The chaotic energy of the Golden Berry Bar was swallowed by the oppressive, sulfur-thick air of Bootleg Island's main thoroughfare as Marya, Jannali, and Jelly stepped outside. The path was a wide, cobbled street carved directly into the volcanic rock of the crater's inner wall, glowing lanterns casting long, dancing shadows that made the stone faces of buildings seem to leer and shift.
"This," Jannali declared, beaming at the smoky, chaotic tavern they were leaving behind, "is going to be so much fun!" Marya allowed herself to be led, her stoic expression momentarily cracked by a faint, reluctant shake of her head at the sheer audacity of it all.
Jannali, her arm still linked with Marya's, was practically buzzing, her golden earrings catching the faint, eerie light that filtered down from the crater's rim high above. "You won't regret this! The wind is practically singing with anticipation. It says we're on the cusp of something monumental!"
"The wind says a lot of things," Marya replied dryly, her boots making soft, sure sounds on the uneven stone. Behind them, Jelly Squish bounced along, his gelatinous form emitting soft, squelching noises with each hop. He'd found a discarded shrimp cracker and was now attempting to balance it on his nose.
"Bloop! Look! I'm a seal!" he giggled, the cracker promptly dissolving into his azure head. He blinked. "Oops. Tasty!"
They were navigating a narrower side alley, a shortcut Jannali insisted would get them to the Crystal Goblet Tavern faster, where Marya's associates, Atlas and Galit, were waiting. The air here was cooler, smelling of damp rock and something vaguely metallic. The constant, low rumble of the island's volatile heart was a physical sensation here, a vibration that traveled up through the soles of their feet.
It was in this confined space that a figure detached itself from a deep doorway shadow. It moved with a silence that was unnerving, blocking their path. The figure was tall and wrapped in a hooded cloak of a rough, dun-colored fabric that seemed to absorb the scant light. Its face was completely concealed by a featureless white ceramic mask, smooth and expressionless except for two narrow slits for eyes.
Marya stopped instantly, her body going still in a way that was more threatening than any ready stance. Jelly let out a small, startled "Eep!" and wobbled behind her legs. Jannali's grip on Marya's arm tightened for a fraction of a second before she consciously relaxed it, her own bright demeanor cooling into a mask of neutral curiosity. A trained observer might have noted the way her free hand drifted infinitesimally closer to the collapsed spear on her hip, a gesture she aborted almost immediately.
The masked figure spoke, its voice muffled and genderless behind the ceramic. "Dracule Marya. Your presence has been requested."
Marya's golden eyes, flat and assessing, scanned the figure. She didn't ask 'by whom.' She simply raised one judgmental brow. "Not interested." She took a step to the side, intending to walk around the obstruction as if it were a misplaced barrel.
The figure mirrored her movement, remaining squarely in their path. "It is not optional. Your presence is required."
Marya didn't break stride. She continued forward, forcing the figure to step back or be shouldered aside. Jannali scurried to keep up, throwing a quick, unreadable glance over her shoulder at the masked individual. Jelly, confused but loyal, gave a brave little jiggle and stuck his tongue out at the figure before bouncing after Marya.
The masked individual's shoulders, the only part of its posture that was expressive, tensed with clear frustration. It watched the retreating forms—the implacable set of Marya's leather-clad back, the cheerful, wobbling blue blob—with an air of someone who had badly miscalculated. Its head dropped slightly, the blank white mask tilting toward the ground in thought. What leverage did one use on a woman who seemed to want nothing from the world?
An idea, born of desperation, sparked. The figure's head snapped up.
"Devil Fruits!" it blurted out, the words echoing oddly in the narrow alley.
Marya didn't pause.
The figure tried again, louder, its muffled voice gaining an edge. "They have Devil Fruits! The ones you are looking for!"
Marya's boots scuffed to a halt on the volcanic stone. She didn't turn immediately, but her entire posture was now one of focused attention. Slowly, deliberately, she turned her head to look back at the masked figure over her shoulder. She cocked her head, a predator considering unfamiliar prey. "And what Devil Fruits might those be?" Her voice was low, a carefully controlled neutral tone that was more threatening than any shout.
A visible wave of relief seemed to wash over Jannali, though she quickly schooled her features back into vague interest.
The masked figure straightened, sensing a sliver of an opening. "Come with me," it said, the command now laced with a persuasive edge. "And you will find out."
Marya held the figure's masked gaze for a long, silent moment. The only sounds were the distant roar of the volcano, the drip of condensation from a pipe overhead, and Jelly's soft, internal gurgling. She weighed the obvious trap against the tantalizing, impossible bait. Her mother's research, the elements needed for the Gate… it all circled back to power, to artifacts, to things that could be encapsulated in a fruit's impossible form.
She let out a short, sharp sigh that fogged briefly in the cool, damp air. "Fine." The single word was heavy with resigned inevitability. It wasn't acceptance; it was a calculation. The path of least resistance to the potential prize. She turned fully, her expression once again an unreadable mask of stoic calm, ready to follow the hooded figure into whatever came next.
Without a word, the masked guide turned and led them deeper into the labyrinthine alleyways of Bootleg Island. The main thoroughfares, with their glowing lanterns and raucous energy, gave way to narrower, shadow-cloaked passages where the volcanic rock walls seemed to press in closer. The air grew still and cold, the distant rumble of the island's heart muted to a dull, threatening throb. They stopped before a section of wall that appeared no different from any other, a tapestry of rough, igneous stone. Their guide pressed a sequence of nearly invisible seams in the rock. With a deep, grinding groan that sent a fine dust of black ash sifting down from above, a section of the wall slid inward, revealing a dark, descending passage.
The air that wafted out was ancient and dry, carrying the scent of old stone and something metallic, like cold iron. The passage was tight, hewn roughly from the living rock, lit at intervals by faintly flickering sconces that burned with a thin, blue flame that cast more shadows than light. Jelly let out a nervous whimper, his usual bounciness gone. With a soft plorp, he launched himself from the ground, shrinking himself down and landing with a damp squelch in the large pocket of Marya's leather jacket, his wide, starry eyes just peeking over the edge.
Marya didn't acknowledge him, her focus entirely on the path ahead and the silent guide. Jannali followed close behind, her own breathing slightly quickened, her fingers brushing against the wall for balance on the uneven descent.
After a long, silent minute, the passage abruptly fell away into a vast, cavernous space. The ceiling was lost in darkness high above. The room was circular, its walls smooth and curving inward, carved with intricate, swirling patterns that seemed to move in the erratic light of a single, massive iron brazier burning in the center of the room. Its flames cast a deep, bloody glow.
Directly ahead, on a raised dais of polished black obsidian, sat a long, curved table. Behind it, five figures were seated, each shrouded in identical hooded cloaks and featureless white ceramic masks. They were utterly still, like statues arranged for some silent, grim tribunal.
Their guide hurried forward, gesturing for Marya and Jannali to stand in the center of the room, on a circular mosaic depicting a stylized, many-eyed beast. The guide then rushed behind the table, leaning down to whisper urgently into the ear of the central masked figure. Marya watched, her golden eyes missing nothing, as the heads of the five figures bobbed in a slow, unnervingly synchronized rhythm of agreement, though not a single audible word passed between them. Their guide, his task complete, melted back into the shadows near the entrance, becoming one with the darkness.
Marya stood her ground, uncrossing her arms and letting them hang loosely at her sides, a deceptively casual stance that allowed for instant movement. She was assessing the room, the exits, the potential threats.
The central figure behind the table leaned forward slightly, the blue flame reflecting twin points of cold light in its eye slits. Its voice, when it came, was distorted, echoing slightly as if spoken from the bottom of a deep well. "Dracule Marya Zaleska. Your reputation—"
"Who are you?" Marya's voice cut through the echo, sharp and clear as a shard of glass. It wasn't a question born of fear, but of impatience and a refusal to be put on the defensive.
Jannali jolted at the interruption, a tiny, sharp intake of breath the only sign of her surprise at the boldness.
The masked speaker leaned back, the ceramic mask giving nothing away, but the pause that followed was heavy with affront. A low, grating sound, like stone on stone, came from behind the mask—a groan of irritation. "My apologies for making assumptions," the voice said, the distorted tone failing to mask a sliver of sarcasm. "We are the Masquerade. The governing body that ensures the… equilibrium… of this island."
Marya's only response was a slow, deliberate sigh. "Understood." Another layer of power playing its games.
The speaker continued, "Your reputation precedes you. You are a worthy inheritor of your legacy. From both your formidable father… and your insightful mother."
Marya's brow furrowed minutely at the mention of her mother, a crack in the stoic facade. The speaker noted it and pressed on, sliding a single piece of parchment across the glossy black surface of the table. "We have a request. A task for which you are uniquely suited."
Marya cocked her head, a predator considering bait.
"We need you to find someone," the voice intoned, "and bring them back to us."
Marya shifted her weight, the sole of her boot scraping softly on the stone mosaic. "And why should I do that for you?"
Another of the masked figures, this one to the leader's right, spoke up, its voice slightly higher-pitched. "We are prepared to offer you the Razzle-Dazzle Fruit as payment for your service."
The air in the chamber seemed to vanish. A chill, cold and sharp as a shard of ice, shot down Marya's spine. Her entire body went rigid, every ounce of her focus narrowing onto the faceless figures behind the table. The Razzle-Dazzle Fruit. His fruit. Vaughn's Devil Fruit. The power that had been extinguished the same night he was.
"You have it?" The question left her lips flat, devoid of inflection, but the intensity in her golden eyes was terrifying.
"We do," the central speaker confirmed. "Bring us this individual,"—a long, white gloved finger tapped the parchment—"and the fruit, his fruit, will be yours."
Marya's jaw flexed, the muscle ticking under her skin. "Why ask me?"
"Discretion is mandatory. The World Government's eyes are everywhere. Do this," the speaker said, the words hanging in the firelit air, "and the Masquerade will be in your debt."
Jannali was chewing on her lower lip, her earlier confidence replaced by a palpable nervous energy, her eyes darting between Marya and the tribunal.
Marya considered for a long, silent moment. The only sound was the crackle of the brazier and the faint, internal gurgle from her jacket pocket. Then, she dropped her arms fully. The sound of her combat boots on the obsidian floor echoed like gunshots in the cavernous room as she took the three steps to the table. She didn't reach for it delicately. Her hand shot out, her fingers gripping the parchment. The sound of it screeching across the smooth tabletop was a violent announcement of her acceptance.
She lifted it, her eyes scanning the name written there in a crisp, official script. She read it aloud, her voice cold and clear.
"Eliane Anđel."
From beside her, Jannali made a sound—a sharp, choked gasp that was instantly stifled. Every masked head, and Marya's, turned toward her for a split second. Jannali's eyes were wide, her hand half-raised to her mouth before she forced it down, schooling her features into a strained mask of neutrality.
Marya's gaze lingered on her for a heartbeat longer before returning to the Masquerade. The central speaker gestured to the paper. "That is her Vivre Card. It will guide you."
Marya said nothing. She simply turned on her heel, the leather of her jacket whispering against itself.
"Wait—" one of the other masked figures began.
But Marya was already walking, her stride eating up the distance to the dark passage. "I am done here," she announced, her voice flat and final, not even bothering to look back.
Jannali glanced over her shoulder one last time at the silent, masked assembly, her expression a turmoil of shock and unease, before scurrying to catch up.
As they disappeared into the dark mouth of the passageway, the central Masquerade speaker let out a slow, distorted breath. "Most certainly his shadow," it muttered to the others.
The other four masked figures nodded once, their movements perfectly synchronized in the bloody, flickering light. The agreement was silent, and absolute.
*****
The profound silence of the deep was shattered by a concussive THUMP that resonated through the submarine's hull like a giant's heartbeat. Reality snapped back into place with the violent finality of a slingshot. One moment there was nothing; the next, the submersible was violently buoyant, tossed like a toy in a churning, angry sea.
Bianca, halfway to her seat, was flung across the cabin with a yelp. She crashed into Charlie's bolted-down chair, sending a shower of scrolls and a single, precious ink bottle skittering across the groaning floor. "My notes!" he cried out, his voice a high, academic wail of distress, one hand instinctively clamping his pith helmet to his head.
Aurélie's hands were a blur on the console, her knuckles white. The sub pitched and yawed, the engines screaming in a discordant harmony with the blaring proximity alarm. The lights flickered madly, casting the cabin in strobing shadows. From the engine compartment, the Bubble Porter emitted a final, agonized squeal. A flash of actinic light was followed by a thick, acrid plume of smoke that smelled of burnt wiring and melted crystal.
"Status!" Kuro's voice cut through the din, sharp and demanding. He remained perfectly seated, his gloved hands gripping the armrests, but his eyes behind his cracked spectacles were narrowed to slits, scanning every gauge and viewport with a tactician's ruthless efficiency.
"Unknown!" Aurélie shot back, her voice strained but level as she fought the bucking controls. "Navigation is dead. Compass is spinning. No recognizable stellar or seabed patterns." Her steel-gray eyes, reflecting the frantic flash of warning lights, darted across the dead screens.
Outside the main viewport, the water was a murky, polluted soup, a strange ochre hue filtering down from the surface. Then something moved. Something immense. A shadow, darker than the abyssal gloom, glided past with a grace that belied its impossible size. It was a leviathan of nightmares, its hide a mosaic of jagged, metallic-looking scales and pulsating bioluminescent patterns that were utterly alien.
Ember squealed with delight, clapping her hands together. "Ooh, pretty!" she giggled, her mismatched eyes wide with manic joy as she pointed. "Looky the glowy bits, Josiah! Bigger than the last one!"
Souta leaned forward, his usual monotone laced with a rare edge of disbelief. "What in the nine hells was that?" The tattoos on his arms, usually a slow, deliberate swirl, were now agitated, coiling and uncoiling like startled serpents.
"Ahem!" Charlie began, clearing his throat with forced bravado despite the chaos. "Given our apparent submersion in a large body of water, it is only reasonable to postulate that we are witnessing a specimen of the order Pelagis Rex, colloquially known as a Sea King. Though I must concede, its morphological characteristics deviate significantly from any documented—"
"Not like any Sea King I've ever seen or read about," Souta interrupted, his gloved fingers steepled, his gaze locked on the creature as it turned, a single, massive eye the color of cooled magma seeming to fix on their vessel.
The submarine lurched again, thrown sideways by a powerful current. "Suggest we breach," Kuro stated, his voice cold and controlled. "Get a visual on the surface. Now."
"Trying," Aurélie gritted out, her hands wrestling with the unresponsive steering yoke. "The water's density is wrong. The pressure readings are… chaotic. I can't tell which way is up!"
Before anyone could respond, a nightmarish silhouette crossed the viewport. It was a limb, but not of flesh and bone. It was a colossal, articulated leg of grey-white metal, pistons hissing, hydraulics whining as it slammed down into the seabed mere meters away, kicking up a storm of silt and sending a seismic shockwave through the water. The kaiju, the Typhon, lunged, not at them, but at the owner of the leg. The water erupted in a frenzy of movement and violent energy.
The Nautilus Bane was caught in the wake, spun end over end. Charlie, his face pale beneath his helmet, blurted out, "Is it possible… is it possible that we are no longer in the Blue Sea? The mineral content of the water, the atmospheric pressure differentials, the complete absence of recognizable celestial navigation points… the evidence, though currently limited, suggests a conclusion that…"
Everyone turned to stare at him, the implication hanging in the smoke-filled air. The sub gave another violent shudder. The lights flickered violently, dying for a heart-stopping second before surging back to life. Then came a sound that tore through the hull and seized their very souls—a deafening, metallic, screeching roar that was part animal fury, part tearing metal. Their stomachs dropped as the sub was caught in a sudden, massive thrust of movement, yanked upwards at a terrifying speed.
There was a moment of weightless suspension, a silence filled only with the ringing in their ears. The main viewport, previously a window into a murky alien sea, flashed with a burst of overwhelming light.
It wasn't the familiar blue of the sky.
It was a bruised canvas of ochre and violet, streaked with the sickly green of a dying aurora. Below them stretched a terrifying landscape of a raging, wine-dark ocean battering against the immense, rust-streaked grey metal legs of a colossal floating city. And in the air between, giants made war.
Massive humanoid machines of polished grey and white metal, their forms sleek and deadly, traded beams of incandescent energy with the monstrous Typhon-class entities that clawed and shrieked at them. It was a scene of apocalyptic scale, a ballet of destruction that dwarfed anything any of them had ever witnessed.
As the submarine began to plummet back toward the churning water, its momentum stolen by gravity, Kuro was the first to speak, his voice a dry, awed whisper. "It appears," he said, "your hypothesis may be correct, scholar."
"Like, what the hell?" Bianca breathed, scrambling to grab a handhold as the deck tilted sharply. "Like, where could we be?"
"Is it a possible alternate dimen—?" Charlie began, but his question was cut short as they struck the water.
The impact was a jarring, teeth-rattling crash that slammed them against their restraints. For a moment, everything was chaos and roaring water. Then another deafening roar, this time from one of the mechanical giants, shook them to their core. The sub rolled violently, caught in the titanic waves kicked up by a nearby battle. Through the spray-splattered viewport, they saw one of the humanoid machines—an Armored Frame—advance on a wounded Typhon, its arm-mounted weapon firing a sustained beam of energy that carved a smoking trench across the creature's shoulder. The Typhon retaliated with a furious lunge, its massive jaws snapping shut on the machine's forearm with a sound of screeching metal.
Three more of the mechanical giants descended from the strange sky, their thrusters flaring, adding their firepower—beams and missiles—to the fray. Overwhelmed and bleeding a strange, phosphorescent ichor into the water, the great beast gave a final, defeated shriek and submerged, fleeing into the depths and leaving a swirling trail of iridescent blood behind.
The machines hovered for a moment, a silent conference of giants. The one that had been bitten gestured with its good arm toward the water where the submarine was tossed by the waves. One of the other Frames nodded, then dove into the ocean with surprising grace.
Inside the sub, there was a moment of relative calm, broken only by the creaking of stressed metal and the frantic beeping of damaged systems. Then a shadow fell over them. A massive metal hand, scarred and pitted from battle, descended into view. It moved with an unexpected delicacy, fingers closing gently around the submarine's hull with a low, resonant clang that vibrated through the entire vessel.
They were lifted from the water, rising swiftly into the alien air. Dripping ocean streamed down the viewport, offering a distorted, rain-streaked view of the colossal robotic face of their captor—or savior—a single, unblinking green optic lens regarding them with cool, mechanical curiosity.
Bianca stared, her tools forgotten in her lap. "Like… oh shit."