Chapter-1

The Moby Dick creaked and moaned beneath Atlas, its rhythm lost on the seven-year-old perched on the railing. His dark hair, usually bouncing with restless energy, hung lank and limp, mirroring the despair in his eyes. 

Days without sleep had etched shadows beneath them, stark against the pale skin stretched tight across his bony face.

Marco landed a gentle hand on his shoulder, a silent query. Atlas barely seemed to register it, his gaze fixed on the endless churn of the sea. "He'll be back, kiddo," Marco rumbled, his voice warm like melted honey. "It'll take time, a long night maybe, but he will be here by tomorrow."

Atlas's head flicked back, the defiance in his eyes surprising for one so small. "It's just a night," he rasped, voice hoarse from disuse. "I can wait."

Marco's smile faltered. The kid was tougher than nails, that much was true. "Sleep, Little Atlas," he urged, concern lacing his words. "You ain't gonna live long enough to see Pops return if you keep this up."

The defiance hardened into a scowl. "I said I'm waiting!" Atlas flung Marco's hand off, his small frame quivering with unshed tears. "He wouldn't want me asleep. What if he comes back and I miss him?"

Marco sighed, the weariness etching deeper lines around his eyes. He knelt before the boy, placing a calloused hand on his chin. "He knows you love him, Atlas. He can feel it even across the seas. Sleep and when you wake, he'll be the first thing you see."

Atlas trembled, the fight draining from his body like air from a punctured lung. Tears welled up, blurring his vision. He sniffled, a choked sob escaping his lips. Marco wrapped him in a hug, the scent of old pipe tobacco and sea salt a comforting presence. The boy clung to him, the rigid tension slowly melting away.

"Alright, Little Man," Marco murmured, rocking him gently. "Close your eyes, rest your head. Pops wouldn't want you with these dark circles under your eyes, right?"

Atlas chuckled, a weak, wet sound. "No," he mumbled, leaning into Marco's warmth. "He wouldn't."

Marco eased Atlas onto the soft bed, the boy's small frame limp from exhaustion. A year. It had been a year since Whitebeard had sailed out to crush the pirate incursion, leaving Marco with the uneasy task of shepherding the restless crew and their even more restless children.

Inside the captain's quarters, Atlas stirred. Sleep had finally claimed him after a night filled with restless anticipation. Now, bathed in the soft morning light, his eyes fluttered open. One fleeting thought ignited a spark within him - Papa.

He threw off the sheets in a flurry, the silk tangling around his legs. Barefoot, he raced to the door, flinging it open with a cry that echoed through the corridors, "Papa!"

The emptiness of the hallway mirrored the hollowness in his chest. Undeterred, he sprinted onto the deck, his voice gaining urgency with each repetition, "Papa! Papa!"

Marco, deep in conversation with some crewmates, noticed the boy's panicked search. A reassuring smile softened his features. "He'll be here any minute now, Little Brother," he rumbled, his voice a soothing balm.

But Atlas wasn't listening. He scrambled towards the ship's railing, ignoring Marco's calls. With surprising agility for his small frame, he began to climb the mast, propelled by a yearning that transcended reason. Reaching the crow's nest, he snatched the binoculars, their cool metal chilling his hands.

His gaze swept across the endless blue expanse, searching, hoping. Hour after hour ticked by, measured by the relentless sun climbing higher in the sky. The midday heat beat down, sweat beading on Atlas's forehead, unnoticed in the single-minded focus of his search.

The crew murmured amongst themselves, concern creeping into their voices. "He'll get sunstroke, bring him down already, Marco," one gruff pirate muttered.

Marco, oblivious to their words, remained beside the mast, his own gaze locked on the horizon. Hope, like a flickering candle flame, refused to be extinguished. He saw Atlas lower the binoculars, a strange stillness settling over the boy.

Suddenly, Atlas spoke, his voice barely a whisper, "He's here."

Marco's head snapped up, disbelief etched on his face. "What?"

"Papa's here," Atlas repeated, his voice gaining strength. He threw his head back and let out a cry that rang across the ship, a beacon piercing the vastness of the ocean.

The Moby Dick sliced through the dawn, its sails catching the first brush of gold. On the prow, Whitebeard stood, weathered face creased in a familiar grin. Flanking him were pillars of strength - Jozu, the diamond giant, stoic and immovable, and blackbeard, still gloomy and sus-looking.

Cheers from the ship echoed across the waiting crowd. From his perch in Marco's arms, Atlas saw it first - the iconic Jolly Roger. "Papa!" he cried, his voice a beacon across the waves.

Whitebeard's hand rose, a silent answer to the call.

With a majestic groan, the Moby Dick finally nosed alongside the waiting ship. 

Atlas, perched atop the railing, saw him instantly. "Papa!" he cried, his voice a joyous spear flung across the deck. Whitebeard's weathered face softened, a smile lines crinkling around his eyes. "Have you been well, son?" his voice boomed, carrying the reassurance of a summer storm.

Atlas couldn't wait. With a reckless disregard for height, he launched himself downwards, a blur of dark hair and desperate longing. Before he could hit the deck, two strong arms scooped him up mid-air. A relieved laugh rumbled from Whitebeard's chest as he hugged Atlas tight, the boy's small form swallowed by the vast expanse of his captain's coat.

Atlas buried his face in the familiar scent of salt and pipe tobacco, tears finally spilling down his cheeks. "You took so long," he mumbled, his voice muffled against the rough fabric.

Whitebeard chuckled, the sound rough yet comforting. "Battles rarely respect schedules, little one," he replied, nuzzling Atlas's hair with his own grizzled beard. "But I'm here now, safe and sound."

He pulled back, holding Atlas at arm's length. His gaze swept over the boy, noting the growth spurt, the smattering of freckles across his nose, the spark of unyielding spirit still burning bright in his eyes. "You've gotten bigger, stronger," he said, a hint of pride lacing his voice.

Atlas grinned, wiping his tears with a fist. "Strong enough to be your first mate on your next adventure, Pops?" he challenged, his voice filled with newfound confidence.

Whitebeard's eyes twinkled. "Perhaps," he rumbled, "but first, tell me all about what mischief you've been up to while I was gone."

***

Atlas, perched precariously on Whitebeard's massive knee, looked up with wide, inquisitive eyes. The rumble of his Papa's voice had faded, leaving only the faint echo and a curious silence hanging in the air. "We have a devil fruit," the words repeated themselves in Atlas' mind, their meaning slowly sinking in.

He held aloft a devil fruit the color of a Caribbean beach - a light blue adorned with swirling X's. An air of anticipation crackled, the crew buzzing with the possibilities of possessing the mythical Henkan Henkan no Mi.

"This Devil Fruit grants the ability to adapt to anything," Whitebeard boomed, his voice echoing across the deck. "Any attack, any environment, your body will adapt to it." He paused, letting the weight of the revelation sink in. "However, there are conditons," he added, tapping a strange eight-pointed wheel etched on the fruit's skin. "It appears on the user's chest, marking the adaptation process. Each time, the wheel turns, the more the user gets adapted to the attack."

A low murmur swept through the crowd. Veterans like Marco, the Phoenix, weighed the risks with seasoned eyes. Younger pirates, like the brash Izo, practically vibrated with barely contained excitement.

Then, silence shattered.

A loud GULP ripped through the air, followed by a series of choked coughs. All eyes snapped towards the source: Atlas, perched comfortably on Whitebeard's lap, a sizeable chunk of the devil fruit jutting from his cheek.

"It's disgusting," Atlas mumbled, wiping a smear of blue from his chin. "Tastes like seawater and poop."

The deck erupted in chaos.

Marco choked on his laughter, tears streaming down his face. Izo doubled over, clutching his stomach, his guffaws echoing like cannon fire. The stoic Jozu even cracked a rare smile, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Atlas!" Whitebeard roared, but a twinkle in his eye betrayed his amusement. "You little scamp! You ate the most powerful fruit we've encountered in years!"

The crew descended into pandemonium. Bets were flying, theories spun wilder than a Drunken Monkey's dance.

"He'll turn into a fish if he falls overboard!"

"Maybe he can adapt to Marco's flames now!"

"He'll be the slipperiest pirate the Grand Line has ever seen!"