The first pale streaks of dawn bled into the sky over Nouvèl Orléon, painting the Floating Quarter's bubble-stone canals in hues of bruised peach and sickly green. Aboard the Red Force, the night's revelry had settled into the groans and shuffles of morning. The air hung thick with the fading scent of swamp mist, stale rum, and something suspiciously like burnt maple syrup emanating from the scattered wreckage on deck. The Dusk Dancer – Marya's submarine – was less a vessel and more a monument to Gadget's fever dreams. Waffle-iron plating lay buckled beside soup-ladle propellers; Krewe bandanas fluttered sadly from the bent periscope; gears, springs, and unidentifiable components sparkled with syrup and algae, scattered across the planking like metallic confetti after a disastrous party.
Shanks emerged from below, stretching with a yawn that showed off his missing arm. He scratched his bare chest, squinting against the low light. His bare feet padded silently over the dew-slick deck towards the figure leaning against the port rail. Benn Beckman stood like a sentinel carved from shadow and smoke, the ember of his cigarette a solitary red eye in the gloom. The tendrils of smoke he exhaled twisted into tight, worried spirals before dissipating over the still, murky water of the bayou.
"Mornin', Ben," Shanks greeted, his voice still rough with sleep. He joined him at the rail, gazing out at the mist clinging to the whispering cypresses. "Anything stirrin' besides Gadget's snoring?"
Benn didn't turn. He took a slow drag, his gaze fixed on the labyrinthine channels of the Forgotten Marshes. "No sign," he stated flatly. The words hung heavy in the humid air. "Marya. Mihawk. Hongo. Vanished."
Shanks leaned on the rail, the wood cool beneath his palms. "Vanished?" He forced a chuckle that sounded hollow even to his own ears. "Maybe they found a nicer berth? Mihawk's got standards, and Hongo… well, maybe he found a distillery that stays open past dawn?"
Benn finally glanced sideways, his expression unreadable in the dim light. "Hongo checks in. Always. Even if it's just to complain about the rum rations. Mihawk wouldn't linger without purpose. And Marya…" He trailed off, the implication clear. Her submarine lay in pieces on their deck.
Shanks' knuckles whitened slightly where he gripped the rail. He plastered on a grin. "Ah, c'mon, Beck! Probably just got lost sampling the local hooch. Mihawk complaining about the vintage, Marya broodily dissecting the bar's structural integrity, Hongo trying to diagnose everyone with swamp fever." He gestured vaguely towards the chaotic town floating above the marsh.
Before Benn could counter, a flash of neon plumage cut through the dawn mist. The jazz-mimic parrot from the cypress canopy swooped low, its eerie blue eyes fixed on Shanks. It landed with surprising lightness on his bare shoulder, claws pricking his skin. The bird tilted its head, feathers ruffling to reveal the faint, serpentine cipher tattooed on its breast. Then it opened its beak, but instead of a squawk, Moxy-Rouge's dry, smoke-roughened voice emerged, clear and urgent: "Red Hair. La Maison Rouge. Dawn. Now." The message delivered, the parrot let out a single, discordant squawk that echoed like a cracked bell before launching itself back into the misty air, leaving a faint scent of plumage and overripe citrus.
"Breakfast!" Lucky Roux's booming voice shattered the uneasy quiet. He emerged from the galley hatch, a massive platter piled high with sizzling, unidentifiable swamp creatures balanced precariously on one hand, a ladle the size of a small anchor in the other. "Gator-tail hash! Extra cayenne! Get it while it's hot enough to melt yer fillings!" The pungent aroma of cayenne pepper and seared meat momentarily overpowered the swamp's miasma.
Bonk Punch stumbled onto the deck, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Ugh. Smells like somethin' died in Roux's boots. Again."
Yasopp, already meticulously cleaning his rifle near the main mast, chuckled. "Better than the alternative – Gadget's 'maple-glazed engine capacitor surprise' he was muttering about last night."
Jelly, bouncing excitedly beside Lucky Roux, morphed his arm into a wobbly spatula. "Flip the gator, Roux! Flip it! Bloop!"
Building Snake surveyed the scattered submarine parts with a weary sigh, nudging a syrup-coated gear with his boot. "Repairs my eye. Looks like a waffle iron exploded in a scrapyard."
Gab emerged, stretching. "Anyone seen Hongo? Need to ask if gator tail counts as a medicinal herb…"
Lucky Roux spotted Shanks at the rail. "Cap'n! Grub's up! Saved ya the crispiest bits!" He brandished the ladle like a trophy.
Shanks pushed off the rail, the forced cheer gone from his face. "Appreciate it, Lucky," he said, his voice losing its morning rasp, becoming sharper. "Save me some. Got business in town." He strode towards the gangplank that led down to the floating docks.
Just before stepping onto the weathered wood, he paused. He didn't turn fully, but his voice carried clearly back to Benn Beckman, cutting through the sizzle from Roux's platter and Bonk Punch's grumbling yawn. "Ben."
Benn met his gaze, cigarette paused halfway to his lips.
"Find them," Shanks commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. It was the voice of the Emperor, not the morning-after reveler. "And tell Gadget," he added, a flicker of the old exasperation returning as he glanced at the submarine-shaped disaster area, "that sub better float by sundown. Preferably without smelling like breakfast." Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked down the gangplank, his red hair a vivid slash against the grey-green dawn mist rising from the bayou, heading towards the silent, waiting streets of the Floating Quarter and the summons from the Voodoo Queen. The crew watched him go, the easy morning atmosphere suddenly feeling thin and fragile, like the mist dissolving under the hesitant sun.
*****
The air inside La Maison Rouge hung thick and still, a cloying blend of ancient perfume, mildew, and the sharp bite of cheap absinthe. Dawn light, filtered through grimy stained-glass windows depicting long-forgotten saints, cast fractured rainbows across dust motes dancing over velvet chaise lounges worn bare by generations of secrets. Shanks found Moxy-Rouge not at her usual shadowed corner table, but standing before the crumbling fireplace, its mantlepiece adorned with voodoo dolls and tarnished Marine medals. Her doll, Petit Roi, sat rigidly on the hearth, button eyes reflecting the weak flames.
"Red Hair," Moxy greeted, her voice raspier than usual, the crimson tignon on her head looking slightly askew. She didn't turn, instead stirring the cold ashes with a bone poker. "Dawn suits you. Less... chaotic than your usual hours." The faintest hint of their shared past – years aboard the Red Force before she stayed to govern this rebellious jewel – coloured her tone, a weary fondness beneath the steel.
"Could say the same about this place before the revelry starts," Shanks replied, leaning against a fluted column scarred by sword slashes. He offered a grin, but it didn't quite reach his eyes, sharpened by the morning's unease. "Quiet. Lets a man hear himself think."
A cold draft snaked through the room, extinguishing a candle on a nearby table. In its place, coalescing from the gloom like smoke given form, sat Lady Evangeline Desmarets. Translucent in her tattered ball gown, she perched primly on the arm of Moxy's favorite chair, her lace veil obscuring her face save for two pinpricks of cold blue light. Phantom absinthe dripped from her hem, vanishing before it hit the threadbare rug. She didn't speak, but her presence was a physical weight, a silent demand for attention.
Moxy scowled, jabbing the poker towards the spirit. "Not now, Evangeline. Grown folk talking."
The ghostly madam merely tilted her head, the gesture conveying centuries of disdain. She didn't dissipate.
"Persistent," Shanks observed mildly, though his gaze sharpened, noting the spirit's unnerving focus on him, not Moxy.
"Like swamp rot," Moxy muttered, abandoning the ashes. She turned, her face etched with lines deepened by worry. "Forget her. We've got rot of a different kind eating the island alive, Shanks. Soul-Sugar."
She paced, her footsteps echoing in the cavernous silence broken only by the phantom drip... drip..._ of Evangeline's spectral drink. "Addictions are skyrocketing. We're drowning in orphans, Shanks. Kids with eyes older than the cypress ghouls, whispering memories that ain't theirs. Tante Delphine's hut overflows, her gumbo kettle bubbling with despair instead of sustenance." She stopped, facing him squarely. "Here's the rub: demand's higher than ever, whispers say even Celestial Dragons crave the high, but our coffers? Our shipments? Vanishing faster than dew in the bayou sun."
Shanks pushed off the column, his relaxed posture tightening almost imperceptibly. "Vanishing? From this island? Marine ships can't breach the curse. Krewe controls the ports."
"Exactly!" Moxy slammed a fist onto a nearby table, making a vase of dried bougainvillea rattle. "Inside job. Has to be. Someone within the Quarter, someone who knows the marshes, the hidden currents, the old ways, is bleeding us dry." Her voice dropped, thick with frustration and something deeper – responsibility. "This ain't just coin, Shanks. That sugar pays for the Floating Quarter's stones to float. It feeds those orphans. It pays the Krewe's enforcers who keep worse wolves than Marines at bay. Without it... this city of eternal revelry becomes a tomb of withdrawal screams."
She walked closer, the scent of crushed herbs and swamp rose clinging to her. "The island's splitting. Capitaine Jolene snarls about tightening control, squeezing the addicts drier. Tante Delphine and her reformers whisper about burning the fields, cutting the head off the snake, consequences be damned. And the shadows in between?" She gestured sharply towards the fog-shrouded window. "Bayou's Reckoning. A name whispered with fear and no face. They're the abyss where our sugar disappears."
Lady Evangeline drifted closer to Shanks, her cold aura making the hairs on his neck prickle. Her veiled face tilted, those blue pinpricks boring into him. A faint, icy whisper brushed his ear, unintelligible yet filled with chilling intent.
Moxy shot the ghost a venomous look but pressed on. "I need to know how, Red Hair. How is the sugar leaving? The marshes guard their secrets, L'Esprit du Bayou is restless, but someone knows the paths. Find that path. Find the leak. Then we find the head of the serpent." Her gaze was fierce, pleading beneath the iron. "You see the webs spun across these seas better than anyone. You know the players, the whispers in the dark."
Shanks met her eyes, the easy charm replaced by the keen, assessing look of the Emperor. His mind raced – Marya, Mihawk, Hongo vanished; Tante Delphine prophesied, the Bayou's Reckoning, the Mist energy of Marya's Devil Fruit... Pieces clicked, but the picture was dangerously incomplete. He couldn't reveal his missing crew, not yet. It might be connected, or it might muddy the waters.
"Inside job..." he mused, stroking his chin. His gaze flickered momentarily to Lady Evangeline, who had drifted back towards the fireplace, one spectral hand hovering over Petit Roi as if trying to possess it. "Using the swamp itself? Clever. Dangerous. Exploiting L'Esprit... that takes more than just greed. That takes knowledge bordering on blasphemy." He paused, his voice deceptively casual. "Any leads on how they're moving it? Big shipments need big... carriers."
Moxy shook her head, frustration evident. "Nothing. Like ghosts in the mist. That's why I need you. Your eyes see what ours miss in the swamp's shadow."
Shanks held her gaze for a long moment. The weight of her request, the island's desperation, and his own hidden worries hung heavy in the perfumed, haunted air. He didn't make promises lightly. "An island bleeding its own lifeblood..." he finally said, his voice low and thoughtful. "Doesn't sit right. Never has." He pushed away from the table. "I'll poke around, Moxy. See what whispers the swamp rats have heard. See if the bayou's willing to sing for me." It wasn't a yes, but it was far from a no. It was the promise of the storm before it breaks.
As he turned to leave, Lady Evangeline flowed silently into his path. Her veil seemed thinner for a moment, revealing not bone, but a swirling vortex of dark mist shot through with cold stars. Her whisper, clearer now, brushed his ear like frozen silk: "The Mist walks... The Bayou hungers... Find her... Before the Current does..."
Shanks didn't flinch. He met the spectral gaze, his own expression unreadable. Then, with a nod that encompassed both the living Voodoo Queen and the dead madam, he strode out of La Maison Rouge, the dawn light outside feeling colder than the haunted gloom he left behind. The hunt was on, and the prey was the serpent bleeding Nouvèl Orléon dry.
*****
The air on The Siren's Bargain tasted like rust, salt, and stolen ambition. Capitaine Jolene "Ironjaw" Martel leaned against the ship's gilded railing—salvaged from a World Noble's pleasure yacht—her mechanical jaw clicking softly as she surveyed the Floating Quarter's dawn haze. Below, the bubble-stone canals shimmered with runoff from last night's revelry: glitter, Soul-Sugar dust, and the faint, coppery tang of spilled blood. Her ship, a sleek predator disguised as a smuggler's sloop, sat low in the water, its hull lined with illicit cargo humming beneath tarpaulins.
Then, the Den Den Mushi rang. Not the cheerful chirp of a business partner, but the shrill, insistent wail of an encrypted Marine frequency. Jolene's gold-plated fingers—each knuckle joint sharp enough to slit a throat—curled around the receiver. The snail's face morphed into the gaunt, feverish visage of Vice Admiral "Bayou" Boudreaux, his moss-green coat collar damp with sweat, his eyes bloodshot pits beneath a tricorn hat crowned with alligator teeth.
"Martel." His voice crackled, thick with bayou humidity and suppressed rage. "Why wasn't I informed that Dracule Mihawk and Red Hair Shanks are polluting my island?"
Jolene didn't flinch. She traced a rivet in her jaw with a fingertip, the sound like a knife scraping bone. "Your island, Boudreaux?" Her laugh was a dry rasp, like boots on gravel. "Did Shanks' fleet sink so deep in the Sazerac Strait that you forgot who really rules these canals? Or did the saltwater pickle what little sense the Marines issued you?" She gestured vaguely towards the horizon where the infamous battle had raged—where Shanks' laugh had echoed over the wreckage of a dozen Marine warships, securing Nouvèl Orléon's freedom. "They walk where they please. Just like the tide."
Boudreaux's image contorted, veins pulsing at his temple. "Vital intel! Mihawk's a blade without a master, Shanks is a damned Emperor! Their presence changes everything! You owe me—"
"I owe you nothing." Jolene's voice dropped to a lethal purr. The mechanical jaw snapped shut with a final clack. "Our arrangement is trade, not tribute. Sugar for gold. Secrets for silence. I didn't deem their tourist stroll relevant to your… accounting. Perhaps invest in better spies than those drunken swamp rats you call informants."
A guttural snarl echoed through the snail. "Don't play coy, pirate. This island eats fools who overstep. Remember who funds your little orphanages—"
"Threats now?" Jolene leaned closer to the Den Den Mushi, her eyes like chips of flint. "How Marine of you. Empty as a dry well in August. Get to the point, Boudreaux. Or did you call just to hear the sound of your own wheezing?"
Silence hissed on the line, thick with venom. When Boudreaux spoke again, his voice was a forced, icy calm, dripping with contempt. "The Black Poneglyph. Where is it? Krewe du Roi's vaults? Moxy-Rouge's shadow shop? Delphine's cursed cauldron?"
Jolene's lip curled. The Poneglyph—the island's most dangerous secret, etched with World Government sins. "Still digging your own grave, I see. No. It's not nestled in my breakfast nook, if that's your next question." She watched a zombified thrall poling a gondola piled with Soul-Sugar barrels glide past, its vacant eyes reflecting the rising sun. "I'm peeling back layers, Boudreaux. Like an onion. Or a traitor's skin. When I have something solid, you'll hear the knife drop. Not a moment before."
"Time is a luxury you don't have, Martel," Boudreaux spat. "The Crawfish King waits in the marshes. With… impatient cargo. Be sure your next report has more spine than your excuses." The threat hung in the air—a promise of withheld payment, withheld protection, or worse.
Jolene's mechanical jaw whirred faintly, a predator's growl trapped in metal. "Your impatience smells like fear, Vice Admiral. Worried Shanks might notice the stench of your operation? Or that Mihawk might mistake your little Crawfish for a target?" She paused, letting the barb sink in. "Tell your impatient cargo to mind the gators. And the ghosts. This marsh swallows careless men whole. I'll call when I have what you want. If I have it."
She slammed the receiver down before he could retort. The Den Den Mushi slumped, exhausted. Jolene stared out at the Forgotten Marshes, where mist coiled like serpents over the water. Boudreaux's panic was palpable—Shanks and Mihawk's presence had rattled him. Good. Fear made men sloppy. But the Black Poneglyph… that was a different kind of danger. A prize worth empires. And Boudreaux wasn't the only hunter in the bayou.
She ran a finger along the cold edge of her jaw. Time to peel another layer. Someone on the Krewe was feeding Bayou's Reckoning. And when she found them… she'd deliver them to Boudreaux personally. Wrapped in chains, and drenched in the marsh's unforgiving rot.