Three days out from Loguetown, the Dancing Mermaid floated peacefully on calm seas under a brilliant afternoon sun. The initial excitement of their escape had settled into the comfortable routine of ship life, though "routine" was perhaps too strong a word for a crew that included a former Celestial Dragon who kept trying to organize the ship's supplies alphabetically.
"Atlas," Marina said patiently, emerging from the engine room to find their captain carefully arranging coils of rope by length and diameter, "pirates don't usually maintain inventory systems."
"But how do you find things efficiently?" Atlas asked, his hazel eyes genuinely confused. "What if we need exactly seventeen meters of three-quarter-inch rope in an emergency?"
"We improvise," Ezra called from the wheel, clearly amused by this ongoing discussion. "That's what makes us pirates instead of merchants!"
Atlas considered this seriously. "So piracy is fundamentally about creative problem-solving under resource constraints?"
"That's... actually not wrong," Marina admitted.
"Excellent! I'm very good at creative problem-solving!" Atlas beamed, then paused. "Though I suppose most of my previous solutions involved having unlimited resources and legal immunity."
"Aye, that might be a problem," Ezra chuckled. "Speaking of which, we should probably discuss our next destination. We can't just sail around in circles forever, no matter how pleasant the weather is."
Crusher, who had been unusually quiet since their escape, looked up from where he'd been studying a Marine-issue map with obvious internal conflict. "Actually, that brings up something we need to talk about."
The cheerful atmosphere on deck shifted slightly as everyone turned their attention to the Vice Admiral. Atlas's Devil Fruit automatically began reading the tension in Crusher's posture, but he consciously suppressed the analysis. Whatever Crusher had to say, he deserved to be heard as a friend, not studied as a potential threat.
"I can't stay with your crew," Crusher said bluntly. "Much as I've enjoyed the last few days, I'm still a Marine. I have responsibilities."
Atlas felt something twist in his chest—disappointment, but also understanding. "Of course you do. I never expected you to abandon your principles for us."
"That's just it, though," Crusher continued, his scarred face thoughtful. "Spending time with you three has made me think about what my principles actually are. I became a Marine to protect people, not to execute kids who ask too many questions."
He gestured toward the horizon where several islands were visible as distant smudges. "There's a Marine base on Petra Island, about a day's sail from here. I need to report in, explain what happened in Loguetown, and figure out where I stand with the service."
"Will you get in trouble for helping us?" Marina asked with genuine concern.
Crusher's grin was rueful. "Probably. But that's my problem to solve, not yours."
Atlas stood up from his rope organization project, his expression serious. "Crusher, if there's anything we can do to help—"
"There is, actually," the Vice Admiral interrupted. "You can stay away from Petra Island. It's a major Marine stronghold, and showing up there would be like painting a target on your backs."
"But what if they punish you unfairly?" Atlas pressed. "What if they don't understand that you were upholding Marine justice?"
Crusher's expression softened slightly. "Kid, you've got a good heart. But sometimes doing the right thing means accepting the consequences. That's part of being an adult."
Atlas looked like he wanted to argue further, but Ezra cleared his throat meaningfully.
"The boy's got a point, Atlas. We can't solve everyone's problems for them, much as we might want to."
"Besides," Marina added, "Crusher's one of the good Marines. If anyone can make them understand, it's him."
Atlas's Devil Fruit was practically humming with the urge to adapt, to find some solution that would let them help their friend without consequences. But looking at Crusher's determined expression, he realized that some problems couldn't be solved with power or adaptation. They required something much harder: trust in other people's ability to handle their own challenges.
"All right," Atlas said finally. "But if you ever need help, or if the Marines don't appreciate having an officer with actual principles, you'll always have a place with us."
"I'll keep that in mind, Captain."
The conversation was interrupted by a shout from Marina, who had climbed partway up the mast to check their position. "Ship on the horizon! No, wait—ships! Multiple vessels approaching from the northeast!"
Atlas's enhanced vision immediately focused on the distant specks, his Devil Fruit automatically analyzing their configuration and speed. What he saw made his blood run cold.
"Three ships in formation, moving fast, and they're flying... that's not a Marine flag."
"Pirates?" Ezra asked, his weathered hands already adjusting their heading.
"Worse," Atlas said grimly. "That's a World Government flag, but not standard Marine issue. Black and gold instead of blue and white."
Crusher was already moving toward the ship's rail, pulling out a pair of Marine-issue binoculars. After a moment of observation, his face went pale.
"That's a Government Special Operations fleet. Three ships, probably carrying enhanced weaponry and specialist personnel."
"Enhanced how?" Marina asked, though her tone suggested she didn't really want to know.
"The kind of enhancement that turns normal Marines into weapons," Crusher replied grimly. "Experimental Devil Fruit serums, cybernetic implants, psychological conditioning. They're not soldiers anymore—they're tools."
Atlas felt his crew's fear spike, and his Devil Fruit responded by flooding his system with protective adaptations. But instead of letting the power take over, he took a deep breath and focused on the problem at hand.
"How much of a head start do we have?"
"Maybe twenty minutes," Ezra estimated. "The Dancing Mermaid's fast, but those ships are purpose-built for pursuit."
"Can we outrun them?"
"Not in open water. We'd need cover, or a distraction, or—" Ezra paused, his expression shifting to something Atlas was starting to recognize as the old captain's 'terrible idea' face. "Actually, there might be something we can try."
"I don't like that tone," Marina muttered.
"What kind of something?" Atlas asked.
"Well, there's a reason I modified this ship with flying capabilities," Ezra said slowly. "It wasn't just for speed. Sometimes, the best way to avoid pursuit is to go where your pursuers can't follow."
He pointed ahead to where a massive wall of storm clouds stretched across the horizon like a gray-black mountain range.
"That's a Grand Line weather system—the kind that eats normal ships for breakfast. But the Dancing Mermaid, with her aerial capabilities and reinforced hull, might just be able to ride it out."
"Might?" Marina repeated.
"Seventy-thirty odds in our favor!"
"And if we don't make it?"
Ezra's grin was both terrifying and infectious. "Then we'll go down as the crew that tried to fly through a hurricane! They'll sing songs about us!"
Atlas looked at his crew—Marina calculating engineering probabilities in her head, Crusher grimly assessing their tactical options, and Ezra practically bouncing with excitement at the prospect of impossible odds.
This was it. His first real test as a captain. Not against individual enemies he could overpower, but against a situation that would require trust, coordination, and the kind of leadership he'd never learned in any Celestial Dragon handbook.
"All right," Atlas said, feeling something crystallize in his chest. "We fly through the storm."
"Are you sure about this?" Crusher asked.
Atlas's hazel eyes shifted to gold, not with overwhelming power but with quiet determination. "I'm sure about my crew. That's what matters."
As the Dancing Mermaid changed course toward the wall of storm clouds, Atlas stood at the bow and felt the first stirrings of what might just be genuine confidence. Not in his power, but in the people who'd chosen to follow him into the impossible.