A/N: this one is very long like 7K word count, I was sad while making it but it’s not sad.
Rayleigh stood on the deck, eyes sweeping over the crew like he was inspecting a battlefield instead of a nursery.
In one arm he held a small list he had written in his careful hand, while Shanks clung to his coat, already trying to chew on the first mate’s sleeve. In the other, he gently rocked a dozing Buggy.
“Listen carefully.” Rayleigh said. “Their bottles are prepared and kept cool. Warm them only slightly, never boiling. If either of them starts fussing after feeding, check the diaper first. Always. If they cry without reason, walk the deck with them. Do not, under any circumstances, leave them unattended near the rail. And if-”
“We know!” Roger waved a large hand, grinning. “Rayleigh. Feed them, change them, don’t drop them overboard. Easy.”
A few of the crew nodded along with carefully neutral faces.
“If one of them develops a fever-” Rayleigh continued.
“Call the doctor.” someone said quickly.
“If they start crawling toward the cannons-”
“Pick them up.” another voice added. Roger clapped Rayleigh on the shoulder.
“You’ve raised them this far. We can manage a few hours. Go finish your errands. The boys will be fine.”
Rayleigh looked from face to face. Everyone met his gaze with the same calm, almost bored assurance. No one smirked. No one glanced sideways. The performance was perfect. He exhaled through his nose, still reluctant.
“I will be back before sundown. Do not make me regret this.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Roger said cheerfully.
Rayleigh carefully handed Buggy over to one of the more responsible-looking crewmen, set Shanks down for a moment to adjust his coat, then finally walked down the gangplank. He glanced back once. The crew waved. Roger gave him a thumbs-up.
The moment Rayleigh disappeared from sight, Roger’s smile widened into something far more dangerous. He turned to the rest of the crew, voice dropping into the low, excited growl of a captain about to start a raid.
“All right, you lot. You heard the man. He’s gone. Ready your bets.”
A ripple of pure glee ran through the pirates.
Coins and berries appeared in an instant. Someone produced the carved wooden toy. Another man started clearing space on the deck.
“First event: Diaper Dash. Place your-”
Both babies scrunched their faces in perfect unison. Buggy’s lower lip trembled. A second later he let out a sharp, indignant wail. Shanks, meanwhile, huffed out a long, satisfied breath of pure relief… then immediately started giggling at the chaos around him, bouncing in place like the entire crew’s excitement was the best entertainment in the world.
It rolled across the deck like a stink bomb had been detonated. Men gagged. A few staggered backward. Someone covered their nose with both hands. Another looked ready to abandon ship.
Roger’s grin faltered for half a second as the full force of it reached him. He glanced down at the two tiny culprits, one now howling, the other still laughing through the stench, and made an executive decision.
“Scratch Diaper Dash!” he announced, waving a hand in front of his face. “First event is Swaddle Showdown. Fastest clean change wins.”
He pointed at two of the crew.
“Erio. Petermoo. You’re up. Winner takes the pot. Loser changes the next one alone.”
The rest of the pirates groaned in collective disgust but still crowded closer, holding their noses, already shouting odds as Erio and Petermoo stared at each other in pure horror.
In the babies room, Erio and Petermoo stood frozen for a full three seconds, staring at each other like men who had just been sentenced to walk the plank.
Then the crew’s shouting from outside the room, trying to protect themselves from the smell, snapped them into motion.
“I put five thousand berries on Erio!”
“Petermoo’s got smaller hands, he’s got this!”
“Someone open a window before we all pass out!”
Erio dove for Shanks. Petermoo lunged for the still-wailing Buggy. Both men yanked open the supply chest at the same time, nearly cracking heads. Diapers, soft cloths, and a bottle of the special cleaning solution Rayleigh had left flew everywhere.
The smell only got worse once the old diapers were unfastened.
Shanks, still giggling through the stench, kicked his little legs like he was cheering them on. Buggy, red-faced and furious, tried to roll away every time Petermoo got close.
“Hold still, you little clown!” Petermoo gritted, wrestling one tiny arm into a clean onesie while gagging.
Erio was faring only slightly better. Shanks kept reaching up and grabbing fistfuls of the man’s hair, laughing harder every time Erio yelped.
Roger leaned on the mast, arms crossed, watching with open delight.
“Thirty seconds! Faster!”
The rest of the crew had formed a half-circle, most of them holding their noses or using scarves as makeshift masks. Bets were being adjusted mid-race.
“No he’s not, look, Shanks just peed again!”
Erio’s face went pale as a fresh warm trickle appeared. He muttered something very un-pirate-like under his breath and started over. Petermoo, meanwhile, had finally gotten Buggy clean and was desperately trying to fasten the last corner of the diaper. Buggy chose that exact moment to let out another ear-splitting wail and smack him square in the nose with a tiny fist.
The entire deck erupted. Roger threw his head back and laughed so hard he had to wipe his eyes.
In the end it was pure chaos. Erio finished first by a hair, only because Shanks had finally decided to cooperate once the second diaper was on, while Petermoo was still trying to soothe a now clean but thoroughly offended Buggy.
“Winner: Erio! Collect your winnings. Petermoo, you’re on permanent diaper duty for the next hour!”
Petermoo collapsed onto his back, staring at the sky in defeat.
Shanks, freshly changed and delighted with himself, clapped his chubby hands. Buggy, still scowling, finally quieted… only to immediately start chewing on Petermoo’s shirt sleeve.
Erio raised both arms in victory while the crew groaned and paid up. Petermoo remained flat on his back, one arm draped over his face, Buggy still chewing determinedly on his sleeve.
Roger clapped his hands, already scanning the deck for the next victims.
“All right! Next event! Fashion Disaster. Who can dress these two little monsters in the most ridiculous outfits before Rayleigh gets back?”
He pointed at two men who had been wisely staying near the back of the crowd.
“Spencer. Mr. Momora. You’re up.”
Spencer’s face went blank. Mr. Momora made a sound like a man who had just been told he was about to walk the plank. The crew roared with fresh excitement. Coins changed hands again.
“I bet Spencer makes Shanks look like a mini Roger!”
“Momora’s gonna put Buggy in that ridiculous feathered hat we looted last week!”
“Someone get the camera Den Den Mushi ready!”
The costume chest was dragged into the center of the deck and flung open. Bright scarves, oversized hats, mismatched boots, a half-finished captain’s coat, and a truly offensive amount of gold jewelry spilled out.
Spencer grabbed Shanks with the grim determination of a man going into battle. Mr. Momora scooped up Buggy, who immediately stopped chewing on Petermoo’s shirt and stared at the mountain of ridiculous clothing with wide, suspicious eyes. Roger leaned against the mast, grinning.
“You have five minutes. Most outrageous wins. And if either of them starts crying from the outfits, you both lose automatically.”
Spencer and Mr. Momora locked eyes for a brief, silent moment of shared suffering… then dove into the chest like men possessed.
Scarves flew. Hats were jammed onto tiny heads. Someone in the crowd started a countdown.
The Fashion Disaster had begun.
But…What happened next stunned the entire crew.
Buggy, the same baby who had been screaming bloody murder only minutes earlier, sat perfectly still in Mr. Momora’s lap. His big eyes tracked every scarf and hat with pure delight.
Whenever Mr. Momora hesitated between two equally ridiculous options, Buggy would grab with his tiny hands at the more outrageous one and bounce in place, cooing as if giving fashion advice. A feathered pirate hat three sizes too big? grab. A glittering gold necklace that nearly reached his knees? grab. A pair of mismatched boots and a half-finished captain’s coat? Enthusiastic grabbing and happy squeals.
The crew stared in disbelief.
“The little clown’s a natural!”
“Momora’s got this in the bag..”
Spencer, meanwhile, was in hell, because Shanks had decided that clothing was the enemy.
The moment the first sleeve touched his arm he twisted, kicked, and nearly wriggled free. Spencer managed to get one leg into a pair of oversized striped pants only for Shanks to immediately try to escape completely naked across the deck. Twice Spencer had to dive and catch the laughing baby before he reached the rail. The third time Shanks almost made it under a cannon.
“Hold still, you little red-haired demon!” Spencer hissed through clenched teeth, wrestling a tiny red sash around Shanks’s waist while the baby cackled and tried to chew the fabric.
By the time the five-minute mark was called, both contestants stood side by side for judgment.
Mr. Momora’s creation was a masterpiece of chaos: Buggy sat proudly in an oversized feathered hat, draped in gold chains, wearing a miniature open coat and one boot on the wrong foot. He looked like a baby pirate captain and was clearly thrilled about it, waving his arms as more applause echoed around him, thriving in the attention.
Spencer’s effort was… less successful. Shanks had finally been forced into a mismatched outfit of striped pants, a tiny open shirt, and a crooked bandana, but he looked deeply offended by the entire experience. The second the crew started clapping and laughing, Shanks’s lower lip began to tremble.
His face scrunched. The first watery warning sound escaped. Spencer’s eyes went wide with pure panic.
“No- no no no, don’t cry, little captain, look- funny faces! See? Funny faces!” He frantically pulled faces, jiggled a gold earring, even tried a desperate peekaboo.
Nothing worked. Shanks’s eyes filled. The first real sob broke free.
The crew groaned in collective disappointment.
Roger raised a hand, still laughing.
“That’s a loss, Spencer. Automatic. Crying during judgment is an instant fail!”
Spencer slumped in defeat as Shanks fully committed to his tears, while beside him Buggy continued happily pointing at random pieces of clothing on the deck as if requesting a second outfit.
Mr. Momora just stood there, looking equally shocked and victorious, holding the most cooperative baby the Oro Jackson had ever seen.
Roger wiped a tear of laughter from the corner of his eye as Spencer tried, and failed, to soothe the still-crying Shanks. Buggy, meanwhile, continued pointing at random scarves on the deck like a tiny fashion dictator.
“Speaking of funny faces!” Roger said, grinning wide. “Let’s continue with our next challenge! Peekaboo Face-Off!”
The crew’s attention snapped back instantly. Fresh bets were already being shouted. Roger pointed at two more unfortunate souls who had been trying to stay near the edge of the crowd.
Taro’s shoulders slumped. Yui looked like he had just been handed a death sentence.
“Rules are simple.” Roger continued, bouncing slightly on his heels. “Whoever makes the babies laugh the hardest wins. You can pull any face you want, make any sound, do whatever ridiculous thing comes to mind. Buggy here-” he gestured at the still-happily-dressed baby “- will be the official tie-breaker if it gets too close. And if either of you makes one of them cry instead of laugh… automatic loss.”
Taro and Yui exchanged a long, grim look.
Shanks was still sniffling in Spencer’s arms, tears clinging to his lashes. Buggy, on the other hand, looked ready for the show, eyes bright with anticipation beneath his oversized feathered hat. Roger raised one hand like a starting flag.
“Ready… set… make ‘em laugh!”
Taro immediately dropped to his knees and went all in.
He crossed his eyes, stuck out his tongue, made the loudest, wettest raspberry the deck had ever heard, then flopped onto his back and waved his arms like a dying seagull. Shanks, still sniffling from the fashion disaster, watched with watery eyes… then let out a tiny, reluctant giggle. Taro redoubled his efforts, bouncing on his knees and making increasingly ridiculous faces until Shanks finally broke into full, bright laughter, clapping his chubby hands.
Yui, meanwhile, remained frozen. His crewmates who had bet on him were not having it.
“We put money on you, damn it!”
“Do the fish face! The one that made the last island’s mayor cry!”
“Hurry up before Taro steals the whole pot!”
Yui flinched under the barrage of demands, still hesitating. Only when Roger raised an eyebrow in warning did he finally drop into a crouch and attempted a weak smile that looked more like a grimace. It did nothing for either baby.
With Shanks already laughing for Taro, both men turned desperately toward Buggy. Buggy was not impressed.
He sat there in his oversized feathered hat and gold chains, completely uninterested in the two grown men pulling faces at him. Instead, his attention was fixed on a glittering earring that had fallen to the deck during the previous challenge. He kept stretching one tiny arm toward it, making frustrating little grabby motions.
Taro tried everything, cross-eyed monster faces, loud animal noises, even spinning in a circle while flapping his arms.
Buggy didn’t even glance at him.
Yui, growing more desperate by the second, finally went for broke. He lunged forward and pulled the most grotesque face he could manage eyes bulging, tongue out, cheeks puffed, a low growl rumbling in his throat.
Buggy’s eyes went wide… His lower lip trembled…For one terrible second it looked like he was about to cry…Yui panicked.
“No- wait, wait, it’s okay, look! Happy face, happy face!” He frantically tried to soften his expression, reaching out with both hands.
Buggy’s reaction was instantaneous.
A tiny, furious palm cracked across Yui’s cheek with surprising force. The slap echoed. Yui’s head snapped to the side, and he toppled backward onto the deck in pure shock.
Then Buggy burst into bright, delighted laughter, pointing at the fallen man as if Yui’s stunned expression was the funniest thing he had ever seen.
The crew exploded. Roger threw his head back and howled with laughter.
“A tie!” he declared, still wiping his eyes. “Taro got Shanks, Yui got Buggy! by getting slapped into next week! DHAHAHAHAHAHA! Nobody wins the pot. It all rolls over to the next event!”
Yui remained flat on his back, one hand pressed to his stinging cheek, while Buggy continued giggling and reaching for the shiny earring. Taro just sat there, staring at the blue-haired baby in pure disbelief.
Because of all the excitement both babies chose that exact moment to yawn.
Shanks’s mouth opened wide in a sleepy little stretch, his earlier laughter fading into a soft, tired sound. Buggy followed a second later, the oversized feathered hat tipping forward as he rubbed one eye with a tiny fist, still vaguely reaching for the shiny earring on the deck.
Roger’s grin turned positively wicked.
“Well, look at that. Perfect timing.” He clapped his hands once, loud enough to make a few of the closer crewmen jump. “Next challenge, Nap-Time Ninja!”
A collective groan rolled through the pirates, but bets were already being placed. Roger’s eyes swept the crowd and landed on the two largest figures present. His smile widened.
“Sunbell! and Seagull Ganz Nozudon. You’re up.”
The two massive men blinked.
Sunbell, the fish-man whose arms were thicker than most of the crew’s torsos, looked down at his own enormous hands as if they had personally betrayed him. Seagull Ganz Nozudon, equally towering and broad, opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again.
“Why them?” Gaban asked curiously. Roger’s answer was pure mischief.
“Because it’s hilarious watching the biggest brutes on this ship try to put two tiny babies to sleep… and then sneak out of a room the size of a closet without making a single sound.”
The rest of the crew lost it. Laughter and fresh wagers exploded across the deck. Roger pointed toward the small cabin they had been using as a temporary nursery.
“Rules are simple. Get both boys to sleep. Then leave the room without waking them. First one out quietly wins. If either baby wakes up while you’re escaping, you lose. And if you step on a creaky board or bump the door…” He made a slicing motion across his throat. “Automatic failure.”
Sunbell and Ganz exchanged a look of pure dread.
Shanks yawned again, already drooping in Spencer’s arms. Buggy’s head nodded forward under the weight of the ridiculous hat, one last half-hearted grab for the earring before his eyes fluttered.
Roger waved them toward the cabin like a ringmaster sending gladiators into the arena.
“Go on, you big softies. Nap-Time Ninja starts now.”
Both giants lunged at the same time.
Sunbell hesitated between both babies, unsure which baby was easiest during nap time. Then Ganz simply shoved Sunbell sideways with one tree-trunk arm, scooped Shanks up like a football, and strode toward the tiny cabin.
“Hey!” Sunbell protested, staggering. “That’s cheating!”
Roger, leaning against the mast with his arms crossed, only shrugged.
“Wasn’t against the rules.”
The crew howled with laughter as Sunbell shot the captain a betrayed look, then carefully gathered the already-drowsy Buggy into his enormous arms and followed.
The moment the cabin door closed, the real battle began.
Shanks, true to form, sensed every bit of leftover excitement still buzzing on the ship. He squirmed, kicked, and refused to settle, tiny fists pushing against Ganz’s chest. Every time the big man tried to rock him, Shanks’s eyes would flutter open again, stubbornly fighting sleep. Ganz’s frustrated whispers only made it worse.
Outside the door, the rest of the crew had pressed in close, offering “encouragement” in the loudest possible whispers.
“Come on, Ganz, bounce him harder-”
“Don’t sing, you’ll wake the whole ocean-”
“Shut. Up. All of you.” Ganz’s voice hissed back through the wood, low and venomous.
On the other side of the small room, Sunbell was having a completely different experience.
Buggy had immediately snuggled into the fish-man’s broad chest like it was the softest pillow in the world, one tiny hand fisting in Sunbell’s shirt. The only real struggle was carefully peeling off the ridiculous fashion-disaster outfit. Feathered hat, gold chains, oversized coat, without jostling the baby. Every time a chain clinked, Sunbell froze, holding his breath. Buggy only made a soft, contented sound and burrowed closer.
Navigating the tiny cabin was another matter.
Sunbell’s massive frame barely fit between the two small cots. He had to turn sideways, duck under a low beam, and carefully step over a discarded boot while cradling Buggy like the most fragile treasure in the world. One wrong move and the floorboards would creak loud enough to wake the dead.
Ganz was still locked in a silent war with a determinedly awake Shanks, occasionally shooting death glares at the door whenever a crewman whispered too loudly, even tried playing dirty by trying to squeeze a squeaky toy near Buggy’s head, but it only backfired as Shanks turned to play with it, causing him to be more awake. Sunbell, meanwhile, had finally freed Buggy from the last gold chain. The blue-haired baby sighed, nuzzled against the fish-man’s gills, and went completely limp in true, deep sleep.
Sunbell stared down at him in mild disbelief… then carefully, painfully slowly, began the impossible journey toward the door.
One step…Pause….Another step….Hold breath….Hand on the latch…ease it open a fraction of an inch!
He slipped out into the corridor like a shadow, somehow making almost no sound despite his size, and gently pulled the door shut behind him.
The crew went dead silent.
A few seconds later, a furious, muffled curse came from inside the cabin, followed by Shanks’s tired but still stubborn fussing.
Roger’s grin stretched ear to ear.
The fish-man looked almost embarrassed by the quiet cheers, still cradling the deeply asleep Buggy against his chest and made his way to the cribs in Rayleigh’s rooms. Inside the cabin, Ganz’s defeated sigh was loud enough for everyone to hear
While the two babies slept the deck of the Oro Jackson turned into a noisy, chaotic betting parlor for the next hour.
Millet Pine had claimed a crate as his official booth, a battered ledger open in front of him and a growing pile of berries, gold coins, and IOUs stacked at his elbows. Every few minutes, he would slam a hand down and bark for order.
“Quiet! New official tallies!”
The crew crowded around while he reviewed everything that had happened so far, pointing with the end of his pen like a strict schoolteacher.
“Swaddle Showdown: Erio wins. One point to the red team by association, since he cleaned Shanks.”
“Fashion Disaster: Mr. Momora wins because Buggy cooperated like a little prince while Shanks tried to stage a naked prison break. One point blue.”
“Peekaboo Face-Off: Official tie. No points awarded.”
“Nap-Time Ninja: Sunbell puts Buggy under in record time while Ganz is still in there arguing with a stubborn red-haired gremlin. Another point blue.”
“Current baby score: Buggy two, Shanks one. But remember, bets aren’t just on who wins each challenge. We’ve also got side wagers on how many challenges each baby ‘wins’ by the end of the day. Cooperation, laughter, sleeping on command, all of it counts.”
A fresh wave of shouting broke out.
“I’m putting three thousand on Shanks making a comeback!”
“Buggy’s already got the lead, you fools!”
“Shanks is just warming up! He’s the chaotic one!”
Millet Pine raised both hands.
“All right, all right! New open bet: Which baby comes out of this entire Baby Showdown victorious? Most challenge points by the time Rayleigh gets back. Place your wagers now. Once the next event starts, the book closes.”
Coins and berries flew. Names were scrawled. Arguments erupted over whether Shanks’s stubbornness should count as a “win” for pure entertainment value. Millet Pine recorded every bet with the seriousness of a man handling the crew’s life savings, occasionally muttering under his breath about the insanity of it all.
Roger watched from the rail, arms folded, looking extremely pleased with himself.
“Such a lively bunch! Dhahahahaha!”
The hour of rules, tallies, and new wagers stretched on, the pile of bets in front of Millet Pine growing higher by the minute.
Two crewmates came back to the deck, each carrying a baby. Shanks was energetic from the nap, while Buggy was still groggy and tried to fall back asleep, making the crewmate panic. Roger pushed off the rail, still grinning from the hour of betting chaos.
“All right, enough counting coins. Next challenge-” He swept an arm toward the open deck where a few crates, ropes, and a low net had already been dragged into a rough course. “Baby Obstacle Course! Who can carry a baby through the most obstacles without dropping him or making him cry. And before anyone asks, yes, this counts as training. Captain’s orders.”
He opened his mouth to name the next pair of victims.
“I’ll do it.” The voice cut cleanly through the chatter.
Scopper Gaban stepped forward from the edge of the crowd, arms crossed, expression calm and completely serious. Every head turned.
“I challenge you.” Gaban said flatly. “You and me. One baby each. Same course. Same rules.”
A ripple of pure shock ran through the crew. Even Millet Pine looked up from his ledger.
Roger’s grin returned, sharper this time. He took a slow step closer, looming just enough to remind everyone who the captain was. His voice dropped into that low, dangerous register that usually made lesser men rethink their life choices.
“You sure about that, Gaban? Challenging your captain in front of the whole crew? I might just decide the loser spends the next week scrubbing the bilge with a toothbrush.”
Gaban didn’t even blink. He held Roger’s gaze without a trace of fear, one eyebrow lifting slightly.
“I’m sure. Unless you’re scared that the great captain might lose to his humble left-hand man at carrying babies.”
The deck went dead silent. Roger stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, the intimidation melted back into delighted laughter.
He turned to the crew, eyes gleaming.
“You heard him. Captain versus Gaban. Baby Obstacle Course. Place your bets.”
The crew had outdone themselves.
What began as a few crates and a net had turned into a full-ship obstacle course: low cargo nets to duck under, swinging ropes to dodge, a narrow beam laid across two barrels, a stretch of deliberately scattered cannonballs, and a final climb over a stack of water barrels before the finish line back at the main mast. One complete lap around the Oro Jackson.
Roger cradled Shanks against his chest. Gaban held Buggy in the crook of one powerful arm. Millet Pine raised a hand.
Roger vaulted the first low net with practiced ease, laughing as the wind caught his hair. Gaban stayed right on his heels, surprisingly light on his feet for a man his size. For the first ten seconds it almost looked like a normal race between two of the strongest men on the seas.
Then the babies remembered they existed.
Shanks’s tiny hands shot up and latched onto Roger’s long, dramatic mustache like it was the greatest toy in the world. He yanked. Hard.
“Gah-! Shanks, no-!” Roger’s head jerked sideways mid-stride.
He stumbled, barely keeping his balance as he tried to pry the iron grip of a baby’s fists off his facial hair without dropping him. Shanks only giggled and pulled harder, delighted by the funny faces his captain was making.
Two paces behind, Buggy had discovered Gaban’s sunglasses. The second the blue-haired baby noticed the shiny black lenses, he lunged for them with both hands. Gaban tilted his head back, trying to keep them out of reach while still running. Buggy stretched further, tiny fingers brushing the frame; when that failed, he simply started slapping Gaban’s cheek in rapid, furious little smacks.
“Quit it- Buggy- those are expensive-!” Gaban growled through gritted teeth, weaving between swinging ropes while a determined infant tried to remove his face accessories by force.
They hit the narrow beam.
Roger stepped onto it first, still half-bent from the mustache assault. Shanks chose that exact moment to lean his entire weight to one side, reaching for a passing seagull. Roger’s arms windmilled. The beam wobbled violently. Only pure core strength and years of sea legs kept them from pitching over the side.
Gaban reached the beam a second later. Buggy, still furious about the sunglasses, twisted in his arms and nearly threw himself sideways. Gaban had to freeze mid-step, locking every muscle to keep them both from toppling, while Buggy continued raining tiny open-handed slaps against his jaw.
The crew lining the rails roared with laughter and fresh bets.
“Shanks is going to rip the captain’s mustache clean off!”
“Look at Buggy- he’s trying to steal Gaban’s soul through his eyes!”
“Ten thousand on Roger falling first!”
Roger finally managed to free one side of his mustache, only for Shanks to immediately grab the other. Gaban gave up on protecting the sunglasses and simply clamped one large hand over them, enduring the continued baby-slaps as he jumped the scattered cannonballs.
Both men were sweating, not from the course, but from the relentless tiny saboteurs in their arms. Every obstacle became twice as hard. Every leap risked a sudden yank or slap that threw off their balance. Shanks laughed the entire time, treating Roger’s pain like the best game ever invented. Buggy oscillated between determined jewelry theft, eyewear theft, and pure offended rage that his target wouldn’t cooperate.
By the time they reached the final stack of barrels, both Captain and master of axes were breathing hard, faces red, dignity in tatters, and the babies were still going strong.
Gaban’s boots hit the deck at the finish line a full two strides ahead of Roger. He straightened, still holding a furiously squirming Buggy, and turned with a rare, triumphant smirk. The crew erupted, half in cheers, half in groans as berries changed hands.
Roger arrived seconds later, mustache crooked and one eye watering from Shanks’s latest yank. He looked ready to concede…
Until Millet Pine raised his ledger like a judge’s gavel.
The deck went silent…Gaban’s smirk vanished.
“What?” Millet Pine didn’t flinch.
“You missed the low cargo net on the port side. Complete miss. That’s an automatic disqualification under the rules. It is simply Cheating.”
“I didn’t miss it on purpose-” Gaban stared at him.
“Doesn’t matter.” Millet Pine tapped the page. “You went around it. Roger cleared every obstacle. Captain wins.”
Gaban’s voice rose, rare frustration cracking through.
“The only reason I went around is because this little gremlin-” he lifted a grumpy Buggy slightly “-tried to claw my eyes out right as I reached it! I had to turn my head or lose an eyeball!”
Buggy, as if on cue, made another determined swipe at Gaban’s sunglasses and let out an offended baby growl.
“You… hear that, Red?” Roger, still catching his breath, started laughing so hard he had to lean on the mast. “We WON!”
Shanks joined in, clapping excitedly not really understanding what is going on, just that his captain was happy.
“Rules are rules. Distraction by baby is not listed as an exception. Roger takes the point. Current baby score: Shanks two, Buggy two. All tied up.”
Gaban looked from the ledger to the unrepentant baby in his arms, then back at Roger’s delighted face. He exhaled through his nose, long and slow.
“…I want a rematch,” he muttered.
Roger only grinned wider, already straightening his mustache.
“Maybe later. We’ve still got one more challenge left before Rayleigh gets back.”
There were mutters of agreements at the mention of the first mate, Roger raised both hands, silencing the still-grumbling debate over the obstacle-course ruling.
“Last challenge of the day!” he announced, voice carrying easily over the deck. “And this one doesn’t need any of you lot competing.”
The crew blinked. Roger’s grin turned sly.
“Diaper Dash. Shanks versus Buggy. Pure and simple.” He pointed to a long, clear stretch of deck the men had already swept clean.
“One straight path. Both babies start here. First one to crawl to the finish line wins. No sabotaging the other baby. No helping the one you bet on. No tossing toys halfway, no calling their names, no nothing. Just a fair race between our two little monsters.”
A few of the crew looked disappointed they wouldn’t get to participate. Most looked thrilled at the prospect of pure chaos without personal risk. Someone called out.
“What’s the bait, Captain? What are they racing toward?”
Roger’s eyes sparkled. He reached into his coat with exaggerated flair and pulled out a small object wrapped in cloth. With a showman’s flourish he unwrapped it, holding the carving high so the sunlight caught it.
It was a whale, carefully shaped from pale wood, every fin and curve smoothed by hand. Set into its head were two small blue sapphires that glowed like real eyes.
Both babies, still in the arms of whoever had been holding them, locked onto the toy at the exact same moment. Shanks made a soft, greedy sound and stretched both hands toward it. Buggy’s eyes went wide; he let out an excited squeal and kicked his legs as if he could already crawl through the air.
Roger chuckled, clearly pleased with himself.
“Carved it myself for the two of them. Figured it might come in handy one day.”
He walked to the far end of the clear path and set the sapphire-eyed whale down on a small crate, making sure it was perfectly visible.
Then he returned, gently placed both babies on the starting line side by side, and stepped back.
“Millet Pine!” he called. “You handle the start. Everyone else, hands off, mouths shut, no interference. Winner takes the final point… and bragging rights for the rest of the voyage.”
The entire crew held its breath.
Two tiny pairs of eyes remained fixed on the glittering blue-eyed whale waiting at the other end of the deck. Millet Pine raised his hand.
The moment those two babies were lowered on the deck, they shot forward at the same instant, tiny hands and knees slapping against the wooden deck.
Men raced along both sides of the path, shouting encouragement, waving fists, nearly tripping over each other as they kept pace with the two determined crawlers. Berries were waved in the air. Someone started a chant. The entire ship seemed to vibrate with noise.
Shanks took an early lead, his red hair bouncing with every determined lunge. Buggy, still wearing one leftover gold chain that clinked with each movement, stayed right on his heels, face scrunched in pure competitive fury.
Halfway down the path, Shanks’s hand slipped on a smooth plank. He face-planted with a soft thump, making the men around him flinch at the impact, but then the baby immediately pushed back up, undeterred.
Buggy almost overtook him, until a well-meaning crewman leaned too far over the line and dangled a shiny button in the blue-haired baby’s peripheral vision.
“Hey- no!” Millet Pine barked. “No interference! Hands off!”
The guilty crewman yanked his hand back, red-faced, as the rest of the men booed him.
Buggy blinked, momentarily confused… then caught sight of Shanks already reaching toward the distant sapphire-eyed whale again. Instantly the distraction was forgotten. Buggy put his head down and scrambled after his rival with renewed speed.
A few meters later the reverse almost happened: Shanks veered slightly toward a laughing pirate who had crouched too close. Three others immediately dragged the man back before Roger’s glare could fully form. Shanks paused, glanced at the now-retreating distraction, then saw Buggy’s tiny hand stretching closer to the finish. He let out a determined baby growl and charged forward once more.
The two of them crawled on, slipping, recovering, refusing to let the other get too far ahead. The crew followed in a roaring, laughing pack, completely absorbed in the race.
None of them noticed the tall figure who had quietly come up the gangplank and now stood at the edge of the deck.
Rayleigh’s arms were crossed. His expression was unreadable.
He watched Shanks and Buggy crawl with single-minded focus toward the little wooden whale. He watched the entire crew, grown men who had faced admirals and sea kings, lose their minds over a baby race. He watched Roger laughing harder than he had in months.
And still, not one of them realized he was there.
Rayleigh moved like a shadow. He started at the very back of the cheering pack. One precise chop to the neck. A man dropped without a sound. Rayleigh caught him just enough to lower him quietly to the deck, then stepped over the body and continued forward.
Still no one turned. Every pair of eyes remained locked on Shanks and Buggy as the two infants crawled, slipped, recovered, and crawled again, their tiny faces set with identical determination.
Rayleigh worked his way methodically from the rear toward the front. One by one, the loudest cheerleaders crumpled. A man waving a fistful of berries collapsed mid-shout. Another who had been jumping up and down simply folded and hit the planks. The circle of standing pirates grew smaller with every quiet step Rayleigh took.
Shanks’s hand stretched toward the wooden whale. Buggy’s fingers were only inches behind. The remaining crew leaned in, screaming themselves hoarse, completely oblivious to the growing trail of unconscious bodies stretching back toward the gangplank.
By the time the two infants were almost close enough to touch the toy, the only man still on his feet was Roger himself.
The sudden absence of noise finally registered.
Roger’s laughter was cut off. The deck felt wrong, too quiet. He frowned, still facing the finish line, and slowly turned around.
What he saw drained the color from his face.
Dozens of his crew lay scattered across the deck in a neat, silent path of defeat. And standing at the end of that path, arms crossed, expression carved from stone, was Rayleigh.
Roger’s eyes went wide with pure horror.
“There you go, you two.” Rayleigh said gently as he lowered the two babies into the playpen that he made himself.
He noticed how they started to get irritated because they didn’t have the promised woodcarving. From a small bag he produced two new toys, simple, well-made things he had bought on the island while running his “errands.” One was a soft red cloth monkey. The other was a little blue wooden clown that rattled when shaken.
The moment the toys touched the playpen floor, both babies forgot the race entirely. Shanks grabbed the monkey with a delighted squeal. Buggy snatched the rattling clown and immediately shook it as hard as his tiny arms could manage. Within seconds the two of them were side by side, waving their new treasures at each other and laughing, completely absorbed in their own little world.
Only then did Rayleigh turn around.
Half the crew still lay where they had fallen. The rest were on their knees, hands raised high, faces already showing the darkening bruises of a very thorough beating. Roger, kneeling at the front, looked the worst of all, one eye swelling, mustache still crooked, expression caught somewhere between guilt and residual panic.
Rayleigh’s voice was quiet, but it carried across the entire deck.
“Now. Who is ready to tell me how long this has been going on?”
Silence….Then Gaban, still kneeling, cleared his throat.
“It was Roger’s idea.” He said flatly. “The whole Baby Showdown. The challenges. The betting. All of it. He started it the first time you left us alone with them.”
Roger’s head snapped toward him.
“You absolute-! You were the one who suggested the obstacle course!”
“Only after you already had them racing for toys!”
“You challenged me in front of the whole crew!”
“Because you were being an idiot-”
Both men started to rise, voices climbing, ready to turn the blame-shifting into an actual fistfight right there on the deck.
They never got the chance.
A single pulse of Conqueror’s Haki rolled out from Rayleigh like a silent thunderclap. It wasn’t aimed to knock anyone out, just heavy enough to press down on every living soul present. Roger and Gaban froze mid-argument, mouths still open, and slowly sank back to their knees under the weight of that glare.
Rayleigh’s eyes were colder than the deep sea.
“Try again…” he said. “And this time, the truth. All of it.”
No one spoke for several long seconds.
Then Millet Pine, still kneeling with a split lip and a half-crushed ledger clutched to his chest, cleared his throat.
“It… started the first time you left us alone with them.” he said carefully. “Back when they were still barely crawling. Roger carved that first toy and yelled ‘Fetch.’ The boys went after it. We placed bets. It was only supposed to be one time.”
Roger grimaced but didn’t deny it.
Gaban picked up the thread, voice low.
“After that, every time you went ashore, someone would invent a new challenge. Swaddle Showdown. Fashion Disaster. Peekaboo Face-Off. Nap-Time Ninja. The obstacle course. Diaper Dash. We kept a running score. Side bets on which baby was ‘winning’ overall. Millet kept the books.”
Millet Pine nodded miserably.
“I have the full list. Dates. Winners. How much was wagered. Everything.”
“Mutiny.” Roger muttered. “This is pure mutiny against me.”
Rayleigh’s expression did not change, but the pressure of his Haki remained steady, a silent reminder that lying was not an option.
One by one, the kneeling crew added details, how they had learned to wait until Rayleigh was fully out of sight, how they had gotten better at cleaning up evidence before he returned, how the babies had started to recognize the start of a “game” and get excited. Someone admitted they had begun referring to the whole thing as the “Baby Showdown” in private. Another confessed that today’s events were the most elaborate yet because they thought Rayleigh would be gone until sundown.
Throughout the confessions, Shanks and Buggy remained happily oblivious inside the playpen, shaking their new toys at each other and giggling.
When the last man finished speaking, the deck was quiet again except for the soft rattle of Buggy’s wooden clown. Rayleigh looked at each of them in turn, bruised faces, raised hands, the trail of still-unconscious bodies, and finally settled on Roger.
“You used my children.” he said, voice dangerously calm, “as entertainment and gambling pieces the moment I was out of earshot.”
Roger opened his mouth, closed it, then settled for a guilty shrug.
“They’re… very entertaining children?”
The temperature on the deck seemed to drop several degrees. Rayleigh exhaled slowly through his nose. When he spoke again, every man present leaned back slightly.
“Here is what is going to happen. You are all going to swear, on your lives, that this ends today. No more challenges. No more bets. No more ‘training exercises’ that involve my boys. If I ever so much as hear the words ‘Baby Showdown’ again, I will personally throw the speaker overboard. Am I understood?”
A chorus of bruised, hurried “Yes, Ray.” answered him.
He held their gazes a moment longer, then finally released the Haki. Several men sagged in relief.
Rayleigh turned back toward the playpen, where Shanks was now trying to share his cloth monkey with Buggy, who responded by rattling the clown directly in his face.
“Good.” said Rayleigh quietly. “Now someone go wake the ones still on the floor. And Roger-”
The captain looked up warily.
“You’re on night duty with the boys for the next month. Alone.”
Gaban, despite his own bruises, looked just a little bit pleased.
“Wipe that smile off your face, Gaban. Or you will be on diaper duty.”
Gaban quickly curled his lips shut, as well as other crewmates, afraid that a simple sign of relief would cause them to be next.
It took weeks before Rayleigh allowed any of them to hold the boys again without his direct supervision. It took months before he stopped checking the ledger Millet Pine had kept, just to make sure no new tallies had appeared. Trust returned slowly, carefully, and never quite as freely as before.
But the Baby Showdown itself was over….Or so they all believed…Years later, when Shanks and Buggy were old enough to understand betting, odds, and the particular joy of competition, the challenges returned.
This time the boys themselves were the ones placing wagers, dragging half the crew into elaborate contests of skill, speed, and pure stubbornness. Rayleigh would discover them mid-event, sigh the long-suffering sigh of a man who had seen this coming, and confiscate the prize money… only to quietly return half of it later when the boys weren’t looking.
Roger, of course, always claimed it was character-building. Gaban always claimed it was Roger’s fault. And Rayleigh, watching two teenage terrors argue over who owed who three thousand berries after a particularly ridiculous race across the deck, would only shake his head, arms crossed, a reluctant smile hidden in the corner of his mouth.
Some storms you endure…. Some you simply learn to sail through.
I really enjoyed this one, and I hope you do as well!
