The air in La Maison Rouge hung thick with absinthe vapors and the musk of confrontation. Moxy-Rouge's fingers drummed against the mahogany table, her doll, Petit Roi, mimicking the motion with tiny stitched hands. The Krewe du Roi's council chamber—a converted brothel parlor—swayed gently as the Floating Quarter's bubble-stone foundations hummed beneath them, lifting the entire district ten feet above the swamp's grasping tendrils. Through cracked, stained-glass windows, bioluminescent cypress pollen drifted like emerald snow, sticking to the sweat-slicked faces of the arguing pirates.
"Enough!" barked Remy "Riff" Leclerc, slamming his voodoo-etched trumpet onto the table. The note it emitted was a dissonant wail, scattering a flock of jazz-mimic parrots perched on the chandelier. Their squawks dissolved into a slurred rendition of Binks' Sake. "We ain't merchants peddling misery. These addicts—they're our kin. You wanna line your pockets with their ghosts?"
Capitaine Jolene "Ironjaw" Martel leaned back, her mechanical jaw clinking as she smirked. "Kin drown just as easy as strangers, mon ami. Why toss gold into rehab pits when Soul-Sugar's the only currency this island respects?" She flicked a gold tooth—plundered from a Marine admiral—across the table. It landed in Tante Delphine's cauldron of gumbo, which bubbled with visions of a child's hollow eyes.
The voodoo priestess stirred the brew, her milky gaze sharpening. "The bayou don't forget greed, chère. You think L'Esprit lets traitors sleep?" Her ladle clanged like a funeral bell.
Moxy-Rouge's doll twitched, its button eyes reflecting the council's fraying tempers. She'd stitched a sliver of her own soul into Petit Roi decades ago, a failsafe against betrayal. Now, its threadbare mouth moved with hers: "Our protection costs memories. Their pain fuels the wards. You'd rather the Marines carve up Nouvèl Orléon like a Mardi Gras king cake?"
A murmur slithered through the room. Outside, the Floating Quarter's canals shimmered with stolen moonlight, gondolas poled by zombified thralls gliding past balconies where lovers traded secrets for mask glue. The scent of burning chicory root and regret clung to the velvet drapes.
Granny Zéphyrine, perched on whalebone stilts in the corner, cackled. "Protection? Pfah! Your dolls weep black salt when the moon's right. Even the rats know it." Her skeletal mask—carved from Saint Lysander's shattered statue—tilted toward Sébastien "Silk" Moreau, who adjusted his brocade cuffs, a needle glinting between his fingers.
"Elegance demands sacrifice," Silk purred. "Why not let the addicts dream? Their nightmares stitch finer silk." He flicked his wrist, and a scarf coiled around a profiteer's throat, its embroidery whispering the man's darkest debt: Stole his brother's share. Buried him in the marshes.
The room stilled.
Then—
The door burst open. A street urchin, mud-caked and panting, stumbled in. "Red Force—off the Serpent's Maw! Shanks' flag's in the mist!"
Moxy-Rouge stood, her crimson tignon unraveling to reveal a streak of white hair—a relic of her last soul-stitching. The doll in her arms trembled, its voice a chorus of addicts' whispers: "Liar… liar…"
"Council adjourned," she said, tucking the accusation under her arm. "The Bayou Baron's sins can fester a while longer."
As the Krewe scattered—Riff to his trumpet, Jolene to her smuggler's sloop—Moxy-Rouge paused at the balcony. Below, the Grande Rivière Serpent coiled through the island, its waters alive with the sentient current, L'Esprit du Bayou, which sang a Creole lullaby only the damned could hear. Somewhere in the marshes, Théo "Mudpuppy" Savoie guided Shanks' crew through the gator-infested gloom, his fireflies painting false stars on the murk.
The wind shifted, carrying the briny tang of the Red Force's hull and a strain of Bonk Punch's harmonica—a tune that made the bubble-stones quiver. Moxy-Rouge's doll giggled, its stitches straining.
"Hush," she warned, though her own lips twitched. Shanks' arrival meant alliances… and answers.
But in the bayou's heart, Vice Admiral Boudreaux's warshell gators stirred, their hulls creaking with smuggled Soul-Sugar. Somewhere, a Husk Soldier whispered a dead woman's name.
The city held its breath.
Nouvèl Orléon's eternal revelry masked its rot—but rot, like guilt, always floated to the top.
*****
The docks of Nouvèl Orléon groaned under the weight of the Red Force, its crimson sails billowing like a bloodstain against the twilight sky. The scent of brine and absinthe hung thick in the air, mingling with the swamp's earthy musk as Shanks leapt onto the creaking planks, his grin as bright as the bioluminescent algae clinging to the pilings. Behind him, the crew spilled out like a rowdy tide—Benn Beckman's cigarette smoke curling into the shape of a skull, Lucky Roux already gnawing on a drumstick stolen from the ship's galley, and Yasopp spinning a tall tale about his son Usopp to an unimpressed Limejuice.
Moxy-Rouge stood with her arms crossed, the beaded hem of her crimson tignon clattering in the bayou breeze. Petit Roi, her soul-stitched doll, perched on her shoulder, its button eyes narrowing as it hissed at the sentient river, L'Esprit du Bayou, which coiled beneath the docks like a restless serpent.
"Moxy!" Shanks bellowed, throwing his arms wide. The gold embroidery on his coat shimmered faintly, catching the last dregs of sunlight filtering through the cypress canopy. "Still ruling this swamp with an iron fist, eh?"
"Someone has to," she drawled, though the corner of her mouth twitched. Her gaze flicked past him—and froze.
Dracule Mihawk stepped onto the dock, his boots silent as a blade's whisper. The air itself seemed to still, the jazz-mimic parrots in the nearby trees choking mid-note. Moxy-Rouge's doll let out a squeak, burying its face in her hair.
"Mihawk?" she hissed, the name tasting like poison. "Since when do you ride with pirates?"
Shanks chuckled, slinging an arm around her stiff shoulders. "Relax, he's just mooching a lift. Says the Grand Line's gotten 'predictable.'" He winked at Mihawk, who responded with a stare that could flay a kraken.
Before Moxy could retort, a figure descended the gangplank behind Mihawk—a young woman with raven hair cascading like ink, her stride a mirror of the swordsman's lethal grace. The obsidian hilt of Eternal Eclipse peeked over her shoulder, its crimson runes pulsing faintly.
Moxy's breath hitched. The girl's eyes—golden, ringed with shadow—locked onto hers, and for a heartbeat, the voodoo queen felt the weight of a thousand unspoken storms.
"And this," Shanks said, clapping the girl's back hard enough to make her scowl, "is Marya. Don't let the glare fool you—she's got Mihawk's charm!"
"Charm," Mihawk repeated dryly, adjusting his hat as a jazz trumpet wailed in the distance, off-key and defiant.
Moxy-Rouge's doll trembled, its stitches fraying. "She's… yours?"
Shanks grinned. "What, the family resemblance isn't obvious?" He leaned in, whiskey-scented breath brushing her ear. "Secret's the spice of life, Moxy. Besides, she's why we're here."
Marya's gaze swept the Floating Quarter, where masked revelers tossed strings of party beads from wrought-iron balconies. A stray bead landed at her feet, its plastic pearls cracking to reveal a scrap of parchment inside—a smuggler's cipher. She crushed it under-heel without blinking.
"You're here for the Poneglyph," Moxy said flatly, her doll's voice layering over hers like a curse.
"We're here for a drink," Shanks corrected, steering her toward La Maison Rouge. Behind them, Bonk Punch and Monster hauled crates of Shanks' infamous "Dawnbreaker Rum," the bottles sloshing with liquid that glowed like captured sunlight. Gab and Hongo trailed after, arguing over the rum's medicinal properties.
"And Gadget?" Shanks added, nodding to Building Snake, who was already weaving through the crowd with a runner—a wiry urchin named Pip, whose pockets bulged with pilfered coins.
"Somewhere," Moxy muttered, watching Pip dart into an alley where blinking fireflies swirled like drunken stars. "Probably knee-deep in L'Esprit's muck, muttering to a spatula."
Shanks barked a laugh, the sound echoing off the bubble-stone canals. "Still the same old Snooze Inventor, huh?"
As the group moved, the island's pulse thrummed around them—Creole curses haggled over Soul-Sugar vials, the clink of ale tankards and beverage glasses, the distant wail of a voodoo dirge from Tante Delphine's shack.
Marya paused, her hand resting on Eternal Eclipse's hilt as a zombified thrall shuffled past, its sequined suit sprouting moss where its heart should've been. "This place… it's rotting," she murmured, more to herself than anyone.
Mihawk's lips quirked, the barest hint of approval. "Rot breeds strength. Remember that."
Shanks threw an arm around both Moxy and Marya, ignoring the latter's lethal side-eye. "C'mon, ladies! Let's get soused before Lysander ruins the fun."
As they vanished into the neon haze of the Floating Quarter, the Red Force's flag snapped in the wind, its sigil casting a shadow that stretched toward the marshes—where Théo "Mudpuppy" Savoie waded hip-deep in the bayou, his fireflies painting a path for the ghosts yet to come.
The cobblestones of La Place des Masques pulsed beneath their feet, their moss-cracked seams glowing faintly with trapped bioluminescence. Above, gaslit chandeliers swung in the humid breeze, casting fractured shadows over the eternal waltz of masked revelers. Moxy-Rouge led the group through the throng, her crimson tignon fluttering like a battle standard. Shanks strode beside her, whistling a shanty that made the nearby jazz-mimic parrots screech off-key. Mihawk lingered a step behind, his gaze sharp as Yoru's edge, while Marya's golden eyes darted about, taking in the overly festive and haunting atmosphere.
"Uncle Shanks," Marya said, the endearment sharpening Moxy's sidelong glance, "you're certain this… Gadget can repair the engine?"
Shanks grinned, swiping a glass of absinthe from a passing thrall's tray. The liquid glowed poison-green, mirroring the algae snaking up the plaza's lampposts. "Relax, kid! Gadget once turned a cannon into a coffee maker mid-battle. Your submarine's in inspired hands."
Mihawk's boot scuffed the base of Saint Lysander's statue, its gold-plated face split by a jagged crack that revealed obsidian beneath. "A ridiculous errand," he muttered, though his eyes lingered on the monument's shadow—long and clawed, like a blade unsheathed.
Moxy-Rouge's doll, Petit Roi, hissed as they passed a voodoo altar adorned with strings of party beads and rusted Marine dog tags. "You'd prefer she sailed a sinking ship?" she countered, nodding to the statue. "Saint Lysander thought himself untouchable, too. Now his gold feeds our breweries."
Marya's gaze flicked to the monument. The crack resembled a scar she'd seen in her mother's notebook—a glyph for hubris. "Why keep it standing?"
"To remind us," Moxy said, brushing a cypress leaf from her shoulder, its edges curled into a skeletal hand, "that even gods rot."
A masked reveler bumped into Shanks, his porcelain visage etched with weeping violets. "Pardonnez-moi!" The mask's hollow eyes flickered with stolen memories—a Marine's last breath, a smuggler's whispered lie—before the man melted back into the crowd.
"Charming décor," Mihawk remarked dryly.
"Practical," Moxy corrected. "Masks here… stick. Until you spill a truth."
As if summoned, a woman's mask—a gilded heron—suddenly liquefied, sliding off her face to reveal raw, weeping skin. She screamed, clawing at the air as the Krewe's enforcers dragged her away, her confession ("I poisoned my brother!") swallowed by a trumpet's wail.
Marya's jaw tightened. "This city is a wound."
Shanks chuckled, though his eyes darkened. "Wounds fester. Festering breeds character."
They passed a stall selling Soul-Sugar cubes, their crystalline surfaces reflecting Marya's face in fractured shards. A child darted past, clutching an oversized crustation claw to its chest, edges still crusted with in mud. The air tasted of cayenne and musk.
"So," Shanks clapped Moxy's shoulder, ignoring her dagger-sharp glare, "where's our favorite napper?"
"Gadget," Moxy sighed, "is either in the marshes arguing with a spatula or—"
The air in La Place des Masques was a living thing—thick with the cloying sweetness of overripe mangoes and the metallic tang of Living Gold. Shanks swiped a Soul-Sugar cube from the vendor's stall, its crystalline surface splintering the light into a dozen warped shards. "Catch up over drinks," he declared, popping the cube into his mouth. It dissolved with a hiss, leaving his breath smelling of burnt caramel and regret. "Mihawk? You in?"
Mihawk's gaze slid to a nearby wine barrel, its staves branded with the crest of a long-dead Celestial Dragon. "If the vintage isn't swill."
Moxy-Rouge snorted, her doll Petit Roi mimicking the sound with a raspberry. "Swill's all we serve to freeloaders." She led them past a troupe of masked fire-eaters, their flames tinged violet by Soul-Sugar residue. The cobblestones beneath their feet were slick with bioluminescent algae, glowing faintly in the shape of slave shackles—a ghostly map of Saint Lysander's reign.
"This island," Marya murmured, her voice cutting through the din of a jazz trumpet playing a dirge-like rendition of Binks' Brew, "it's built on bones."
"Built on spite," Moxy corrected. She nodded to Saint Lysander's statue, its gilded face split by a crack that oozed black honey. Thralls in sequined rags knelt at its base, collecting the sludge in rum bottles. "After the rebellion, we melted his treasures into sewer grates. Now his gold clogs the drains when it rains."
Shanks laughed, the sound echoing off the cypress ghouls—trees fused with the skeletons of executed rebels. Their branches clattered like bone chimes, a macabre counterpoint to the music. "Nothing like a good metaphor! Right, Mihawk?"
Mihawk paused, his boot hovering over a cobblestone etched with a fossilized handprint. "Sentimentality," he said, "is a poor substitute for a sword."
As they neared La Maison Rouge, the air grew thick with the scent of cayenne and mildew. A child weaved through the crowd, gripping a war shell gator tooth as a teething toy, its edges glittering with traces of Living Gold. Marya's hand twitched toward Eternal Eclipse—a reflex—but Shanks caught her wrist. "Easy, kid. That's just Timmy. He's harmless… mostly."
Moxy-Rouge shoved open the brothel's crimson doors, releasing a wave of humid laughter and the briny stench of smuggled rum. Inside, the walls pulsed with bioluminescent murals depicting the Golden Betrayal—Celestial Dragons drowning in quick silver, their faces blurred by time. Bonk Punch lounged at the bar, his harmonica dangling from a chain of Marine dog tags, while Lucky Roux argued with a zombified bartender over the ethics of putting hot sauce in gumbo.
"Moxy!" Yasopp called from a shadowed corner, his sniper rifle disassembled into a makeshift backgammon set. "Tell Lucky he's desecrating culinary art!"
"Culinary art?" Lucky Roux brandished a ladle dripping with molten cheese. "This is philosophy!"
Marya hovered near the threshold, her golden eyes scanning the room. A masked reveler brushed past her, his porcelain visage etched with weeping violets. For a heartbeat, the mask flickered, revealing the man's true face—a deserter with hollow cheeks and Haki-scorched eyes.
"Masks here," Moxy said, plucking a flute of absinthe from a server's tray, "stick until you confess a truth. That one's been hiding for… oh, three festivals?"
Shanks slid into a booth upholstered in pirate flags, kicking his feet onto the table. "So! When's Gadget—?"
An explosion rattled the chandeliers. Outside, a rocket-sled careened down the street, its waffle-iron wings spewing smoke that smelled suspiciously of maple syrup. Atop it stood a lanky figure in gravity-defying pajamas, shouting, "THE PANCAKE PARACHUTE IS NOT A METAPHOR!"
Mihawk raised an eyebrow. "Your engineer, I presume?"
"Genius," Shanks grinned, "comes in many fonts."
Marya's lips thinned. "He's… asleep."
"And you're awake," Mihawk said, rising. "A tragic imbalance." He tossed a gold coin to the bartender—a relic from a kingdom erased from maps—and retrieved a bottle of wine with an unknown label. "Try not to drown in the farce."
As he poured a glass, the cypress ghouls outside groaned, their bone-chimes whispering a fragment of an old rebel song. Marya watched him sip from his glass, appearing unbothered, her fingers brushing the crack in Saint Lysander's statue. The obsidian beneath the gold felt like her mother's journal—cold, layered, waiting to split wider.
Shanks nudged her with a fresh glass of Dawnbreaker Rum, its contents glowing like liquid dusk. "To rot and redemption," he toasted.
Somewhere in the bayou, L'Esprit du Bayou chuckled, its current carrying the promise of storms.