The submarine descended through waters that grew heavier with each passing fathom. Outside the hull, the sea changed—its deep indigo bleeding into something older, something the color of tarnished silver. The pressure gauges in the corridor whispered their quiet revolutions, and the ancient ship's frame settled into a deeper, slower rhythm, as if it recognized this place.
Through the forward viewports, the first markers of the Florian Triangle emerged from the gloom. Towers of coral, dead and petrified, rose from the seabed like the fingers of drowned gods. Their surfaces were encrusted with centuries of mineral buildup, pale white and funeral gray, branching into antler-like formations that caught the submarine's exterior lights and threw back shadows that moved when the water stirred. Between them drifted the carcasses of ships—not the fresh wreckage of recent storms, but things that had been dead a very long time. Hulks with hulls split open like ripe fruit, their ribs exposed to the currents. Figureheads of smiling maidens and roaring beasts, now worn smooth and eyeless. A piece of ornate stern castle, still bearing the faded crest of some forgotten kingdom, spun lazily past the viewport. It tapped against the hull with a sound like an old clock striking a single, soft note, then spiraled away into the dark.
Inside the galley, none of this was visible. The world had condensed to the warmth of the kitchen, the scent of seared sea king, and the comfortable noise of a crew well-fed.
Atlas Acuta leaned so far back in his chair that his rust-red fur brushed the bulkhead behind him. Both hands rested on the swell of his belly, his claws extended in a lazy stretch. "I am so stuffed," he announced to the ceiling, his voice a low, satisfied rumble. "I cannot eat another bite." His sapphire eyes were half-lidded, his usual sharp vigilance softened by the meal.
Before the words had finished echoing, a wobbling blue form was already in motion. Jelly Squish, drawn by some primal gelatinous instinct, drifted toward Atlas's plate like a comet toward a sun. His massive star-pupils locked onto the remaining morsels of sea king loin with desperate focus.
Atlas moved with deceptive speed. His arm shot out, claws closing around the plate's edge. He swept it off the table and held it high, well above Jelly's bounce range. "Nice try, puddle."
Jelly froze mid-wobble. His permanent grin sagged. A soft, mournful "Bloop..." escaped him.
Sanza Kaplan Figarland, perched on a chair that was slightly too tall for him, watched the exchange with undisguised glee. His heavy Gallagher eyebrows danced. "He's like a little blue vulture," the eight-year-old observed, swinging his legs. "But squishier."
Jelly's attention, betrayed, swiveled toward Sanza's plate. The boy's grin vanished. He curled both arms around his meal, forming a human shield. "Don't you dare."
Atlas chuckled, still holding his plate aloft. "You better watch out, kid. He's got your scent."
Vesta Lavana, oblivious to the food-based cold war unfolding beside her, shoveled another forkful of sea king into her mouth. Her rainbow hair pulsing with satisfaction. "This is so good!" she announced around the food, which was perhaps not the most diplomatic delivery. "I could eat this forever!"
At the stove, Eliane Anđel beamed. Her small frame was barely visible behind the massive skillet she was shaking with practiced ease, sending a cascade of sizzling vegetables dancing through the air. Her silver ponytail swung with the motion. "I knew it would be worth the detour!" Her voice was high, bright, utterly convinced of her own correctness. She caught a falling mushroom slice on the back of her spatula with a chef's casual pride.
Bianca Yvonne Clark, who had been attempting to use a miniature screwdriver to adjust the tension on her sonic wrench, paused to poke at a piece of unfamiliar white meat on her plate. "Like, what even is this cut? It's got this, like, crazy marbling." She held it up to the light. "I bet the lipid distribution is, like, off the charts."
Charlie Leonard Wooley, seated beside her, dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief. "Ahem. The psoas major of the Leo abyssus is renowned among those few who have studied its myology. Though, I confess, the preparation is..." He paused, searching for the word. "...adequate."
Eliane's eyes narrowed at the back of his pith helmet. "Adequate?"
"Adequate," Charlie repeated firmly, not turning around. His ears reddened.
Ember, perched on the edge of her stool with Mr. Cinders clutched in her lap, had not touched her plate. She was staring at the food as if it might confess something. Her mismatched eyes—one icy blue, one prosthetic gold—flickered between the sea king and the memory of the hunt. Her neon-pink space buns were less bouncy than usual. She whispered something to herself, too low for anyone to hear.
Dr. Zip H. Scatyl sat at the far end of the table, apart from the others. His plate was arranged with geometric exactness: protein at twelve o'clock, vegetables at three and nine, starch at six. He had not yet eaten. His yellowish eyes studied each piece of sea king flesh with an intensity that made the cuts of meat seem like they were undergoing a final, invasive interview. His small, needle-sharp horns caught the galley's warm light and threw two thin shadows across his face.
Galit Varuna, his long neck curved in a relaxed S, was using the edge of his knife to scrape the last of his portion onto a piece of bread. His emerald eyes scanned the group, cataloging, filing. "The marinade," he said, "had notes of citrus. Probably a reduction of the fermented corn beer—chicha, I think Jannali called it." He took a bite. "Clever."
Jannali Bandler, standing at the counter as she scraped her plate clean, glanced over her shoulder. "Too right. Little chef's got instincts." Her lilt wrapped around the words like warm syrup. "Knew a bloke back home who tried to cook sea king once. Burnt his eyebrows clean off. And his boat."
Aurélie Nakano Takeko, seated with perfect posture at the table's edge, did not comment. Her portion of sea king was half-eaten, abandoned. Her steel-gray eyes were fixed on the bulkhead, but she was not seeing it. Her fingers rested near her hip, where Anathema slept in its sheath. The black blade's curse was quiet today, but she could feel it waiting, listening.
Marya Zaleska sat at the head of the table, her plate mostly finished. She had eaten methodically, without comment, her golden eyes tracking the flow of conversation like a hawk watching field mice. Her leather jacket was unzipped, the Heart Pirates insignia catching the light. One boot rested on the opposite knee. She appeared relaxed. She was not.
The ship shuddered.
It was a small thing, a brief tremor that passed through the deck plating and up through the chair legs. The hanging cookware swayed. Vesta's fork paused halfway to her mouth. Charlie's ongoing monologue about myological taxonomy stuttered.
Another tremor. Longer. Deeper. This one came with a sound—a low, distant groan, like something immense shifting in its sleep. The water pressure outside the hull sang a different note.
Halia materialized in the center of the galley. Her silver-blue hair floated in an invisible current, and her large, whirlpool eyes carried an urgency that her composed voice did not fully mask. Light particles cascaded from her form, settling around her like snowfall.
"Forgive the interruption," she said, her voice the same melodic cadence, but pitched lower, more serious. "We have arrived at the threshold coordinates. The submarine will breach the outer perimeter of Tawantin's influence momentarily."
The galley went quiet. Even the sizzle from Eliane's skillet softened.
Jannali set her plate in the sink with a definitive clack. "Well, you heard the luminous lady." She wiped her hands on her skirt. "We best get moving."
Chairs scraped against deck plating. Atlas unfolded himself from his seat with a groan that had nothing to do with fullness. Bianca began shoving various tools into her corset-holster. Vesta grabbed Mikasi, who let out a soft, anticipatory strum. Sanza slid off his chair and immediately began adjusting his parka, trying to look taller. Jelly bounced toward the door, then bounced back to snatch a forgotten piece of sea king from Atlas's abandoned plate, then bounced toward the door again.
Charlie cleared his throat—"Ahem!"—and gathered his satchel, checking that his loupe, his seismic chalk, and his crumbling notebook were all present. "The Enochian resonances in this region are... unusual. I suspect there is some sort of interacting with the local telluric currents. Remarkable. Truly remarkable."
Ember stood slowly, her grip on Mr. Cinders tightening. Her mismatched gaze swept the room, looking for threats that hadn't yet appeared. Her other hand went to Josiah's rusted knife at her belt, touching the hilt for reassurance.
Dr. Zip H. Scatyl rose with the silent, segmented grace of a centipede. He adjusted his medical coat, ensuring his Spirit Vials and syringes were properly arranged. His yellowish eyes darted to the bulkhead, as if he could see through it to the mist beyond. "Tawantin," he murmured, tasting the word.
Galit was already at the door, his neck extended, his tactical slate in hand. His fingers moved across its surface, pulling up what little data the submarine's sensors could gather through the thickening interference. "The fog out there isn't natural. It's responding to something—some kind of field." His voice was rapid, focused. "Devil Fruit users are going to feel it. Like moving through wet sand."
Marya stood. She did not rush. Her golden eyes swept the room once, taking the measure of each person, each weapon, each flicker of fear or excitement or curiosity. Her hand moved to the hilt of Nisshoku, the cursed blade resting against her spine. Her touch was light, almost absent.
The door to the galley stood open. Beyond it, the corridor stretched toward the command nexus, toward the viewports, toward the waiting mist of the Florian Triangle and the island that had hidden there for eight centuries.
Jelly bounced through first, his cheerful "Bloop!" echoing off the metal walls.
The others followed.
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