Moxy-Rouge stood beside Ben Beckman, a stark silhouette against the sunlit sea. Her crimson tignon was impeccably tied, framing a face that held the weary vigilance of a guardian. The tattered hem of her Creole gown, intricately adorned with whispering cowrie shells, brushed the deck. Slung across her back, subtly visible beneath the worn fabric, was a weathered satchel that smelled faintly of grave dirt and rum. Cradled in the crook of one arm, held with a possessiveness that bordered on reverence, was a doll – an unnervingly accurate, miniature likeness of herself, stitched with enchanted red thread that seemed to pulse faintly. Her usual sharp, violet-tinged gaze was currently hooded, watchful, fixed on the companionway, but the air around her crackled with a latent energy, the quiet hum of spirits held at bay.
Below them, near the waterline, the massive form of Building Snake delivered a final, resonant CLANG! with a hammer that looked like it could dent solid stone. Sweat gleamed on his corded muscles as he secured the last plate onto the sleek hull of Marya's submarine. The vessel, once a jagged wreck, now looked improbably whole. Its lines were clean, purposeful, functional portholes gleaming. Snake wiped his brow with a forearm thicker than most men's thighs, a grunt of satisfaction escaping him. Nearby, scattered tools and bizarre components lay in a chaotic mess – the remnants of Gadget's sleep-driven genius that had guided the repairs.
From the companionway, Hongo's fussing voice cut through the quiet like a scalpel. He emerged backwards, brow furrowed like storm clouds over a bayou. He shepherded two figures upwards with the anxious energy of a man guarding priceless, fragile cargo.
"Slowly! One step at a time!" Hongo admonished, his voice sharp with flustered concern. "I mean it! Your bodies are held together by willpower and my sutures! Ten minutes. Tops. Then you report back. Any dizziness, any twinge, you sit down immediately. Understood?"
Shanks, his face pale beneath its usual tan but lit by a familiar, easy grin, waved a bandaged hand dismissively. "Hongo, you fuss worse than Les Guédés on a slow hauntin' night! Sun and salt air – best tonic there is!" He took the final step onto the deck, breathing deeply, the sunlight catching the vibrant red of his hair.
Beside him, Marya ascended with deliberate, measured grace. Her expression remained its customary mask of calm observation, though the faint tightness at the corners of her golden eyes hinted at the lingering strain beneath. She acknowledged Hongo's words with a slight, almost imperceptible nod, her piercing gaze already sweeping the deck – cataloging the riggings, Ben and Moxy-Rouge's positions, the state of her vessel. Her eyes settled on the submarine. For a fraction of a second, the stoic mask wavered. A subtle widening of her eyes, a barely-there tilt of her head as she assessed the work. The vessel didn't just look repaired; it looked reforged, its hull seamless, its lines sharper, undeniably sea-worthy.
"It… floats," she stated, her voice cool but carrying a distinct note of genuine surprise. "Structurally sound. Efficient."
Shanks beamed, clapping a hand on her shoulder – an action that caused a minute, reflexive stiffening in her posture. "See? Told ya! Leave it to Gadget! Man's a paradox wrapped in pajamas, but he delivers! When he's… uh…" Shanks trailed off, looking around. "Where is our resident midnight mechanic?"
The answer came from near the base of the main mast. Gadget stood amidst another, smaller pile of gears, glowing seaweed strands, and polished copper pipes. He was utterly asleep, swaying gently like Spanish moss. His wild brown hair defied gravity, the perpetual cowlick bobbing. Heavy lids were closed, but a faint, ethereal cerulean light seeped from beneath them – the unmistakable glow of his sleepwalking trance. His striped pajamas were rumpled, oversized pockets bulging with springs. The toolbelt was slung precariously over one shoulder. Perched on his nose were the oversized goggles etched with 'ZZZ'. Secured firmly to his back was the slightly threadbare form of Professor Fluffington. In his hands, with unnerving speed and impossible precision, he assembled… something. His fingers flew, connecting pipes to a humming gyroscope powered by the bioluminescent flora, muttering fragmented blueprints: "...calibrate the dream-resonator... counter-clockwise, Professor Fluffington insists... secondary ignition via... via... moonbeam condensate... yes..."
Just then, the companionway door opened again. Dracule Mihawk emerged. He moved with the silent grace of a shadow, closing the door softly behind him. His sharp, hawk-like golden eyes scanned the deck – the recovering captains, the vigilant Beckman, the unsettling stillness of Moxy-Rouge and her doll, the unconscious inventor – with detached, analytical interest. His presence, as always, carried a palpable weight.
Moxy-Rouge's gaze shifted from the companionway to Mihawk. A flicker of something unreadable – wariness, perhaps, or a cool assessment – passed through her eyes, though her expression remained composed. She adjusted the doll in her arm, its stitched eyes seeming to follow Mihawk. "If ye ready, we should be getten moven," she stated, her voice low and carrying the dry cadence of the bayou. She didn't wait for acknowledgment. Turning from Ben and the railing, she moved with a deliberate, almost ritualistic grace towards the gangplank. The cowrie shells on her gown whispered secrets against the teak, and the enchanted thread on her doll seemed to catch the light, glinting like old blood.
From the open galley hatch, Lucky Roux's booming, cheerful voice rolled across the deck. He leaned out, a massive cleaver in one hand and a glistening haunch of Sea King meat nearly as large as he was in the other. "Don't you fret, Shadow Stitcher! You fetch that artifact, and I'll have a barbecue fit for Baron Samedi himself smokin' hot for your return! Extra crispy, just how you like it!"
Moxy-Rouge didn't break stride, but a faint, dry smirk touched her lips as she reached the gangplank. "See it has rum in the glaze, Lucky. The Baron prefers it that way." Mihawk fell into step beside her, a respectful distance maintained, his long black coat swirling slightly as they descended towards the port. The contrast was stark: the world's greatest swordsman and the Voodoo Queen bound by Shanks' will, leaving the deck to its convalescence and the unconscious symphony of invention.
Shanks chuckled softly, falling in step behind them, then winced, a hand drifting towards his bandaged ribs. Marya's gaze lingered on Gadget for a moment longer, a flicker of analytical curiosity in her guarded eyes as she observed the blue glow and impossible dexterity. Her gaze then shifted briefly to the spot where Moxy-Rouge had stood, a silent acknowledgment of the complex power that had just departed. Ben stepped up beside her, cigarette smoke trailing, "You coming, kid?" Nodding as they joined the departing group.
The humid port air clung to them as Moxy-Rouge and Mihawk descended the gangplank, the Voodoo Queen's cowrie shells clicking like anxious teeth against her gown. Shanks followed with Ben's steadying hand near his elbow, while Marya moved like a silent shadow behind them, her piercing gaze cataloging every cracked cobblestone and salt-bleached warehouse. They maneuvered through winding alleys where the very stones seemed to weep residual moisture, the scent of brine undercut by something older – wet earth, oxidized copper, and the faint, cloying sweetness of rotten sugarcane.
The Chamber wasn't a room; it was a wound in the island's flesh. Accessed through a fissure hidden behind a waterfall that thundered like a dying beast's last breath, the air inside was frigid and still, tasting of millennia and crushed hopes. Phosphorescent fungi clung to walls carved not with mere artistry, but with agony. Towering murals depicted scenes of celestial beauty twisted into grotesque parody: a radiant goddess bound by chains of living shadow, her tears crystallizing into glowing amber stones; hooded figures drawing syrupy light from her writhing form into grotesque, bubbling cauldrons labeled with spiraling glyphs that hurt the eyes.
"The 'morals'," Ben muttered, his cigarette's ember the only warm light in the gloom, casting long, dancing shadows that made the carvings seem to writhe. "Shows a bargain struck, then broken. Looks less like worship, more like butchery."
A sudden, visceral wave slammed into Marya – not pain, but a suffocating cocktail of concern (for whispering stars now silent), regret (for trust given to smiling liars), and betrayal (so deep it curdled the soul). She stiffened, gloved fingers tightening into fists. Not mine, she realized with clinical detachment, the emotions alien yet intrusive, like ink bleeding into clear water. Hers. The prisoner's.
Their collective focus shifted to the chamber's heart: the Poneglyph. It wasn't inert stone; it pulsed with a low, subsonic thrum that vibrated in their bones. Its surface, dark as a starless vacuum between galaxies, drank the faint fungal light. Marya stepped forward, her golden eyes reflecting the ancient script as it began to glow with a soft, internal radiance. Her voice, usually cool and measured, resonated with the weight of millennia as she read aloud, each word precise and unadorned:
"Here lies the breath of Achlys, bound by chain and chant,
Her tears the soil's poison, her sighs the reveler's trance.
To the Spirit Judges, we pledged our souls' refrain—
Lest her sorrow drown the world in endless, hungry rain."
"Beware the gilded serpent, crowned in false sun's glow,
Who clawed at the Mist Mother's veil, seeking shadows to sow.
His ambition cracked the lyre, broke the Judges' accord,
And the bayou's wrath rose swift, to reclaim the stolen hoard."
"From her weeping, crystals grew—sweet oblivion's blight,
Memory crushed to dust, to mute the endless night.
The Judges dance in masks, their ballet the shackle's song,
While the swamp drinks traitors' blood, where the faithless belong."
"The Mist Mother's prison mirrors the weapon's might,
One drowns in sorrow's tide, the other in cannon's light.
Heed the storm in her whisper, the Abyss's unyielding toll—
To wake her is to unmake, and devour every soul."
"Only the fractured blade, forged in starless steel,
Can sever the Mist Mother's bonds or her anguish heal.
But wielded by hands unworthy, it seeds a greater cost:
A history rewritten, and all free wills lost."
Silence descended, heavier than the island itself. The implications crystallized with brutal clarity. Not just imprisonment. Enslavement. Her very essence, her divine power, siphoned, refined, and peddled as the addictive, power-granting Soul-Sugar that fueled Nouvèl Orléon's underworld and poisoned the Grand Line.
"They've been… milking a god," Ben breathed, the horror cutting through his usual gruff pragmatism. "Like cattle. No wonder she was furious. Betrayed. Lied to. Used."
Moxy-Rouge's hand tightened around her doll. The enchanted red thread seemed to throb. "Why lash out now, though? Centuries of this… why the quakes, the rage, only recently?"
Marya's gaze remained fixed on the Poneglyph, but her mind raced, cross-referencing observations like a celestial cartographer plotting unknown stars. The Temple of Dawn's Echo… the mural of the deity scattering luminous seeds across an empty abyss… seeds that looked suspiciously like stylized Devil Fruits. "The Temple of Dawn's Echo," she stated, her voice cutting the cold air. "Angkor'thal's ruins. The mural depicted a Deity dispersing Devil Fruits into the world." She paused, the connection snapping into place with icy certainty. "My Devil Fruit. The Mist-Mist Fruit. Its activation… the spatial distortion… maybe it resonated. Triggered her. Like a bell struck in a silent tomb." A frown, rare and thoughtful, touched her lips. "Muttering… perhaps she is associated with that Deity. Or… perhaps there were multiple. An exchange? A contract broken?"
Shanks shook his head slowly, a complex mix of sorrow and weary understanding in his eyes. Mihawk, however, didn't hide the fierce, razor-sharp pride that lit his golden gaze – a silent acknowledgment of her deductive leap.
Ben, catching their reactions, clapped a heavy hand on Marya's shoulder. "Sure, kid. Sounds like a damn good theory to me."
Marya ignored the contact and the praise, still muttering, her mind dissecting the puzzle. "I wonder… the specifics of the exchange… the terms of the broken covenant… Elbaph's Library. The Giants' archives. They remember what the World forgets."
"I'm confident you'll figure it out, Marya," Shanks said, his voice gentle but firm.
"Indeed," Mihawk affirmed, the single word carrying the weight of absolute certainty.
Marya's head snapped up, her golden eyes – mirrors of her father's – narrowing as they locked onto Shanks's knowing smirk and then Mihawk's proud gaze. The pieces clicked with finality. "You know," she stated, accusation sharpening her tone. "Both of you. Far more than you're saying. Care to share?" She leveled her gaze specifically at Shanks, the familial title wielded like a blade. "Uncle?"
Shanks exchanged a brief, unreadable look with Mihawk, a wry smile touching his lips. "She doesn't miss much, does she, Hawk-Eyes?"
"No," Mihawk replied, his voice a low rumble that echoed slightly in the chamber. His gaze never left Marya. "She does not. Those eyes… they see the Abyss between truths."
Marya didn't flinch. The withheld knowledge was a tangible thing now, another obstacle. Her gaze, cold and analytical, shifted to Moxy-Rouge. The Voodoo Queen stood before the Poneglyph, her back to them, one hand resting on the cold stone as if feeling the trapped goddess's pulse, the other clutching her doll tightly. Marya's question, when it came, was devoid of malice but sharp as Mihawk's blade, aimed at the heart of Nouvèl Orléon's survival:
"Moxy-Rouge. Voodoo Queen. Shadow Stitcher. Guardian of this island." Marya's voice cut through the chamber's oppressive silence. "I believe you have an immediate dilemma. Now that you know the source… the true cost…" She paused, letting the weight of the enslaved goddess, the siphoning, the Soul-Sugar's tainted origin, hang heavy in the air. "Are you planning to continue exploiting her?"
Moxy-Rouge didn't turn. The faint violet glow began to seep from beneath her lowered eyelids, illuminating the ancient, anguished carvings of the bound goddess on the wall before her. The only sound was the frantic, almost imperceptible whispering of the enchanted red thread binding her own soul-poupée. The Chamber held its breath, waiting for the answer that would decide if Nouvèl Orléon's protector would become its god's jailer once more.