band gleamed on his finger, catching the light like a promise. With a beat of fiery wings, Marco launched into the sky. The sea stretched endlessly before him, vast and waiting.
｡･::･ﾟ★,｡･::･ﾟ☆
The rabbit had become something of a legend aboard the Moby Dick.
It sat on Marco's desk, perched atop a stack of unpaid invoices like some shabby royalty. Its remaining button eye gleamed in the lamplight, threadbare fur brushed smooth from seven years of absent-minded petting whenever Marco reviewed reports.
"Oy, Marco!" Thatch kicked open the cabin door, balancing three sake bottles and a plate of onigiri. "I had a vision about our lucky charm. We should - augh!" A well-aimed logbook sent Thatch stumbling backward.
"No shrines," Marco said without looking up. "No altars. No festivals."
"That rabbit's got better survival rates than half our crew!" Thatch protested, dodging another flying ledger. "It's clearly magical—"
A commotion in the hall cut him off. Haruta's voice, high with excitement, echoed down the corridor. "—burned ten Marine outpost to the ground and stole their flagpole—!"
The navigator burst in, waving a fresh bounty poster like a victory flag. "New rookie making waves! They're calling him Firestorm Stray"
Marco's pen snapped.
The poster stared back at him.
Portgas D. Stray. Captain of the Ember Pirates.
The artist had captured him mid-laugh, flames curling around his shoulders like living things. Marco’s thumb lingered on the smudged ink where Stray's fingers curled around the hilt of his knife, the ring catching the light.
"Thatch," Marco said, very calmly.
"Yeah?"
"Get out."
The door slammed shut behind his sputtering brother. Marco leaned forward, elbows on the desk, Old Hag the rabbit staring judgmentally at him from the paperwork.
"Seven crewmembers?"
"Yup," Haruta added, oblivious to Marco's sudden stillness. "Three of 'em are cabin boys." He squinted at the description. "One's got a creepy-ass grin, another wears a straw hat, and the blonde one keeps whacking Marines with a metal pipe."
Something warm and terrible unfurled in Marco's chest. He stared at the poster until the edges curled from his grip.
Ember Pirates.
Cheeky bastard.