The air in La Maison Rouge hung thick with the cloying sweetness of Soul-Sugar and the acrid tang of spilled rum. Shanks leaned against the bar, his grin sharp as a cutlass, while Lucky Roux demolished a plate of crawfish étouffée, shells crunching like brittle bones. Yasopp regaled Limejuice and Monster with a mostly true tale about sniping a Marine admiral's wig mid-battle, his hands weaving through the haze of cigar smoke. Outside, the Floating Quarter's bubble-stone canals pulsed faintly, their hum drowned by sudden shouts.
A figure streaked past the window—a gaunt man with veins spiderwebbing black under his ashen skin, clutching a burlap sack leaking bioluminescent powder. Behind him, a mob roared, their eyes glazed with the hollow hunger of addicts turned hunters.
"Well," Shanks drawled, setting down his glass of Dawnbreaker Rum, its glow dimming as shadows pooled under the door. "Seems like someone skipped dessert."
Bonk Punch cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing like pistol shots. "Want me to sweeten the mood, Chief?"
Before Shanks could answer, Sébastien "Silk" Moreau materialized from the shadows, his brocade suit immaculate despite the swamp's grime. "Don't bother," he purred, adjusting a cufflink shaped like a grinning skull. "That one's already dead. Just hasn't stopped running yet."
Shanks' smile didn't reach his eyes. "Care to elaborate, Silk?"
"Soul-Sugar," Silk sighed, as if explaining rain to a fish. "His memories are dissolving faster than sugar in absinthe. Chasing him is… cruelty."
Outside, the mob's howls crescendoed. A woman's voice sliced through the chaos—Capitaine Jolene "Ironjaw" Martel, her mechanical jaw clacking like a flintlock reloading. "Cruelty? This island runs on cruelty, mon chéri. Or did you forget who pays for your silk?"
Silk's smile turned venomous. "Ah, yes. The Ironjaw's moral clarity—always so… flexible."
Jolene shoved through the door, her coat stinking of gunpowder and brine. "Flexible beats fragile. Without Soul-Sugar, we're just another Marine graveyard. Or do your precious reformers have a better plan?"
Shanks' crew exchanged glances. Limejuice muttered, "Here we go…"
Jolene jabbed a gold-plated finger at Silk. "Tante Delphine's gumbo cures won't fill our coffers. You wanna play saint? Pay the price."
Silk's scarf coiled around his wrist, its embroidery whispering secrets only he could hear. "And you'd sell our souls for coin. How… pragmatic."
The tension snapped like a mast in a hurricane. Shanks opened his mouth to mediate when the door slammed open. Benn Beckman strode in, Gab at his heels and Jelly bouncing behind like a hyperactive jellyfish.
"Benny!" Shanks spread his arms, the room's shadows retreating from his presence. "Missed the party?"
Benn ignored him, his gaze locking onto Silk and Jolene. "Delphine's calling. Les Marais Oubliés. Now."
Jolene snorted. "What's the swamp witch want now? Another lecture?"
Benn's cigarette glowed like a warning flare. "A solution. Or a burial. Depends who's listening."
Shanks arched a brow. "Sounds like fun."
Gab crouched to examine a Soul-Sugar crystal embedded in the floorboards, its surface fracturing his reflection into a dozen strangers. "She mentioned… offerings."
Jelly, meanwhile, had morphed into a wobbling chandelier to distract a nearby addict twitching through withdrawal. "Bloop! Look, shiny!"
The addict stared, his blue-tinged eyes vacant. "I… I was a poet once…"
"Were ya?" Lucky Roux mumbled through a mouthful of bread pudding. "Rhyme 'hungry' for a snack."
Shanks' laugh cut through the gloom, but his hand lingered on Gryphon's hilt. "Alright, kids. Let's see what Delphine's brewing."
As the crew filed out, Silk lingered, his scarf brushing the addict's shoulder. "Poet… or pirate?" he murmured.
The addict shuddered, whispering, "Both. Neither. I'm…"
His voice crumbled to ash.
Outside, the bayou exhaled—a wet, rotting breath that clung to their clothes. The path to Les Marais Oubliés twisted beneath cypress ghouls, their branches clawing at the moon. Somewhere in the murk, Les Guédés' jazz echoed, a dirge for the damned.
*****
The Red Force swayed gently in the bayou's brackish waters, its crimson hull reflecting the swamp's neon algae like a bloodstained mirror. Marya's submarine hung suspended in the davits, its plating scarred and peppered with barnacles that glowed faintly. Gadget circled the vessel, his pajama sleeves rolled up to reveal arms smeared with syrup and soot, muttering to a wrench he'd affectionately named "Mrs. Sparklebottom."
"Fascinating!" Gadget crowed, dangling upside-down from the sub's hatch, his goggles magnifying his eyes to comical proportions. "Is this a bubble-port capacitor? Or… a very angry octopus?"
Marya crossed her arms, her stoic facade fraying at the edges. "Can you fix it or not?"
Gadget somersaulted to the deck, landing in a heap. "Fix? Fix?! This isn't a toaster, it's a symphony! A symphony that's been kicked down a flight of stairs by a very judgmental seagull!" He whipped out a screwdriver welded to a spatula. "But fear not! The Snooze Inventor is on the case!"
Mihawk leaned against the mast, Yoru propped beside him like a disapproving chaperone. "How reassuring."
Building Snake, ever the pragmatist, hauled open the sub's access panel. "I patched the hull, but the engine's got… personality." Inside, gears spun wildly, spewing violet smoke that smelled suspiciously of burnt cotton candy.
Gadget gasped. "Personality! That's the problem! Engines should be boring!" He lunged into the chaos, Mrs. Sparklebottom clanging against the machinery as he hummed a lullaby. A spring shot out, ricocheting off Hongo's forehead as the ship's doctor ambled over, a flask of "medicinal" rum in hand.
"Off to brood in silence?" Hongo asked, nodding to Marya, who was already striding toward the gangplank.
"Brooding implies drama," Mihawk said, falling into step beside her. "She's avoiding idiocy."
"Ah, my favorite pastime!" Hongo chirped, following uninvited. "Mind if I join? I've got a theory that swamp air cures crankiness. Spoiler: It doesn't."
Marya didn't answer, her boots clanking against the dock's bubble-stone planks. The bayou's hum grated against her nerves, a staticky crescendo that made her Void-scarred arms itch.
Hongo matched her pace, undeterred. "So… engine trouble's got you tense? I've got a salve for that. Side effects include uncontrollable yodeling, but—"
"I'm fine," Marya snapped, sharper than intended.
Mihawk's lip twitched. "Liar."
"You're one to talk," she shot back. "You've scowled at the same cloud for an hour."
"It's a very rude cloud."
Hongo snorted, rum sloshing as he nearly tripped over some rigging. "You two are worse than Yasopp and his tall tales. Lighten up! We're in the Realm of Eternal Revelry, not a Marine court-martial."
A sudden explosion rocked the Red Force. They turned to see Gadget catapulted from the sub's hatch, somersaulting through the air with a cackle, trailing sparklers from his toolbelt. He crash-landed in a pile of rope, grinning madly.
"PROGRESS!" he shouted, holding up a gear dripping with bioluminescent goo. "I've pacified the alternator with hugs!"
Marya pinched the bridge of her nose. "This is a waste of time."
"Nonsense!" Gadget scrambled up, his hair defying gravity like a startled squid. "Every genius looks mad until they're right! Example: I once invented a self-stirring soup pot. It ate my socks. BUT STILL!"
Mihawk eyed the smoking submarine. "Your definition of 'right' is… flexible."
Hongo elbowed Marya. "C'mon, give him a chance. Worst case, we all drown. Best case? We drown hilariously."
Marya's resolve wavered—just enough for Hongo to spot it.
*****
The Forgotten Marshes breathed—a wet, guttural inhale of peat and decay that clung to the Red Hair Pirates like a second skin. Théo "Mudpuppy" Savoie led them through the gloom, his webbed feet barely sinking into the muck, fireflies haloing his head like a swamp-born saint. The air tasted of iron and overripe persimmons, and the ground squelched with every step, releasing bubbles of gas that popped with whispers in Cajun French.
"Keep to the roots," Théo murmured, pointing to a network of cypress knees jutting from the water like gnarled fingers. "L'Esprit don't like treadin' where it ain't invited."
Lucky Roux grimaced, clutching a half-eaten drumstick. "Invited? Smells like we're crashin' a funeral."
"We are," Benn Beckman muttered, his cigarette's ember cutting through the mist.
The bone tree loomed ahead—a grotesque amalgam of skeletal remains fused with petrified wood, its branches clawing at the moonlit sky. Ribs, femurs, and skulls dangled like macabre ornaments, some still clad in tattered Marine uniforms or rusted slave chains. Bioluminescent moss pulsed faintly across its surface, casting shadows that twitched like restless ghosts. At its base knelt Tante Delphine, her milky eyes reflecting the swamp's secrets as she stirred a cauldron of gumbo that reeked of memory and regret.
"Ah… mes enfants perdus," she croaked, her voice like a dredged anchor. "The Bayou's song called ya true."
Shanks grinned, though his hand lingered near Gryphon's hilt. "Miss us, Delphine?"
She ladled gumbo into cracked bowls, the broth swirling with visions—a child's laugh, a cannon's roar, a lover's final breath. "Ya travel with the Mistress of the Mist," she intoned, ignoring his charm. "The land hungers for her… balance. But death knocks, oui? Its veil thins."
Yasopp snorted. "Cryptic as ever. Anyone got a riddle dictionary?"
Monster, ever literal, scratched his head. "Mistress? We got a stowaway?"
Benn shot him a look. "Metaphors, genius."
Tante Delphine's ladle clanged against the cauldron, silencing the crew. "The Bayou's Reckoning stirs. Shadows with no faces, rituals with no names. They bleed the swamp… feed it lies."
Jelly, morphing into a wobbling stool for Théo, piped up: "Lies taste like bad jelly! Bloop!"
Théo giggled, but Shanks' smile faded. "What kinda rituals?"
Before she could answer, the marsh exhaled—a frigid gust that snuffed the fireflies. Les Guédés materialized, their skeletal forms draped in tattered carnival finery, phantom trumpets and bone accordions wailing a dirge. The air thickened with the scent of absinthe and grave soil.
"Retribution," Tante Delphine spat, as Les Guédés circled Shanks, their hollow eyes glowing blue. "Ya woke the Bayou's wrath. Now it hungers."
Lucky Roux brandished his drumstick like a sword. "Back off, spooks! I ain't dessert!"
Gab, ever the pragmatist, tossed a Soul-Sugar crystal into the cauldron. The gumbo erupted with a scream, scattering Les Guédés into mist. "That how ya deal with ghosts?"
Tante Delphine cackled. "Non. But it's a start."
Shanks knelt, his levity gone. "What's coming, Delphine?"
She pressed a wrinkled hand to the bone tree. It shuddered, dislodging a skull that rolled to Shanks' feet—its jaw clacking a warning. "When the Mist walks, the Veil tears. Choose: drown in sweetness… or burn."
The crew fell silent, the weight of prophecy settling like swamp rot. Even Jelly's bioluminescence dimmed.
Théo tugged Shanks' sleeve, his fireflies forming a map in the mud—a serpentine river, a shattered mask, a storm. "L'Esprit says… trust the glitch."
Bonk Punch groaned. "Glitches? Now we're talkin' Gearhead's language."
Shanks stood, resolve hardening. "Guess we'll need more rum."
As they retreated, the bone tree's whispers followed, tangled with the laughter of the damned. Somewhere, the Bayou's Reckoning stirred—and the Mistress of the Mist lingered closer, her shadow stretching across the marsh.
*****
The swamp's humidity clung to Marya's skin like a second layer of clothes, thick with the scent of blooming corpse flowers and overripe mangoes. Mihawk strode ahead, his boots silent on the bubble-stone path, while Hongo trailed behind, humming a tune that clashed horribly with the jazz-mimic parrots squawking in the cypress ghouls. Marya's Void-scarred arms itched—a reminder that every step deeper into the bayou tugged her closer to the island's secrets.
"Where are we going?" Marya muttered, swatting a bioluminescent mosquito the size of her thumb.
Mihawk didn't glance back. "Anywhere that isn't a symphony of incompetence."
"Hey!" Hongo protested, kicking a pebble into the canal. It sank with a glorp, startling a school of neon eels. "Gadget's a visionary! I remember when he turned the galley into a popcorn factory. Three days of butter-scented nightmares!"
Marya's stoic mask slipped—just a flicker of a smirk. "Did the seagulls declare war?"
Mihawk's cloak swished as he veered onto a narrower path, where Krewe graffiti declared: "Dance on the Devil's Bones—He Owes You a Waltz!" The air buzzed with the static of unseen things, and the trees here leaned closer, their bark etched with voodoo sigils that pulsed faintly.
"So," Hongo chirped, sidling up to Marya with a flask of rum that smelled like fermented pineapples, "what's really eating you? Submarine anxiety? Mihawk's charm? Or—"
"I don't do small talk," Marya cut in, though her gaze lingered on a cypress ghoul's hollow—a face carved by wind and spite, its mouth full of fireflies.
"Liar," Mihawk said, stopping abruptly. Ahead, the path split around a massive, moss-draped statue of a grinning alligator holding a trident made of rusted cannons. "You're curious. Annoyingly so."
Marya bristled. "And you're infuriatingly cryptic."
Hongo snorted. "You two are like a soap opera with swords. C'mon, let's poke the alligator!" He jabbed the statue's toe with his boot.
The ground rumbled.
A hatch creaked open between the alligator's claws, releasing a puff of Soul-Sugar-scented mist. Out waddled a family of swamp raccoons wearing tiny Krewe bandanas, their paws clutching stolen doubloons. They froze, staring at the trio with eyes like polished obsidian.
"Awwww!" Hongo cooed. "Are you guys the bayou's tax collectors?"
The lead raccoon chittered indignantly and hurled a doubloon at his head.
Mihawk sighed. "This is beneath me."
Marya, despite herself, crouched to examine the coins. They bore the faded crest of Saint Lysander—obsidian beneath the gold plating. "These look old, like they are from a rebellion," she murmured. "Why would raccoons hoard them?"
"Same reason anyone hoards anything," Hongo said, dodging another doubloon. "Shiny."
Mihawk's sword hissed as he sliced a vine dangling too close to his hat. "Sentimentality. Or spite. Often indistinguishable."
The raccoons, deciding the intruders weren't worth their loot, scampered into the underbrush. Marya stood, her curiosity piqued. "This island… it's a graveyard of grudges."
"Grudges make better fertilizer than flowers," Mihawk said, resuming his march.
Hongo fake-gagged. "Ugh, poetic and depressing. My two least favorite things."
As they walked, the bayou's whispers grew louder—half-heard melodies, laughter trapped in tree sap, the creak of long-sunk ships. Marya's fingers brushed the hilt of Eternal Eclipse, its pulse syncing with the static in her veins.
"You feel it too," Mihawk said, not a question.
"This itch?"
"The hunger. This island devours memories. Yours. Mine. Even his." He nodded to Hongo, who was attempting to juggle three doubloons and failing spectacularly.
"Hey!" Hongo protested, a coin bouncing off his nose. "I'll have you know my memories are pristine. For example, I vividly recall Shanks betting your sword on a dice game. Twice."
Mihawk's eye twitched. "A… temporary lapse."
Marya's smirk returned. "You gambled Yoru?"
"He cheated."
The path opened into a sunlit clearing where a crumbling stone well stood, its bucket replaced by a nest of bioluminescent snakes. Hongo peered in. "D'you think this is where they toss bad jokes?"
Before Mihawk could retort, a shriek echoed from the trees.
"INTRUDERS!"
A child leapt from a cypress branch, brandishing a stick-sword. She wore a moth-eaten Krewe captain's hat and a fierce scowl. Behind her, a dozen more kids emerged, their faces painted with algae dye.
"Surrender your snacks!" the girl demanded, her "crew" brandishing crab-claw daggers.
Marya blinked. "…Pirates?"
"The Swamp Rats!" the girl declared. "And we'll take your… your…" She squinted at Mihawk's sword. "…shiny stick!"
Hongo burst out laughing. "Oh, this is golden. Mihawk, they're gonna shank you with a crab claw!"
Mihawk's expression could've frozen the bayou. "Leave."
The Swamp Rats faltered, then erupted into giggles. "He's spooky! Let's keep him!"
As the kids debated whether Mihawk would fit in their "treasure chest" (a rotting barrel), Marya crouched to the leader's height. "You want a real treasure?"
The girl's eyes widened. "…Yeah?"
Marya flicked a doubloon into the air, letting it catch the sunlight. "Then stop attacking strangers. The best loot's hidden." She nodded to the well. "Check the snakes."
The kids whooped, descending on the well like seagulls on a chip.
Hongo whistled. "Who knew the Dracule princess was good with kids?"
"I tolerate… distractions," Marya said, too quickly.
Mihawk's smirk was barely there. "Liar."