Chapter-3

Sun bled orange onto Moby Dick's weathered deck, painting long shadows and casting the gathered crews in a golden hue. Whitebeard, a mountain of a man draped in white bandages, creaked into his Captain's seat. Each groan of protest from his old bones echoed the rumble in his chest. The air was thick with anticipation, heavier than the sea salt breeze.

Days had ticked by since Atlas's fight with the Marines. News, carried by seagulls, had reached Whitebeard. Now, his sons, his family, stood in respectful silence.

"Atlas," his voice, rough as driftwood, boomed across the deck. The dark-haired man stepped forward, chin held high despite the tremors in his hands. "You fought well, boy. That fire, I like it." A gruff smile tugged at the corner of Whitebeard's lips. But then, the storm gathered again. "But you disobeyed an order. Marco was in charge."

Atlas met his gaze unflinchingly. "I couldn't stand by, Pops. They deserved it." The arrogance, raw and undeniable, hung in the air.

Marco, the Phoenix, chuckled, a low rumble that eased the tension. "He's just a kid, Pops. Let him fly a little high."

Whitebeard snorted. "Don't coddle him." But there was no heat in his words. He loved his sons, all of them, even the hotheaded ones. Atlas, the youngest, had always been a bit wilder, a bit more prone to reckless conflict. 

It was how he'd earned his nickname, after all. But Whitebeard wouldn't let him turn into a cold, detached like some he'd seen.

"I understand, Pops," Atlas said, his voice dropping a notch. "If you want to punish me..."

The giant paw landed on his head, not harsh, but firm. "Punish? You think I haven't seen the good in what you did? We needed a spark, kid. Just make sure next time, the spark doesn't singe your own wings."

Atlas eyes, about to tear up.

But then, Jozu, the Diamond, stepped forward, his booming laugh shattering the tension. "Pops is right, Atlas," he rumbled, a playful jab to the young man's shoulder. "Next time, let your big brothers handle that, yeah? But hey, gotta admit, seeing you tear through those Marines was like watching a storm in bloom!"

Vista, the Flower Swordsman, sauntered up, his grin as sharp as his katana. "Speaking of storms, did you see the fear in that Vice Admiral's eyes, little brother? Pure gold, I tell ya!" He winked, his teasing laced with affection.

Even Izo, the rainmaker, cracked a rare smile. "Reckless? Maybe. But you stirred things up, kid. We needed that." His voice, usually as smooth as silk, held a surprising edge of respect.

Atlas felt a warmth spread through him, chasing away the lingering tension. These weren't just his commanders, they were his family, and family stuck together, even when one of them flew a little too close to the sun.

Marco, landed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Don't sweat it, little brother. Pops just doesn't want you getting too reckless, that's all." His eyes, pools of molten gold, held a flicker of amusement. "Besides, a little chaos every now and then keeps things interesting, wouldn't you say?"

Atlas couldn't help but grin. "You could say that again, Brother." He glanced around at the faces of his brothers, each one etched with concern and a touch of amusement, and his heart swelled. 

He was young, brash, yes, but he belonged. He was loved, even when he pushed the boundaries. Being the youngest, he was loved the most and even spoiled by every single one of them.

Turning to Whitebeard, Atlas offered a confident salute. "Aye, Pops. Next time, I will listen to brothers."

The old man chuckled. "See that you do, boy."

Amidst the cheers and camaraderie, Atlas's gaze found Blackbeard, who stood apart, a shadow amidst the sunlit scene. Their eyes locked, a silent exchange. In Blackbeard's sly grin, Atlas saw not just a crewmate, but a potential storm brewing within their own ranks, a threat to the very family he cherished.

A fierce protectiveness flared in Atlas's chest. "I won't let you destroy this family," he whispered, the words barely audible yet heavy with conviction.

A hush fell over the crew, the young doctor, emerged from Whitebeard's quarters, his brow furrowed. Whispers rippled through the ranks, carrying the weight of the doctor's words: "His health… it's only declining from here. The strain on his body… even limiting his Devil Fruit usage…"

The tension was palpable. Whitebeard, the immovable mountain, the symbol of their strength, facing such vulnerability. Marco, exchanged a worried glance with Vista and Jozu.

Suddenly, a voice boomed across the deck, startling the crew. "He isnt some fragile doll," It was Atlas, his dark eyes flushed with defiance. "Remember when he had that heart attack? Did he faint? No! He stood tall! There's' no way he is giving up now, not by a long shot."

Hope flickered in the pirates' eyes. "You're right, Atlas," mumbled Rakuyo, the usually stoic Forest Commander. "He's got fight in him, that old man."

Atlas nodded, his gaze unwavering. "He's got a long life ahead of him. And anyone who thinks otherwise, they can come face me!"

A murmur of agreement rose from the crew.

Marco sighed, shaking his head at Atlas's brashness but unable to suppress a small smile. "Don't go picking fights, kid. But you're right, Pops isn't one to give in easily." He glanced at Whitebeard, who sat on the deck, a flagon of sake in hand, a stubborn glint in his eye. "Though," he muttered, "limiting his drinking might be another battle altogether."

A collective sigh rippled through the commanders. Changing Whitebeard's habits? Easier said than done.

Just then, an island materialized on the horizon. A haven for rest, a chance to regroup. As Moby Dick sailed towards it, everyone cheered.

***

As Moby Dick anchored near the island, a flurry of activity erupted on the shore. Pirates, freed from the confines of the ship, spilled onto the sandy beach like joyous children.

Whitebeard, perched on the deck, watched them with a fond smile. The sight of his crew, relaxed and carefree, warmed his old heart. His gaze then settled on Atlas, emerging from the galley doors. The young man, ever the energetic one, struggled to carry a bowl larger than himself, filled with a steaming concoction.

With a determined grunt, Atlas reached the captain and proudly set the bowl down. "Eat up, Dad," he announced, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Whitebeard chuckled, raising an eyebrow at the oversized vessel. "What is this concoction, Atlas?"

"Cooked meat and Sea King soup!" Atlas declared, puffing out his chest. "Good for your health, probably." He added, wagging his eyebrows conspiratorially, "And delicious, even better."

Whitebeard met his gaze, a playful wariness replacing his amusement. Then, a familiar rumble escaped his chest. "Fine," he conceded, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "But if it sends me coughing like a sea lion..."

Atlas, quick as ever, interjected, "It won't! It's magic soup!" He watched, barely containing his amusement, as Whitebeard hoisted the entire bowl to his lips and drained it in one swift gulp.

When Whitebeard lowered the bowl, a surprised cough escaped him. But then, a smile bloomed on his weathered face. "Not bad, kid," he admitted, wiping his mouth with a sleeve. "Not bad at all."

Atlas's grin widened. "I told you!" He clapped his hands, his joy infectious. "Now go join the others, have some fun!" Whitebeard urged, gesturing towards the beach.

Atlas hesitated, his face falling slightly. "But Pops, it's more fun being with you."

Whitebeard ruffled his hair affectionately. "I appreciate that, boy, but you need to blow off some steam too. Go on, before I change my mind and make you eat the leftovers!"

Atlas chuckled, understanding the playful threat. "Alright, alright," he conceded, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. "Just call for me if you need anything, Dad!"

"I can do things on my own," Whitebeard remarked. "I am not that old yet,"