The humid chaos of Sabaody faded as Rayleigh led them down a twisting path choked with mangrove roots, emerging into the relative calm of Grove 13. Shakky's Rip-Off Bar sat nestled like a secret, its weathered sign creaking in the breeze. Before anyone could react, Rayleigh shoved the bamboo door open with a familiar thud, ushering the bedraggled group inside.
The interior was a welcome assault of warmth and scent – aged wood polished smooth by countless elbows, the rich aroma of dark coffee and frying spices, and the underlying tang of well-aged liquor. Shakky, the bar's formidable proprietress, stood behind the counter polishing a glass. Her sharp eyes flicked up, surprise momentarily softening her usually unreadable expression as Rayleigh filled the doorway. "Well, well," she drawled, a slow smile touching her lips. "Look what the tide dragged in. Been awhile, Ray."
Her gaze swept past him, taking in the crowd: the dripping wet, leather-clad Marya; the coiled intensity of Galit Varuna; the crackling, damp-furred Atlas; the wobbling azure anomaly that was Jelly; the exhausted but relieved merfolk family – Fia clinging to Henrick's arm, Henrick holding Lulee securely, and Geo peeking out from behind his father's leg. Shakky's sharp eyes lingered longest on Marya. She paused, the glass hovering mid-polish. "Marya Zaleska? Back so soon?" A thin stream of smoke curled from the cigarette perched between her fingers. "And with considerably more… colorful company than last time. Weren't you sailing with a different pack of wolves?"
Marya, already scanning the familiar, cluttered space – the dartboard, the faded wanted posters, the sturdy counter – let out a short sigh that ruffled her dark bangs. She brushed dampness from her denim shorts. "A lot's happened," she stated flatly, her voice cutting through the comfortable bar hum. Her gaze snagged on a thick coil of rope near the back door. "Last time I darkened this doorway, Shakky, you were guarding a ship like a lioness with one cub."
Rayleigh chuckled, already making a beeline for his usual stool. "Seems introductions are unnecessary. Shakky, you've already met the young lady."
Shakky's eyes gleamed with knowing amusement as she set the glass down. "Met her? Ray, I watched her and that Heart Pirate crew hold the line when half of Sabaody wanted a piece of that ship you were guarding." She tapped ash into a tray. "Course, that was before I knew she was Mihawk's little shadow."
Rayleigh froze mid-reach for the bottle Shakky had already slid towards him. He turned slowly, his gaze raking over Marya with renewed, intense interest. A wide, genuine grin split his face. "Hawkeye's girl? That explains the blade-feel and the resting glare! Should've guessed. The world's strongest swordsman spawns the world's most stubborn escape artist. Fits."
Henrick's deep voice rumbled, thick with disbelief. "The Warlord? Mihawk?" He stared at Marya, his hammerhead features etched with confusion. "You're his blood?"
Marya glanced over her shoulder, meeting his gaze with her steady golden eyes. A single, curt nod. "He is," she confirmed, no pride, no shame, just simple, undeniable fact. She finally slid onto a barstool, the Heart Pirates insignia stark on her damp leather jacket.
Shakky's sharp gaze swept over Fia, Henrick, Lulee, and Geo, taking in their unique features, the lingering fear in their eyes, the borrowed clothes. She took a slow drag from her cigarette. "And I assume this lovely family reunion," she gestured vaguely towards the merfolk, "is the delightful cause of all those lovely alarms serenading the Archipelago?"
Rayleigh downed his shot with a satisfied sigh. "Let's just say Sabaody's underbelly got a little… rearranged tonight. Courtesy of some misplaced priorities and misplaced family members." He chuckled, the sound warm and rich in the cozy bar.
Shakky exhaled a plume of smoke, studying Marya. "So, Hawkeye's daughter. What brings you back to our little den of thieves and coaters? Surely not just the scenic route."
Marya leaned an elbow on the polished wood counter. "Fishman Island," she stated simply. "Need my sub coated. Was told Rayleigh's the one to see." Her gaze was direct. "Told by Scopper Gaban."
Shakky's eyebrows arched almost imperceptibly. She blew out a slow stream of smoke. "Oh? An old shipmate, then." Her voice held a subtle weight, acknowledging the shared history without flaunting it.
Atlas, who'd been examining a dusty ship-in-a-bottle with intense focus, perked up. "Shipmate? You two sailed together?" He looked between Shakky and Rayleigh, sparks flickering in his fur.
Galit Varuna's emerald eyes narrowed, his long neck coiling slightly as he processed the implications. "If you were pirates," he interjected, his analytical voice crisp, "can your services truly be trusted? Coating is delicate work. Failure means crushing depth."
Marya didn't even look at him. She met Shakky's gaze squarely. "I don't care what flag they flew decades ago, Galit," she said, her voice flat. "I care that my sub gets coated properly. Rayleigh comes highly recommended by someone whose word carries weight." Her thumb brushed the worn leather of her jacket cuff near the Heart insignia.
Rayleigh burst out laughing, a booming sound that startled a sleepy cat curled on a shelf. "Oh, there's no mistaking the lineage! That stubborn practicality, that utter disregard for irrelevant labels – pure Mihawk!" He refilled his glass, still chuckling.
Shakky chuckled too, a low, smoky sound. "Speaking of the brooding blade master, how is your dear father doing, Marya? Still perched in his castle, terrifying the local wildlife?"
A rare, genuine smirk touched Marya's lips. "I imagine he's doing just fine. Sharpening his blade. Judging the world from a distance." She traced a watermark on the counter with a fingertip.
"See him often?" Shakky probed gently, her eyes sharp.
Marya's smirk widened fractionally. "More often than he probably prefers. He can be…" she paused, searching for the right word, "...persistently overprotective. Like a grumpy hawk convinced the sky itself might attack his chick."
Rayleigh snorted into his drink, nearly choking. "Overprotective? Mihawk? Now that's an image!" He wiped his mouth, eyes sparkling with mirth. "Bet he just loves your little escapades."
As the others found seats or huddled together, the bar filled with a low murmur of conversation and the clink of glasses. Jelly, fascinated by the sleeping cat, wobbled closer, whispering "Bloop? Fluffy friend?" The cat opened one yellow eye, assessed the blue jiggly thing, and went back to sleep. Shakky watched them all, the cigarette smoke curling around her like a familiar shroud, a haven momentarily granted in the eye of Sabaody's gathering storm.
The warm, smoky embrace of Shakky's Rip-Off Bar settled around the ragged group like a well-worn blanket. Jelly Squish, unable to contain his curiosity about the polished mahogany counter, gave an experimental boing and landed squarely on its surface with a soft thump, wobbling gently. The sleeping cat didn't even twitch this time.
Shakky, leaning against the back counter with her cigarette, raised a sculpted eyebrow, a wisp of smoke curling upwards. "Well now," she drawled, her voice rich with amused curiosity. "And what manner of creature might you be, blue and bouncy?"
"Bloop!" Jelly chirped, starry eyes wide. "Jelly Squish! Adventure! New Friends!" He jiggled happily, leaving a faintly shimmering damp patch.
Shakky chuckled, a low, smoky sound, before her sharp gaze shifted to the fishman family huddled together near a booth. Fia had settled Lulee on her lap, gently combing fingers through her daughter's damp coral-pink hair. Geo leaned against Henrick's side, still subdued. "And you," Shakky addressed Henrick directly, her tone not unkind but probing. "A family, deep in Sabaody's belly. This island isn't exactly known for rolling out the welcome mat for your kind. How'd you end up in the grinder?"
Henrick exchanged a heavy glance with Fia. Geo looked down, scuffing his bare foot on the worn wooden floorboards, a flush of shame coloring his cheeks. The big hammerhead fishman cleared his throat. "Exploring," he rumbled, the word careful. "Got turned around. Provoked some… territorial beasts near the Trench. Carried us further than intended. Currents were fierce." He paused, his jaw tightening. "Found by… less than honorable folk." He didn't elaborate, the memory darkening his eyes.
Fia placed a comforting hand on Geo's shoulder, pulling him closer. "But we're together now," she said, her voice firm despite its softness, meeting Shakky's gaze. "Thanks to Marya. She's agreed to take us home to Fishman Island."
Henrick's brow furrowed slightly, a mix of surprise and profound relief washing over his features as he turned his massive frame towards Marya, who was perched on a barstool, idly tracing a knot in the wood with a fingertip. "Appears I owe you my deepest thanks, Marya Zaleska…" he began, his voice thick with sincerity.
Marya didn't look up. "Don't worry about it," she interjected flatly, cutting him off. "We just happen to be going to the same place." She finally glanced at him, golden eyes calm and utterly matter-of-fact. "No detour."
Rayleigh, sipping his rum, let out another warm chuckle. "Practical. Just like her old man."
Shakky smirked, then turned her attention to Atlas. The lynx mink was sprawled insolently across two barstools, ear twitching, blue sparks occasionally dancing off his drying fur as he watched the exchange. "And you, sparky? Along for the ride too?"
Atlas stretched languidly, a feral grin spreading. "Me and Noodle-Neck?" he jerked his thumb towards Galit, who was standing nearby, observing the room with coiled intensity. "Yeah, we're hitching a ride on the stabby lady's sub. Adventure calls."
Galit's head snapped around, his long neck uncoiling like a released spring. His emerald eyes narrowed dangerously. "What did you just call me?"
Atlas met his glare head-on, baring sharp teeth in a challenging grin. "You heard me, Spaghetti Head! Got a problem with it?"
The air crackled, not just with Atlas's Electro. Galit's hand drifted subtly towards one of his forearm bracers, his posture shifting into something predatory. Just as it seemed fur and sinew might fly, Rayleigh smoothly redirected the conversation.
"So, Marya," he said, leaning an elbow on the bar, his weathered face curious. "Fishman Island's a destination. What brings Hawkeye's daughter to the depths? Treasure hunting? Sightseeing?"
Marya met his gaze. "Looking for something," she stated simply, her tone offering no further details.
Rayleigh raised a bushy eyebrow, clearly intrigued. He opened his mouth to ask another question, but Marya smoothly cut him off. "About that ship coating, Gramps. My sub. How soon?"
Rayleigh chuckled, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "Yeah, I can help you out. Coating's my specialty. It'll cost you, though."
"I can pay," Marya replied immediately, her hand resting near the Heart Pirates insignia on her damp leather jacket.
"Oh, I know you can," Rayleigh grinned, a spark of mischief in his eyes. "But coin's not the price I'm thinking of. Coating takes about three days. Good time for a… test."
Marya groaned softly, a flicker of exasperation crossing her stoic face. "Three days? Here?"
"Nowhere safer on Sabaody," Shakky interjected smoothly, tapping ash into a small brass tray. "You lot can bunk here. Got space out back." She gave Rayleigh a sidelong glance, a silent conversation passing between them. He merely grinned wider.
Rayleigh leaned forward. "Three days is plenty of time to see what Mihawk's daughter, who's scrapped with the Mountain Eater and," he paused, his grin turning knowing, "I'd wager, tangled with a certain red-haired nuisance, can really do. Best me in a friendly duel – just a little spar – and I'll coat your sub, no charge. Consider it… professional curiosity."
Marya rolled her eyes dramatically, the most expressive gesture she'd made since entering the bar. "Not again," she sighed, the words heavy with weary experience. "Another senior citizen who wants to play at swords." She fixed him with a look that was part challenge, part genuine concern. "You sure about this? Wouldn't want you to throw your back out or something."
Both Shakky and Rayleigh burst out laughing, a rich, genuine sound that filled the cozy bar. "Positive, girl," Rayleigh wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye. "Positive."
Henrick cleared his throat, the deep rumble cutting through the laughter. He stepped forward slightly, his expression earnest. "I'm a blacksmith by trade," he stated, his voice resonating with quiet pride. "Not a master coater, but I know the resins, the pressures. If you're undertaking the work, Rayleigh, I'd be honored to lend my hands. It's the least I can do." He looked at Marya, then back at Rayleigh, offering his skills as both payment and profound gratitude. The bar, filled with smoke, the scent of rum, and the promise of imminent chaos, felt suddenly like a crucible where unlikely alliances were being forged, all under the watchful, amused eyes of the Dark King and his partner.
*****
The heavy thrum of the Marine battleship's engines vibrated through the polished steel deck beneath Sentomaru's sandals. He stood on Sabaody's Grove 9 dock, the chaotic aftermath of the slave auction arena spread before him – shattered glass glittering like malignant ice, seawater still draining into grates, the oppressive scent of brine, fear, and ozone-less burnt wiring hanging thick in the humid air. Marines swarmed, securing the perimeter, their faces grim beneath the harsh spotlights. Before him, the colossal, gleaming form of a Pacifista stood inert, its single red eye scanning methodically. Sentomaru adjusted the axe slung over his broad shoulder, his jaw set as he surveyed the damage. Troublesome.
The insistent purururu of the transponder snail strapped to his belt cut through the din. He unhooked it, the snail's shell morphing instantly into the stern, scarred visage of Vice Admiral Venus Harlow.
"Sentomaru," Harlow's voice crackled through, sharp as a honed blade, devoid of preamble. Smoke curled visibly from the corner of her mouth on the snail's tiny projection. "Sabaody Archipelago. Grove Nine. Significant disturbance. Celestial Dragon assaulted. Apprehend all responsible parties. Effective immediately."
Sentomaru grunted, his deep voice a low rumble. "Yeah. Already got the bulletin. Standin' in the mess now. Looks like a Sea King threw a tantrum in a glass shop." He gestured vaguely at the wrecked tank. "Workin' the scene. Trackin' leads."
Harlow's image flickered slightly, her eyes narrowing. She subtly adjusted the crisp white cuff of her uniform sleeve – a tell Sentomaru knew well. Irritation. "Excellent initiative. Maintain position. Secure the area. I will arrive tomorrow to oversee the operation personally."
Tomorrow? Sentomaru's brow furrowed like storm-carved rock. "Tomorrow, Vice Admiral? These rats ain't gonna wait around for a formal invitation. They could be halfway to the Calm Belt by sunrise. Or holed up somewhere sticky." His gaze swept the shadowed mangrove roots beyond the grove, knowing Sabaody's labyrinthine underbelly offered countless bolt-holes.
"Deal. With. It." Harlow's voice snapped, colder than the deep ocean trench. The transponder snail seemed to flinch. "I am en route and pushing engines to their limit. You will contain the situation until my arrival. Mobilize the Pacifista unit. Lock down key groves – Thirteen, Forty-One, the coating areas. Sweep the archipelago. No one leaves without thorough inspection. Use whatever force is necessary to maintain control and locate these fugitives." The order hung, heavy with unspoken threat. Any means necessary.
Sentomaru met the snail's projected gaze squarely, unfazed by the ice in her tone. He understood the stakes – a downed World Noble meant Admirals breathing down necks, meant the Fleet Admiral's wrath. "Understood, Vice Admiral. Pacifistas are already powering up. We'll turn Sabaody inside out. Seal it tighter than a Drum Island winter." He paused, a hint of grim determination in his voice. "I'll see you when you get here… 'less I find 'em first and save you the trip."
He didn't wait for a dismissal. The snail's projection of Harlow's face hardened, a flicker of something dangerous in her eyes – perhaps annoyance at his confidence, perhaps anticipation. Sentomaru snapped the receiver shut, the snail's features melting back into its natural, dopey expression. He clipped it back onto his belt with a decisive click.
Turning to the nearest Marine lieutenant, his voice boomed, echoing off the shattered arena walls. "You heard the Vice Admiral! Activate the Pacifista unit! Full deployment! Lock down Groves 13, 41, and all coating docks! No vessel leaves without my direct authorization! Sweep teams – move out! Find them!"
As the Marines scrambled, shouts echoing, boots pounding on wet pavement, Sentomaru hefted his massive axe. The Pacifista beside him hummed to fuller life, its red eye glowing brighter, pivoting with a smooth, hydraulic whine to scan the perimeter. Outside the transceiver, Venus Harlow stared at the churning sea beyond her battleship window, the storm in her eyes mirroring the dark water. Sabaody was a trap being sprung, and the prey had just been named. The hunt, commanded from afar but felt in every vibrating deck plate, was well and truly on.