The rear compartment of the vessel was a tomb of silent machinery and stale, recycled air. Isolated from the bridge's groans, the only sounds were the deep, sub-audible vibration of the stressed engines and the drip of condensation from a cold pipe overhead. Marya stood in the pale glow of a single utility light, its harsh beam cutting through the gloom. In her hand was a specialized Den Den Mushi, its shell a non-descript grey, designed for encrypted, untraceable pulses through the Grand Line's strange magnetic fields.
She input a sequence, a code known only to two people. The snail's eyes opened, sluggish. It began to ring with a soft, internal purururu.
It picked up. The snail's features melted, shifting, settling into a visage of sharp, familiar angles: a strong jaw, a neatly trimmed goatee, and eyes that held the penetrating gold of a hawk, even in this miniature, molluscan form. Dracule Mihawk.
Marya didn't wait for a greeting. "Father."
Mihawk's brow, recreated perfectly on the snail's forehead, shot upward a fraction. "This is a risk." His voice, though filtered through the snail, was the same low, composed baritone she remembered. In the background, distinct and clear, a man screamed in raw, unadulterated agony. It was cut short with a wet, final sound.
Marya took a breath, the stale air tasting of metal and resolve. "We need to talk. About Micah."
On the snail's face, Mihawk's eyes narrowed. There was a pause, a heavy silence broken only by another, more distant scream from his location, followed by the sound of a terrific impact—wood splintering, stone crumbling. "One moment," he said, his tone conversational, as if asking her to hold while he picked up another call.
The line wasn't dead. She could hear the muffled sounds of chaos: shouts, the ring of steel, another short, choked cry. Then, the sounds faded, replaced by the whisper of wind. He returned. "What—"
Marya cut him off, the words she'd carried since the ruins forcing their way out. "I know he's alive. Why—"
"And how," Mihawk interrupted, his voice gaining a blade's edge, "did you come by this information?"
A humorless smirk touched Marya's lips. "My cousin told me."
The snail's features hardened. Mihawk was about to speak, to demand details, but Marya barreled on, the dam of years of quiet grief and assumption breaking. "I thought he was dead. All this time, I thought we lost him that night. Why would you—"
"I did not know," Mihawk's voice cut through, a quiet thunderclap. An audible sigh, a rare concession to fatigue, followed. "There is more at stake here than your understanding."
"You did know, then," Marya said, the realization a cold stone dropping in her gut. She shook her head, her raven hair swaying in the dim light. "Why keep it from me? Why leave him there? Why did you—"
"I did not know," Mihawk repeated, each word deliberate, "until two years after I retrieved you." The admission hung in the air, heavier than the ocean above them. "I thought I lost him that night. The fire, the chaos… By the time I pieced it together, tracked the threads…"
Marya's head flopped forward, her forehead nearly touching the cool metal of the counter. The pieces of a painful, ancient puzzle shifted. The constant moves during her childhood, the safe-houses, the hidden paths. The relentless, silent pressure that always appeared one step behind them. "We were on the move," she whispered, understanding dawning. "Trying to stay underground. Out of their reach."
"There was no way to extract him without guaranteeing the death of you both," Mihawk interjected, his voice stripped of its usual dry humor. It was the flat, hard tone of a man stating actual reality. "I knew he was alive. I knew he was… cared for. After a fashion."
Marya finished the terrible thought, her voice hollow. "And they used him as leverage when they came for you. When they offered the Warlord seat."
"Decisions had to be made," Mihawk stated, no apology, no regret—just the immutable weight of fact. "I made them."
Marya straightened, rubbing the back of her neck where tension coiled like steel wire. The fragmented memories of a childhood shrouded in quiet urgency, of her father's distant focus, of a loss she thought was absolute, suddenly re-contextualized. She was grasping the true gravity of the chessboard he had been forced to play on, with their lives as the pieces.
Mihawk continued, the wind howling softly on his end. "It was the only way both of you could live. A devil's bargain, but the only one on the table."
Marya blinked, her expression settling into a stern mask, the emotional storm receding behind the disciplined calm. "Father. I want to see him. I want to bring him home."
The snail's face hardened. "No."
Marya's eyes narrowed, a flicker of her own will, so like his, flashing in their golden depths. "I—"
"How is your quest?" Mihawk redirected, his tone shifting back to that of a mentor assessing a student's progress.
Marya stammered, thrown by the pivot. "I—I am making progress. It shouldn't be too much longer before I have everything needed to open the Gate."
"Do not lose focus," Mihawk commanded, the warning clear. "You cannot deviate from your path now. There is too much at stake."
Marya's jaw flexed, a muscle twitching. She hated when he was right, when he sliced through emotion with the razor edge of logic. "Once you have completed your quest," Mihawk continued, "we can re-evaluate the—"
"No." Marya shook her head, cutting him off. The calm was gone, replaced by a daughter's fierce, stubborn will. "I want you to vow to me. Swear it. That once I have completed this quest, you and I go and get him. Together."
"Marya," Mihawk replied, his tone flat, infuriatingly reasonable. "There are forces at play that you cannot yet fathom. The World Government, the Holy Knights… it is not a simple extraction."
"I don't care," she hissed, her composure cracking. "I am not leaving him there, thinking no one cared, that no one fought for him. You have to come with me! Vow it!"
Mihawk sighed, a sound of pure exasperation. "This is unnecessary. My word is—"
"Then make the vow," Marya pressed, a sharp, challenging smirk returning to her lips. She was cornering him, and they both knew it. "I will come for you when I am ready to open the door. Then, we go and get Micah. Vow it!"
"Things are in motion," he tried, a final evasion. "The balance of the world is shifting. This is not the time for a personal crusade."
"Vow it," Marya repeated, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper, "or I will go by myself. You know I will."
On the snail's face, Mihawk's golden eyes narrowed. He saw her resolve, as unyielding as the black blade she carried. He saw the ghost of her mother in that stubborn set of her jaw. He was checkmated, not by an enemy, but by his own blood. A low, annoyed grumble emanated from the snail. "Fine. I vow to go with you."
A smile of pure, unadulterated victory spread across Marya's face. "Good. Now, make sure you don't get yourself killed before then. It would be terribly inconvenient."
From the other end of the line, across untold miles of stormy sea, came a soft, dry chuckle. It was a rare, almost soundless thing. The snail's features formed Mihawk's characteristic, faint smirk. "A blade that seeks to dictate its fate to the whetstone should first ensure it is sharp enough to cut the stone," he said, the words a perfect, clever, and utterly Mihawk-like proverb.
At that moment, the heavy circular hatch to the compartment creaked open with a groan of metal. Sanza's small, curious face peered in, with Jelly wobbling beside him.
Marya's smile softened. She looked back at the Den Den Mushi. "See you soon, old man."
She placed the receiver down before he could reply. The connection died, the snail's features melting back into a sleepy, blank expression. The vow hung in the stale air, a new piece on the board, a promise that changed the endgame. She had her father's word. Now, she just had to finish her quest and survive long enough to collect.
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