Island Rubeck Island
- Thread starter Larsi
- Start date
- Messages
- 4,184
- Reaction score
- 9,290
- Points
- 11,400
- Salty Doubloons
- 434
Rubeck Island #3
@Hiei @Marin
Bonanno Territory | Dockside Watchtower, 2nd Floor Office
The room reeked of smoke, sea brine, and old meat. Cracked windows let in the red sunlight and a whine of distant gulls as Sonny Bonanno leaned back in his dented office chair, nursing a tumbler of rum and chewing a burnt cigar stub like it owed him money. Below, the docks bustled with controlled chaos—crates moving, deals whispered, men stationed like termites with guns.
He was halfway through a chuckle at some crude joke when Vincent Mancini, his lieutenant and fixer, burst in without knocking.
Vincent was always slick—hair combed back, jacket never wrinkled, not even in the furnace that passed for Rubeck weather. But right now? He looked like he'd just stared down a ghost.
“Boss. We got movement. Serious kind.”
Sonny grunted. “You always got movement, Vin. It’s a dock, not a damn monastery.”
VIncent didn’t smile. “Four of ’em. Just walked off the Phantom line ferry like they owned the place. Two men, one woman, and… a sheep mink. White wool, soft eyes, real calm. Kinda unsettling.”
Sonny raised an eyebrow. “The hell kind of circus act are we talking about here?”
“Not a circus. A funeral march. Names came in from Whispers. Devil Pirates. Major. Ranger. Artorias. And the mink’s called Marin.”
The cigar dropped from Sonny’s mouth and hissed against the desk. “...The Devil Pirates? Here? In my goddamn city?”
“Yeah.” Vincent's voice lowered. “And Major… said something. One of our ears caught it through a sound-sweeper. She’s going in solo. Intel op. The others are here to stir the pot. They’re hunting, boss.”
For a long moment, Sonny didn’t say a word. His eye's made their way towards the black paper encased letter, tucked safely beside the tray of devil fruit cores. The sound of cranes screeching outside filled the silence. Then he laughed—low, mean, and bitter.
“So Lucifer wants to knock. Cute. Should’ve stayed out at sea.” He rose, cracked his knuckles. “Alright, Vin. Pull everyone off the payroll boys and bring in the real ones—the dogs. Tell Griggs to lock down the southern warehouses. I want the Luccheses to feel the tremor, but not see the smoke.”
“You think they’re here for a hit?”
“Does it matter?” Sonny barked, already grabbing the shotgun from behind the door. “They walked into my house, breathing like kings and queens. Now we remind them whose city this is. You hear me, Vin? I want eyes on every alley, every shadow. And if you see that freak with the eyes—Artorias—don’t engage. Just watch. We bleed ‘em smart, not loud.”
Vincent nodded. “And the mink girl? She didn’t look like a killer.”
Sonny snorted. “That's the point, Vin. Nothing in this city is what it looks like. If she’s with them, then she’s wool hiding a blade. We don’t underestimate soft eyes here—we cage ‘em.”
He stepped to the window and stared out toward the docks, jaw clenched.
“The Devil picked the wrong hell."
@Hiei @Marin
Bonanno Territory | Dockside Watchtower, 2nd Floor Office
The room reeked of smoke, sea brine, and old meat. Cracked windows let in the red sunlight and a whine of distant gulls as Sonny Bonanno leaned back in his dented office chair, nursing a tumbler of rum and chewing a burnt cigar stub like it owed him money. Below, the docks bustled with controlled chaos—crates moving, deals whispered, men stationed like termites with guns.
He was halfway through a chuckle at some crude joke when Vincent Mancini, his lieutenant and fixer, burst in without knocking.
Vincent was always slick—hair combed back, jacket never wrinkled, not even in the furnace that passed for Rubeck weather. But right now? He looked like he'd just stared down a ghost.
“Boss. We got movement. Serious kind.”
Sonny grunted. “You always got movement, Vin. It’s a dock, not a damn monastery.”
VIncent didn’t smile. “Four of ’em. Just walked off the Phantom line ferry like they owned the place. Two men, one woman, and… a sheep mink. White wool, soft eyes, real calm. Kinda unsettling.”
Sonny raised an eyebrow. “The hell kind of circus act are we talking about here?”
“Not a circus. A funeral march. Names came in from Whispers. Devil Pirates. Major. Ranger. Artorias. And the mink’s called Marin.”
The cigar dropped from Sonny’s mouth and hissed against the desk. “...The Devil Pirates? Here? In my goddamn city?”
“Yeah.” Vincent's voice lowered. “And Major… said something. One of our ears caught it through a sound-sweeper. She’s going in solo. Intel op. The others are here to stir the pot. They’re hunting, boss.”
For a long moment, Sonny didn’t say a word. His eye's made their way towards the black paper encased letter, tucked safely beside the tray of devil fruit cores. The sound of cranes screeching outside filled the silence. Then he laughed—low, mean, and bitter.
“So Lucifer wants to knock. Cute. Should’ve stayed out at sea.” He rose, cracked his knuckles. “Alright, Vin. Pull everyone off the payroll boys and bring in the real ones—the dogs. Tell Griggs to lock down the southern warehouses. I want the Luccheses to feel the tremor, but not see the smoke.”
“You think they’re here for a hit?”
“Does it matter?” Sonny barked, already grabbing the shotgun from behind the door. “They walked into my house, breathing like kings and queens. Now we remind them whose city this is. You hear me, Vin? I want eyes on every alley, every shadow. And if you see that freak with the eyes—Artorias—don’t engage. Just watch. We bleed ‘em smart, not loud.”
Vincent nodded. “And the mink girl? She didn’t look like a killer.”
Sonny snorted. “That's the point, Vin. Nothing in this city is what it looks like. If she’s with them, then she’s wool hiding a blade. We don’t underestimate soft eyes here—we cage ‘em.”
He stepped to the window and stared out toward the docks, jaw clenched.
“The Devil picked the wrong hell."
- Messages
- 11,143
- Reaction score
- 38,385
- Points
- 29,500
- Salty Doubloons
- 216
[RUBECK ISLAND]
Major vanished into the shadows the moment her boots hit the cobbled edge of the dock. She moved like vapor, unseen yet present, her figure slipping between narrow alleys and blind corners as if she had rehearsed this street before. Her visor glinted faintly as she scanned the layout ahead. The estate—tall, brooding, and nestled in the heart of the Bonanno territory—sat elevated behind thick iron gates and weather-worn stone, overlooking the port like a predator watching prey. She paused beneath the cover of a flickering streetlamp, eyes locked on the sprawling mansion. Subtle security patterns—rotating guards, fixed patrol paths—were already imprinting into her mental overlay.
“Target location confirmed,” Major murmured over the comms. “Bonanno estate has visual on dockside movements. Recommend swift suppression before second rotation hits the overlook. I’m heading deeper—looping around to breach the northside security grid.”
There was no hesitation in her tone. Strategy was her battlefield, and she had already begun to disassemble the operation from within.
Ranger strode at a far more casual pace through the loading area, his steps deliberate, his demeanor disarming. He passed by dockworkers with a nod and a smile so convincing, it made one forget how deadly he actually was. His long blond hair shifted with the breeze, and his sharp elven features were relaxed, as if this were a morning stroll rather than the onset of a precision assault.
When Marin joined his side with a sigh, asking about her role, he chuckled softly, though it carried a hint of condescension—as though he already knew the ending to a play she was still reading.
“Your role?” Ranger replied, resting his hand loosely on the hilt of his blade. “You’re the unpredictable element. They’ll expect muscle, fear tactics, maybe a few flashy distractions. But they won’t expect finesse from a face like yours.” He glanced down at her briefly, his tone softening. “That’s your edge. The key to a flawless con is letting them think they know the rules.”
He adjusted the strap of his quiver, eyes lifting toward the towering Bonanno estate now coming into view through the clustered rooftops.
“We’re after their records, ledgers, key alliances. Everything that keeps this machine running. And if it comes to chaos…” He smirked. “We’ll let Artorias play conductor.”
Artorias had said nothing. He stood slightly behind them, looming in silence, the weight of his greatsword dragging shadows around his armored form like a cloak. His helmet tilted slowly toward the mansion ahead, as if the scent of corruption stained the air like rot. Then, without a word, he exhaled—long, low, almost like a growl.
“…Their bones will speak truth when their tongues lie,” he muttered. His voice was hoarse, the accent of a knight long forgotten in civilized halls.
A harsh scrape of steel echoed as he shifted his blade, heavy and uncaring, like a force of nature barely restrained.
Ranger, without turning, added dryly, “Easy, old wolf. Wait for the curtain call.”
The silence that followed was tense, but it was shared understanding. Major infiltrated. Ranger adapted. And Artorias would unleash.
They moved in tandem, the city unaware of the storm now threading through its veins.
- Messages
- 71
- Reaction score
- 125
- Points
- 500
- Salty Doubloons
- 141
Marin continued to follow Ranger close by to cover in case any of the un-welcoming committee show up. "I'll be ready when you give the word. No one will expect me to be able to defend myself. Minks have a natural ability unique to them called Electro. Must be because of the static build up in our fur. Another ability is the Sulong form. This form is only unlocked during a visible full moon. Our eyes turn red, and our fur grows out. Once the full moon is hidden by the clouds or entering a building that we cannot see the full moon, we lose that power and return back to our base form. I am planning to develop new defense attacks with my Ram Fu. Mostly kicks, punches, and maybe head butting."
She waits for the signal to begin her part of the plan. "I have a knapsack to store the items you want from this mission. Once secure and away on our ship, we can give them to the captain to examine."
She waits for the signal to begin her part of the plan. "I have a knapsack to store the items you want from this mission. Once secure and away on our ship, we can give them to the captain to examine."
- Messages
- 4,184
- Reaction score
- 9,290
- Points
- 11,400
- Salty Doubloons
- 434
Rubeck Island #4
@Hiei @Marin
Bonanno Territory | Dockside Watchtower, 2nd Floor Office
The rum was still in Sonny Bonanno’s hand, but it wasn’t getting any sweeter. He stared out the cracked window, chewing the end of a cold cigar, his eyes tracking every crane, every movement along the docks like a predator surveying his kill pen.
“They’re digging further in,” Vincent said from the side, voice low, steady.
“You sure?” Sonny muttered.
Vincent nodded. "The one called Major’s already disappeared into the alley grid. The rest are spreading tension just by breathing.”
Sonny didn’t reply. He turned slowly, set his rum glass down, and picked up the black-sealed letter that still sat untouched beside a dish of devil fruit cores. Lucifer's name was scorched into the wax. It had been days since it arrived. He hadn’t opened it.
He didn’t need to.
Sonny’s voice dropped into gravel. “Prep the killbox.”
He started listing without hesitation. “I want Snaps and his boys at Wharf Eighteen—no red bandanas, plainclothes only. Tell Ruby Griggs to pull the twins and run silent recon around the alley rings near Market Row. Nothing flashy, nothing stupid.”
“Got it.”
“Griggs and the pit crew?” Sonny asked.
“Already on lockdown duty. They’re wiring the southern warehouse roofs, like you said.”
“Good. I want ‘em loaded and scoped. No sound, no smoke. If they so much as breathe funny, I want a full breakdown before a bullet flies.”
Vincent hesitated. “And if they come at us first?”
“Then we don’t blink. We bleed ‘em on our terms. Quiet. Controlled. No message, no drama. Just... gone.” Sonny’s gaze drifted to the window again, to the sun bleeding red over Rubeck’s skyline.
“Devils think they can walk through fire without getting burned.” He reached for his shotgun, checked the chamber, then rested it over his shoulder.
Vincent smirked. “We’ll be ready, Boss.”
As he left, the door creaked shut behind him. Sonny remained still, watching the city smolder below.
The Devil Pirates hadn’t made a move yet.
But neither had he.
And when the storm breaks, it’s the quiet that kills first.
-------------------
Rubeck Heights | Lucchese Safehouse, Rooftop Level
Rain hadn’t touched this part of the city in weeks, but the rooftop garden of the Lucchese estate was lush and green. Artificial. Controlled. Every petal manicured. Every vine trimmed with surgical care. Just like the family that lived beneath it.
Inside the rooftop glasshouse, Tom Lucchese stirred a cup of tea with a sterling spoon, the gentle clink the only sound besides the soft hum of surveillance monitors in the walls around him.
His consigliere, Salvatore Tessio, approached with a quiet urgency in his polished steps, his gloves freshly stained with ink.
“They’re here.”
Tom didn’t look up. “The Devils?”
Salvatore nodded. “Confirmed. Our little birds tracked them off the Phantom Line ferry. Four of them. Major vanished quickly. Ranger and the mink—Marin—were seen pacing the edge of Bonanno turf. The knight—Artorias—is… difficult to track.”
Tom smiled faintly, as if amused by a riddle. “Of course he is.”
He sipped his tea, eyes still on the monitors. Drones—tiny, insect-like things—buzzed in silence across the screen. Each camera perched like a spider in the dark. Watching. Waiting.
“Have they made contact?” he asked.
“Not yet. Bonannos are tightening up, quietly. They're expecting a war.”
He shook his head, setting the cup down with a click. “That’s where they always fail. They think force answers every knock.”
He stood, walking toward a whiteboard of photos and names—a spiderweb of Rubeck’s underworld. Red strings stretched from port officials to politicians, to hitmen, to laundromats.
“They want to break us. That’s what this is. Not a hit. Not a raid. Dissection. Psychological. Surgical.”
Salvatore raised an eyebrow. “So what’s our play?”
Tom turned, and in that moment his smile was cold marble.
“We study them. Peel their minds before we touch their flesh. Feed them false whispers. Let them chase shadows into dead ends and alley mouths with no exit. I want their faith in each other to crack before a single blade is drawn.”
He walked toward the edge of the garden, overlooking the city like a chessboard below.
“Deploy our Rooks. Quietly. Eyes only. Do not engage. Start inserting misinformation through the Market Row gossip lines—tell the Bonannos their southern warehouse was already compromised. Watch what they do. Watch how the Devils react. Give them just enough rope to question their own playbook.”
Salvatore gave a soft chuckle. “And when they trip?”
Tom’s gaze sharpened. “We tighten the noose.”
He turned to the screens again, watching as a faint blur—Major, perhaps—slipped through the alley haze like a whisper.
“The Bonannos want blood,” he murmured. “But we want silence. When the Devil Pirates fall… it’ll be without a scream.”
@Hiei @Marin
Bonanno Territory | Dockside Watchtower, 2nd Floor Office
The rum was still in Sonny Bonanno’s hand, but it wasn’t getting any sweeter. He stared out the cracked window, chewing the end of a cold cigar, his eyes tracking every crane, every movement along the docks like a predator surveying his kill pen.
“They’re digging further in,” Vincent said from the side, voice low, steady.
“You sure?” Sonny muttered.
Vincent nodded. "The one called Major’s already disappeared into the alley grid. The rest are spreading tension just by breathing.”
Sonny didn’t reply. He turned slowly, set his rum glass down, and picked up the black-sealed letter that still sat untouched beside a dish of devil fruit cores. Lucifer's name was scorched into the wax. It had been days since it arrived. He hadn’t opened it.
He didn’t need to.
Sonny’s voice dropped into gravel. “Prep the killbox.”
He started listing without hesitation. “I want Snaps and his boys at Wharf Eighteen—no red bandanas, plainclothes only. Tell Ruby Griggs to pull the twins and run silent recon around the alley rings near Market Row. Nothing flashy, nothing stupid.”
“Got it.”
“Griggs and the pit crew?” Sonny asked.
“Already on lockdown duty. They’re wiring the southern warehouse roofs, like you said.”
“Good. I want ‘em loaded and scoped. No sound, no smoke. If they so much as breathe funny, I want a full breakdown before a bullet flies.”
Vincent hesitated. “And if they come at us first?”
“Then we don’t blink. We bleed ‘em on our terms. Quiet. Controlled. No message, no drama. Just... gone.” Sonny’s gaze drifted to the window again, to the sun bleeding red over Rubeck’s skyline.
“Devils think they can walk through fire without getting burned.” He reached for his shotgun, checked the chamber, then rested it over his shoulder.
Vincent smirked. “We’ll be ready, Boss.”
As he left, the door creaked shut behind him. Sonny remained still, watching the city smolder below.
The Devil Pirates hadn’t made a move yet.
But neither had he.
And when the storm breaks, it’s the quiet that kills first.
-------------------
Rubeck Heights | Lucchese Safehouse, Rooftop Level
Rain hadn’t touched this part of the city in weeks, but the rooftop garden of the Lucchese estate was lush and green. Artificial. Controlled. Every petal manicured. Every vine trimmed with surgical care. Just like the family that lived beneath it.
Inside the rooftop glasshouse, Tom Lucchese stirred a cup of tea with a sterling spoon, the gentle clink the only sound besides the soft hum of surveillance monitors in the walls around him.
His consigliere, Salvatore Tessio, approached with a quiet urgency in his polished steps, his gloves freshly stained with ink.
“They’re here.”
Tom didn’t look up. “The Devils?”
Salvatore nodded. “Confirmed. Our little birds tracked them off the Phantom Line ferry. Four of them. Major vanished quickly. Ranger and the mink—Marin—were seen pacing the edge of Bonanno turf. The knight—Artorias—is… difficult to track.”
Tom smiled faintly, as if amused by a riddle. “Of course he is.”
He sipped his tea, eyes still on the monitors. Drones—tiny, insect-like things—buzzed in silence across the screen. Each camera perched like a spider in the dark. Watching. Waiting.
“Have they made contact?” he asked.
“Not yet. Bonannos are tightening up, quietly. They're expecting a war.”
He shook his head, setting the cup down with a click. “That’s where they always fail. They think force answers every knock.”
He stood, walking toward a whiteboard of photos and names—a spiderweb of Rubeck’s underworld. Red strings stretched from port officials to politicians, to hitmen, to laundromats.
“They want to break us. That’s what this is. Not a hit. Not a raid. Dissection. Psychological. Surgical.”
Salvatore raised an eyebrow. “So what’s our play?”
Tom turned, and in that moment his smile was cold marble.
“We study them. Peel their minds before we touch their flesh. Feed them false whispers. Let them chase shadows into dead ends and alley mouths with no exit. I want their faith in each other to crack before a single blade is drawn.”
He walked toward the edge of the garden, overlooking the city like a chessboard below.
“Deploy our Rooks. Quietly. Eyes only. Do not engage. Start inserting misinformation through the Market Row gossip lines—tell the Bonannos their southern warehouse was already compromised. Watch what they do. Watch how the Devils react. Give them just enough rope to question their own playbook.”
Salvatore gave a soft chuckle. “And when they trip?”
Tom’s gaze sharpened. “We tighten the noose.”
He turned to the screens again, watching as a faint blur—Major, perhaps—slipped through the alley haze like a whisper.
“The Bonannos want blood,” he murmured. “But we want silence. When the Devil Pirates fall… it’ll be without a scream.”
@hiei, @aro
- Messages
- 71
- Reaction score
- 125
- Points
- 500
- Salty Doubloons
- 141
Marin was on the ship belonging to the pirate crew called the Devil Tides pirates. As a new recruit, she hadn't met too many of the crew members yet or if there were any female members. She hoped that her mink powers would help her with whatever business on this island this crew had. With Shepard's crook in hand, she approached the person whom she thought was in charge of the operation.
"Marin Baan reporting for duty, Captain! What would you have me do?" The shy sheep mink asked politely while saluting to the captain. She was definitely ready for anything with her Aries Style Ram Fu and Electro abilities that were going to be put to the test.
The young mink wore a blue shirt with a Ram's head facing the front and matching pants with her white tri-cornered hat that bore her name "MARIN" in blue letters. Her sheep horns and ears poked out of the hat. She waited for the captain or whoever was in charge to speak.
Marin went with Ranger and sighed. "So, what is my role in all this?" She asked Ranger. "I don't want us to get caught and have to fight our way into other levels. Anyone know what we are after here?" She asked quietly.
Marin continued to follow Ranger close by to cover in case any of the un-welcoming committee show up. "I'll be ready when you give the word. No one will expect me to be able to defend myself. Minks have a natural ability unique to them called Electro. Must be because of the static build up in our fur. Another ability is the Sulong form. This form is only unlocked during a visible full moon. Our eyes turn red, and our fur grows out. Once the full moon is hidden by the clouds or entering a building that we cannot see the full moon, we lose that power and return back to our base form. I am planning to develop new defense attacks with my Ram Fu. Mostly kicks, punches, and maybe head butting."
She waits for the signal to begin her part of the plan. "I have a knapsack to store the items you want from this mission. Once secure and away on our ship, we can give them to the captain to examine."
Marin is still following Ranger closely, keeping up surprisingly well. Her eyes continue to scan the area for any suspicious activity.
"You think these guys are onto us? I would assume they were watching us when we disembarked from our ship." She says cautiously. She hopes that the Major and the other crew members had a game plan when it came to engaging the enemy combatants. She wanted to know more about how her crew operated and how she would fit in. She willed herself to be on alert and prepare at a moment's notice. She was nervous as a sheep in a den of wolves, but she wasn't helpless; she had her Ram Fu, taught by her ancestors, starting with her great-grandfather, Duke Genghis Baan. She learned these skills from her father, Aram Baan.
"Marin Baan reporting for duty, Captain! What would you have me do?" The shy sheep mink asked politely while saluting to the captain. She was definitely ready for anything with her Aries Style Ram Fu and Electro abilities that were going to be put to the test.
The young mink wore a blue shirt with a Ram's head facing the front and matching pants with her white tri-cornered hat that bore her name "MARIN" in blue letters. Her sheep horns and ears poked out of the hat. She waited for the captain or whoever was in charge to speak.
Marin went with Ranger and sighed. "So, what is my role in all this?" She asked Ranger. "I don't want us to get caught and have to fight our way into other levels. Anyone know what we are after here?" She asked quietly.
Marin continued to follow Ranger close by to cover in case any of the un-welcoming committee show up. "I'll be ready when you give the word. No one will expect me to be able to defend myself. Minks have a natural ability unique to them called Electro. Must be because of the static build up in our fur. Another ability is the Sulong form. This form is only unlocked during a visible full moon. Our eyes turn red, and our fur grows out. Once the full moon is hidden by the clouds or entering a building that we cannot see the full moon, we lose that power and return back to our base form. I am planning to develop new defense attacks with my Ram Fu. Mostly kicks, punches, and maybe head butting."
She waits for the signal to begin her part of the plan. "I have a knapsack to store the items you want from this mission. Once secure and away on our ship, we can give them to the captain to examine."
Marin is still following Ranger closely, keeping up surprisingly well. Her eyes continue to scan the area for any suspicious activity.
"You think these guys are onto us? I would assume they were watching us when we disembarked from our ship." She says cautiously. She hopes that the Major and the other crew members had a game plan when it came to engaging the enemy combatants. She wanted to know more about how her crew operated and how she would fit in. She willed herself to be on alert and prepare at a moment's notice. She was nervous as a sheep in a den of wolves, but she wasn't helpless; she had her Ram Fu, taught by her ancestors, starting with her great-grandfather, Duke Genghis Baan. She learned these skills from her father, Aram Baan.
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- Messages
- 11,143
- Reaction score
- 38,385
- Points
- 29,500
- Salty Doubloons
- 216
[RUBECK ISLAND]
Major was the first to vanish when the ship had docked, fading into the veil of narrow alleyways and dim lamp-lit corridors like a shadow unbound. Her pace was fast but methodical, boots silent against worn cobblestone, eyes coldly dissecting every brick and gutter. It didn’t take long before she located the looming Bonanno estate perched like a vulture over the slums. She watched it from across the street, unblinking behind her visor. Movement patterns were charted in seconds. Weak points in the wall were noted. Escape routes mentally marked.
She pressed her finger to her comm.
“Eastern flank. Mansion in sight. They’ve got their eyes on the dock… but we’re already ghosts,” she said with clipped efficiency. “No alarms. No eyes on us yet. I’ll breach the security net and loop internal surveillance when we strike. Standby.”
Not a flicker of doubt. Only execution.
Ranger, meanwhile, adjusted the wide brim of his hat as he walked calmly beside Marin. His stride was practiced, not urgent—his fingers tracing the hilt of his sheathed blade like a man choosing whether or not to write a letter. Marin’s stream of eager, nervous words trickled through the quiet alley, and though Ranger did not immediately respond, he did tilt his head toward her with a sigh that was somehow both patient and superior.
“Your role?” he repeated at last, almost amused. “You stay out of combat.”
He turned, his blue eyes like ocean glass catching the moonlight.
“You’re the distraction. The decoy. Their perception of you—small, soft, unthreatening—that is our opening. I want you visible. You’ll move through the outer market square, draw eyes, and when you trigger your Electro…” he paused, tapping his chin. “...you will blind their guards long enough for Major to breach the estate’s second floor. Once she’s in, I’ll follow through the lower tunnels. No unnecessary fights. We extract, not explode. Unless, of course, Artorias decides to—”
A distant clanking of metal announced Artorias’s presence before any words did. Towering, gnarled, and wrapped in rusted armor that stank of blood and ash, he marched from the mist that clung to the lower dock alleys. The Knight's greatsword dragged behind him, leaving scratches on the stone as though it thirsted for bone. He did not speak at first. His head twitched slightly at the sight of the island’s lavish district—its gilded balconies and smiling masks.
When he finally growled, his voice was like gravel fed through sorrow.
“I hear lies echo in their halls… empty oaths and butcher’s coins,” Artorias muttered. “Let me loose, Ranger. Let me rip the masks from their faces. Let me paint the walls in their truths.”
Ranger didn’t even turn. “Not yet, old friend. Your madness is better served once the game has begun. Major will make the first incision.”
Artorias howled quietly to himself. Low. Feral. Almost mournful.
“…They will not know where death began.”
As the trio moved into position—Major vanishing into the walls like breath in winter, Ranger slipping into the lower tunnels, and Artorias waiting like a sword still sheathed but thrumming with hunger—the air around them seemed to tense, waiting for the moment the strike would fall.
Marin’s part was coming, but for now, the ghosts walked first.
@hiei, @aro
- Messages
- 71
- Reaction score
- 125
- Points
- 500
- Salty Doubloons
- 141
Marin nodded and got into position as Ranger instructed. She steadied herself and prepared for her part in her team's mission. "I'll be ready as I can be." she tapped her comm to be prepared for Major's signal to attack any of the guards who got suspicious.
"Just say the word, and It will be done!" She said to Ranger and Major.
"Just say the word, and It will be done!" She said to Ranger and Major.
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- Messages
- 4,184
- Reaction score
- 9,290
- Points
- 11,400
- Salty Doubloons
- 434
Rubeck Island #4
@Hiei @Marin
Rubeck | Wharf Eighteen
The mist hung low over the stone docks, blurring figures into ghosts. Wharf Eighteen, usually a dead-end for drunks and dockhands, now crawled with quiet tension.
Snaps adjusted the cuff of his faded coat as he leaned against a crate, eyes scanning the thin crowds filtering toward Market Row. No red bandanas. No colors. Nothing that would link them back to the Bonannos. They were plainclothes now—dock workers, street hawkers, fishermen out of water—all moving with slow, deliberate care toward their mark.
Marin.
She was easy enough to spot, even without the red warning flares Vincent had expected. She was like an innocent rabbit in a city of wolves. Snaps tilted his head, the tiny earpiece nestled in his ear catching a dry voice.
“Visual confirmation?” Vincent’s voice crackled through the wire, all velvet control.
Snaps murmured, barely moving his lips. “Confirmed. Mink girl, east quadrant of Market Row. Walking loud. Looks lost. Probably bait.”
A low hum of thought from Vincent.
“Shadow her. Minimum two tails. No spookin’. Remember, we don’t catch flies with fists. We watch. We learn.”
Snaps flicked two fingers in a subtle signal, and a pair of his boys—Milo and Jax—peeled off from a fish stall, slipping into step behind Marin at a cautious distance.
Meanwhile, farther up in the market rings, Ruby Griggs adjusted the strap of her rifle case as she moved like a wisp through the alleys. She wasn’t alone. Her brothers—the Griggs twins, Abel and Seth—flanked either side of her, sharp-eyed and silent. They weren’t looking for Marin.
They were hunting Major.
Moving with a predator’s patience, Ruby and the twins wound silently through the crumbling backstreets and cracked brick alleys that circled the Bonanno estate. They checked fire escapes. Shadowed rooftops. Broken cellar doors.
They knew someone was out there.
They could feel it.
Ruby keyed her mic low. “No eyes on the second party yet. Major’s out here somewhere. Too clean. Too careful.”
Vincent’s voice returned, a whisper of smoke. “Find her. She’s the surgeon. The first cut always bleeds deepest.”
The Griggs trio split up like black ink bleeding into water—covering different alley veins, slipping between broken doorways and rusted gutters without a whisper.
Snaps kept his casual lean against the crate, chewing the inside of his cheek as he watched Marin make her way through the market square with determination plastered on her face.
Snaps thumbed the brim of his cap down lower. "Cute," he muttered under his breath. "But I ain't buying it."
Somewhere deeper in the maze of Market Row, Vincent leaned back in his chair, watching signals flicker across the map projected before him. Every whisper. Every breath.
Not yet. The hook was still sinking.
@Hiei @Marin
Rubeck | Wharf Eighteen
The mist hung low over the stone docks, blurring figures into ghosts. Wharf Eighteen, usually a dead-end for drunks and dockhands, now crawled with quiet tension.
Snaps adjusted the cuff of his faded coat as he leaned against a crate, eyes scanning the thin crowds filtering toward Market Row. No red bandanas. No colors. Nothing that would link them back to the Bonannos. They were plainclothes now—dock workers, street hawkers, fishermen out of water—all moving with slow, deliberate care toward their mark.
Marin.
She was easy enough to spot, even without the red warning flares Vincent had expected. She was like an innocent rabbit in a city of wolves. Snaps tilted his head, the tiny earpiece nestled in his ear catching a dry voice.
“Visual confirmation?” Vincent’s voice crackled through the wire, all velvet control.
Snaps murmured, barely moving his lips. “Confirmed. Mink girl, east quadrant of Market Row. Walking loud. Looks lost. Probably bait.”
A low hum of thought from Vincent.
“Shadow her. Minimum two tails. No spookin’. Remember, we don’t catch flies with fists. We watch. We learn.”
Snaps flicked two fingers in a subtle signal, and a pair of his boys—Milo and Jax—peeled off from a fish stall, slipping into step behind Marin at a cautious distance.
Meanwhile, farther up in the market rings, Ruby Griggs adjusted the strap of her rifle case as she moved like a wisp through the alleys. She wasn’t alone. Her brothers—the Griggs twins, Abel and Seth—flanked either side of her, sharp-eyed and silent. They weren’t looking for Marin.
They were hunting Major.
Moving with a predator’s patience, Ruby and the twins wound silently through the crumbling backstreets and cracked brick alleys that circled the Bonanno estate. They checked fire escapes. Shadowed rooftops. Broken cellar doors.
They knew someone was out there.
They could feel it.
Ruby keyed her mic low. “No eyes on the second party yet. Major’s out here somewhere. Too clean. Too careful.”
Vincent’s voice returned, a whisper of smoke. “Find her. She’s the surgeon. The first cut always bleeds deepest.”
The Griggs trio split up like black ink bleeding into water—covering different alley veins, slipping between broken doorways and rusted gutters without a whisper.
Snaps kept his casual lean against the crate, chewing the inside of his cheek as he watched Marin make her way through the market square with determination plastered on her face.
Snaps thumbed the brim of his cap down lower. "Cute," he muttered under his breath. "But I ain't buying it."
Somewhere deeper in the maze of Market Row, Vincent leaned back in his chair, watching signals flicker across the map projected before him. Every whisper. Every breath.
Not yet. The hook was still sinking.
Level 30
30 x 5 = 150
Strength: 40+6=46
Speed: 40+6=46
46x2=92
-Reaction:46
-Movement:46
Vitality: 40+6=46
46x2=82
-Durability:46
-Stamina:46
Martial Arts: 30
30x2=60
-Gunslinging: 30
-Swordmanship: 30
30 x 5 = 150
Strength: 40+6=46
Speed: 40+6=46
46x2=92
-Reaction:46
-Movement:46
Vitality: 40+6=46
46x2=82
-Durability:46
-Stamina:46
Martial Arts: 30
30x2=60
-Gunslinging: 30
-Swordmanship: 30
Level 15
15 x 5 = 75
Strength: 20+2=22
Speed: 15+2=17
17x2=34
-Reaction:17
-Movement:17
Vitality:20+2=22
22x2=4
-Durability:22
-Stamina:22
Martial Arts: 20
20x2=40
-Gunslinging: 40
15 x 5 = 75
Strength: 20+2=22
Speed: 15+2=17
17x2=34
-Reaction:17
-Movement:17
Vitality:20+2=22
22x2=4
-Durability:22
-Stamina:22
Martial Arts: 20
20x2=40
-Gunslinging: 40
@hiei, @aro
- Messages
- 71
- Reaction score
- 125
- Points
- 500
- Salty Doubloons
- 141
As Marin neared the vegetable stalls, her stomach growled. She glanced behind her shoulder to spot the two men following her. She sighed. "Just great! I have two suspicious men following me from a distance. What do I do?" She muttered to herself.
She knew her plan in all this. She looked over at some vegetables in the market stall to make small talk with the shop keepers while keeping the two mafia-themed goons at a distance from her. Eventually. they would make a mistake, and she would have to defend herself.
"Boss, two of those mafia guys have been following me for some time. What should I do?" She whispered, addressing Ranger over her mini-Din Din Mushi device. "I was going to ask the captain, but she's busy. I don't like fighting too much, but when you got unknown guys following you, I feel I am owed at least an explanation."
She knew her plan in all this. She looked over at some vegetables in the market stall to make small talk with the shop keepers while keeping the two mafia-themed goons at a distance from her. Eventually. they would make a mistake, and she would have to defend herself.
"Boss, two of those mafia guys have been following me for some time. What should I do?" She whispered, addressing Ranger over her mini-Din Din Mushi device. "I was going to ask the captain, but she's busy. I don't like fighting too much, but when you got unknown guys following you, I feel I am owed at least an explanation."
- Messages
- 11,143
- Reaction score
- 38,385
- Points
- 29,500
- Salty Doubloons
- 216
[RUBECK ISLAND]
The scope swept slowly across the old brickwork and rusted gutters of the upper market.
Major didn’t know their names. Didn’t need to.
Three moving pieces. One on the alley flank. One on the rooftops. A third dead-center, pretending to browse with one hand on the strap of a too-clean case.
Their triangle was too crisp. Too rehearsed.
Not locals. Not thugs.
She thumbed her receiver.
"Three, coordinated. Triangulating movement, high-low-center formation. Not dock hands. Not Bonanno muscle. These aren’t faces in our files."
She blinked behind her scope and adjusted her breath.
"Unknowns."
Ranger stood beneath a weather-stained awning, watching market birds scatter from a nearby roof. His voice came through the line, soft-spoken, borderline whimsical.
"Unknowns with rhythm. They breathe like wolves and walk like chess pieces."
He turned his head slightly, watching the figure with the rifle case. No brand logo. No swing in her step. Her eyes moved too much, her fingers not enough.
"They’re looking for us. Not her."
His voice shifted. Still smooth, but now commanding.
He clicked on the line to Marin, his tone light as a feather drifting over glass.
"Marin. Stay where you are. Don’t draw attention. Keep browsing. Let them come to you."
He didn’t explain why. He didn’t need to.
He closed the line with a soft clack, eyes already scanning the rooftops again.
Meanwhile, a block behind and one rooftop up, Artorias crouched in shadow, blade dug into rotting shingles. His mouth twitched into a feral grin as he caught the scent of blood that hadn’t been spilled yet.
A low, guttural whisper pushed from his throat.
"They move like men. But they smell... like masks."
His hand flexed around the hilt, muscles twitching beneath rusted armor. He pressed his temple into the roof tiles.
"Shall I unmask them, Major?" he rasped.
There was no immediate answer.
Only the slow, quiet pull of Market Row holding its breath.
And the watching eyes of soldiers and monsters alike.
- Messages
- 4,184
- Reaction score
- 9,290
- Points
- 11,400
- Salty Doubloons
- 434
Rubeck Island #5
@Hiei @Marin
Market Row | Wharf Eighteen Surveillance Detail
They moved like shadows pretending to be men.
No red bandanas. No family colors. Just loose shirts, market shoes, and plain expressions. Snaps kept his back against a leaning post near the cloth merchant, one hand resting lazily in his pocket. His other, hidden beneath his coat, fingered the coiled mic wire as he scanned the open square.
"Target's still browsing," he muttered. "No sudden moves. She’s walking the stalls now. Bought carrots. Looks calm. Too calm."
Across the square, Milo leaned against a cracked water barrel, jaw ticking, eyes steady beneath the rim of a stained fisherman’s cap.
“She clocks us every thirty seconds. Doesn’t panic, doesn’t run. Either stupid or trained.”
Snaps scoffed, watching her shift to another vendor. “Ain’t stupid. She’s stalling. Buying time for something. Or someone.”
On the third flank, Rego trailed wide, circling near a noodle cart to maintain the triangle.
“Still talking to herself,” Rego added over the wire. “Looks casual. But her lips are moving in rhythm. Got a wire, probably.”
Snaps breathed out through his nose. “Confirmed. Likely a short-range transceiver snail.”
Silence crackled for a beat before Vincent’s voice whispered across the line — soft, syrupy, and cold. “Let her speak. Let her move.”
Snaps tapped twice against his coat — a silent affirmative. Milo shifted but didn’t move in.
“Still no orders to intercept?” Milo asked.
“Negative,” Vincent replied. “She’s bait. And we’re watching the tide. Real strike ain’t her. We hold position. If she runs, we pin. If she calls backup, we listen. If she lights the match—”
“Then we find out where the fire starts,” Snaps finished.
The men adjusted slightly in their places but did not close in. The girl continued her act. They didn’t need to touch her.
Not yet.
Upper Market Perimeter | Recon Unit Echo
Ruby Griggs signaled twice—once to the rooftop, once to the alley mouth behind her—before settling in beside a shattered produce cart at the lip of Market Row. She didn’t need to say the name. The sniper across the square had already been flagged.
Major. Devil Pirates. Confirmed.
“Eyes on her,” Ruby said into the mic, voice low and locked. “Confirmed. Devil Pirate asset.”
“Got her scoped,” Reeve whispered from the roof, his long-lens pressed flat against his cheek. “Eastern ledge. Minimal movement. Breathing pattern’s combat-ready. She’s working an op.”
“Got a voice pick?” Ruby asked.
“Negative. Muzzle discipline too good. She’s speaking on tightband. Likely encrypted. Wired to their team.”
From a fire escape one level down, Rhea gave a soft click through the line. “And she’s watching us. Or at least our boys shadowing the decoy.”
Ruby shifted behind the cart, eyes narrowing through a splintered gap in the wood. “The Mink? That’s Marin,” she muttered. “They’ve got her as bait. Distraction tactic. If Major’s watching her tail, it means she’s the real angle. Extraction or strike—I’d bet on the latter.”
“We don’t act yet,” Reeve reminded, calm and clipped. “Vincent’s clear. Eyes, not arms.”
Ruby nodded, even if no one saw it. “We’re not spooking ghosts. Rhea, maintain high-ground tail. If Major moves, we want second-floor windows flagged. Reeve—prep suppressive options but keep your lens cold. No muzzle flash unless she fires first.”
“What if she ghosts us?” Rhea asked.
“Then we follow her to the door she doesn’t want opened,” Ruby said. “And we call in the full board.”
A low pulse of static ticked in Ruby’s earpiece. Vincent’s voice cut in, smooth and clinical. “Status?”
“She’s here. Watching Marin. Not alone,” Ruby replied. “Their op’s already in motion.”
A pause.
“Then listen well,” Vincent said, “and don’t blink.”
@Hiei @Marin
Market Row | Wharf Eighteen Surveillance Detail
They moved like shadows pretending to be men.
No red bandanas. No family colors. Just loose shirts, market shoes, and plain expressions. Snaps kept his back against a leaning post near the cloth merchant, one hand resting lazily in his pocket. His other, hidden beneath his coat, fingered the coiled mic wire as he scanned the open square.
"Target's still browsing," he muttered. "No sudden moves. She’s walking the stalls now. Bought carrots. Looks calm. Too calm."
Across the square, Milo leaned against a cracked water barrel, jaw ticking, eyes steady beneath the rim of a stained fisherman’s cap.
“She clocks us every thirty seconds. Doesn’t panic, doesn’t run. Either stupid or trained.”
Snaps scoffed, watching her shift to another vendor. “Ain’t stupid. She’s stalling. Buying time for something. Or someone.”
On the third flank, Rego trailed wide, circling near a noodle cart to maintain the triangle.
“Still talking to herself,” Rego added over the wire. “Looks casual. But her lips are moving in rhythm. Got a wire, probably.”
Snaps breathed out through his nose. “Confirmed. Likely a short-range transceiver snail.”
Silence crackled for a beat before Vincent’s voice whispered across the line — soft, syrupy, and cold. “Let her speak. Let her move.”
Snaps tapped twice against his coat — a silent affirmative. Milo shifted but didn’t move in.
“Still no orders to intercept?” Milo asked.
“Negative,” Vincent replied. “She’s bait. And we’re watching the tide. Real strike ain’t her. We hold position. If she runs, we pin. If she calls backup, we listen. If she lights the match—”
“Then we find out where the fire starts,” Snaps finished.
The men adjusted slightly in their places but did not close in. The girl continued her act. They didn’t need to touch her.
Not yet.
Upper Market Perimeter | Recon Unit Echo
Ruby Griggs signaled twice—once to the rooftop, once to the alley mouth behind her—before settling in beside a shattered produce cart at the lip of Market Row. She didn’t need to say the name. The sniper across the square had already been flagged.
Major. Devil Pirates. Confirmed.
“Eyes on her,” Ruby said into the mic, voice low and locked. “Confirmed. Devil Pirate asset.”
“Got her scoped,” Reeve whispered from the roof, his long-lens pressed flat against his cheek. “Eastern ledge. Minimal movement. Breathing pattern’s combat-ready. She’s working an op.”
“Got a voice pick?” Ruby asked.
“Negative. Muzzle discipline too good. She’s speaking on tightband. Likely encrypted. Wired to their team.”
From a fire escape one level down, Rhea gave a soft click through the line. “And she’s watching us. Or at least our boys shadowing the decoy.”
Ruby shifted behind the cart, eyes narrowing through a splintered gap in the wood. “The Mink? That’s Marin,” she muttered. “They’ve got her as bait. Distraction tactic. If Major’s watching her tail, it means she’s the real angle. Extraction or strike—I’d bet on the latter.”
“We don’t act yet,” Reeve reminded, calm and clipped. “Vincent’s clear. Eyes, not arms.”
Ruby nodded, even if no one saw it. “We’re not spooking ghosts. Rhea, maintain high-ground tail. If Major moves, we want second-floor windows flagged. Reeve—prep suppressive options but keep your lens cold. No muzzle flash unless she fires first.”
“What if she ghosts us?” Rhea asked.
“Then we follow her to the door she doesn’t want opened,” Ruby said. “And we call in the full board.”
A low pulse of static ticked in Ruby’s earpiece. Vincent’s voice cut in, smooth and clinical. “Status?”
“She’s here. Watching Marin. Not alone,” Ruby replied. “Their op’s already in motion.”
A pause.
“Then listen well,” Vincent said, “and don’t blink.”
@hiei, @aro
- Messages
- 71
- Reaction score
- 125
- Points
- 500
- Salty Doubloons
- 141
Marin continued to browse the shops and bought food from one of the vegetable and fruit stands to keep up appearances. She bought carrots and a head of lettuce, as well as a canteen of water. She kept a wary eye on those who were tailing her, waiting for the signal from Major or Ranger if the situation arose. All she waited for was the pre-arranged signal. She wasn't as defenseless as those who observed her movements thought. She would show these thugs she was more than a cute face in the crowd. Her family heirloom: her staff, was still in her possession and would wield it when the situation called for it.
She looked around for signs of Artoris, Ranger, and Major. They all had their parts to play in this operation, and so did she. She went over the plans while they were on the ship during one of the captain's parlays with her crew. She was ready for anything. Just needed to be patient and trust her crew.
She looked around for signs of Artoris, Ranger, and Major. They all had their parts to play in this operation, and so did she. She went over the plans while they were on the ship during one of the captain's parlays with her crew. She was ready for anything. Just needed to be patient and trust her crew.
- Messages
- 11,143
- Reaction score
- 38,385
- Points
- 29,500
- Salty Doubloons
- 216
[RUBECK ISLAND]
They moved like shadows pretending to be men. No red bandanas. No family colors. Just loose shirts, market shoes, and plain expressions.
Ranger adjusted his gloves and rolled his shoulders, voice calm but assertive. “We split. One family each. No more waiting. Major, target the group in the east. I’ll move on the one controlling the docks. Artorias—take the last one. Quietly.” Major gave a curt nod, no hesitation. Ranger turned to Artorias, placing a steady hand on his armored shoulder. “Do not escalate beyond recognition. No screams. No bones for trophies. You hear me?” Artorias’s head twitched. The faintest snarl twisted his jaw, but he gave a low grunt of acknowledgment.
“Good,” Ranger said, then moved. Major strode toward the alleys with the practiced ease of a veteran, vanishing into the flickering lamplight like smoke swallowed by fog. Ranger moved opposite, cloak drawn tight, already tracing corridors in his mind. Artorias... lagged. Until his head snapped toward the scent of iron and gunpowder. Then he was gone. A blur of clanking madness.
The scent was maddening. Thick, leathery cherry and oak resin from the cigar curled up into the ceiling like a veil of forgotten sins. Lucifer reclined in a leather-backed chair in the shadows of a velvet-lined room. His fingers tapped gently against the crystal tumbler half-filled with amber, aged whiskey that caught the flicker of the fireplace in hues of molten gold. A black tuxedo tailored from wolven silk hugged his figure like it feared him. His shoes, polished obsidian, rested beside a pale raven-feathered stool. He watched it all unfold on a screen lit by Conqueror Glass, projecting live from the snails scattered across Rubeck Island.
The Devil’s Tides. A little family of killers, monsters, and warriors. “So... this is what passes for kinship in the age of beasts,” he muttered, exhaling another ring of cigar smoke, which wafted up like a noose hung gently in the air. “And yet they move with such grace. Such trust. Is it faith or foolishness?”
A small smirk crossed Lucifer’s face. “They can’t even take out a family before night ends. And this... was my experiment?” He set down the glass. “Enough.” He stood. “I gave them a chance to dance in the dark. But the song’s over.” Lucifer lifted a single black-gloved hand. “They all die.” The screen pulsed once. Major. Ranger. Artorias. One by one. As casually as blowing out candles on a child’s cake. And as the embers of his cigar flared one last time, Lucifer whispered, “Let the Devil’s Tides be no more.”
- Messages
- 4,184
- Reaction score
- 9,290
- Points
- 11,400
- Salty Doubloons
- 434
Ruebeck Island #6
@Hiei @Marin
Bonanno Observation Channel | Vincent’s Wire Room, Lower District
Vincent’s fingers ghosted over a corkboard dense with maps, photos, and stringwork like spiderwebs. Black-and-white surveillance stills clipped to pins showed Ranger, Major, even the hulking shadow of Artorias—faces catalogued and underlined in red.
He leaned into the wired transceiver, eyes never leaving the scope of the operation.
“Ruby. She’s moving. You know what that means.”
“Strike window’s opening,” Ruby confirmed.
“Exactly. She’s not on recon anymore—she’s repositioning for breach or flank. That means they’re ready to execute. Maintain all eyes. Rhea, stay parallel—no rooftop leaps. You shadow her at street level through relay paths. Reeve, lock the estate windows—she’ll breach through high entry. Focus on flank points: north library balcony, east corridor windows, roof chimney access.”
Ruby was already moving. “Copy. Setting shadow rotation.”
Vincent’s voice lowered.
“She’s the knife. You’re the surgeon. Follow her cut.”
---
Market Row | Recon Echo, Eastern Alleys
Ruby gave a flick of her fingers. Rhea peeled off the rooftop scaffold and dropped soundlessly into a nearby alley, tucking her weapons beneath her long coat. Her movement was all muscle memory—shadows and narrow breath. She slinked behind crates and clotheslines, keeping Major in her peripheral as the Devil Pirate disappeared into a fog-drenched side street.
“She’s heading toward the outer curve. Alley flank matches northeast access to the Bonanno estate,” Rhea whispered. “No tail. No counter-surveillance. She moves like she owns it.”
“Keep three corners behind,” Ruby whispered. “Reeve—she goes second-floor, east wall. If she disappears fully, it’s a breach. Keep the angle sharp.”
“Already scoped. No balcony movement yet,” Reeve replied, shifting slightly in his nest across from the estate. “But she’s gone from my lens. Confirmed visual drop.”
“She’s cutting in.”
Ruby flicked a matchstick from her coat pocket and bit the end.
“We follow the echo.”
---
Market Row | Snaps and Crew – Shadow Unit Bravo
Snaps chewed a toothpick like it owed him money.
He and his two men—Ditch and Lou—stood half-shrouded behind fruit carts and stone benches, mixing in with the crowd. Their suits were plain. Their movements, sharper than the cobblers and fishmongers around them.
“Target's still buying carrots,” Ditch muttered. “Seriously. Carrots.”
“She’s playing it cute,” Snaps said. “But we know who she rides with. Ranger, Major, that damn butcher knight. This is the little sister act. Means she’s bait. Real heat’s comin’.”
“Vincent said eyes, not engagement,” Lou grunted. “Even if she’s soft.”
“She ain’t,” Snaps replied, his gaze never leaving her.
They watched as Marin smiled at a vendor, her hand never far from her side, where her staff hung folded like a crutch. She moved like a civilian, but her spacing said otherwise. She was ready. Coiled. Trained.
“Yeah,” Snaps murmured. “She knows we’re watching. Good. Let her. The second she twitches wrong, we got the shot called in.”
He tapped his wire.
“Marin still in the square. Playing innocent. We keep leash-tight. Devil Pirates don’t step where they ain’t planning to burn something down.”
@Hiei @Marin
Bonanno Observation Channel | Vincent’s Wire Room, Lower District
Vincent’s fingers ghosted over a corkboard dense with maps, photos, and stringwork like spiderwebs. Black-and-white surveillance stills clipped to pins showed Ranger, Major, even the hulking shadow of Artorias—faces catalogued and underlined in red.
He leaned into the wired transceiver, eyes never leaving the scope of the operation.
“Ruby. She’s moving. You know what that means.”
“Strike window’s opening,” Ruby confirmed.
“Exactly. She’s not on recon anymore—she’s repositioning for breach or flank. That means they’re ready to execute. Maintain all eyes. Rhea, stay parallel—no rooftop leaps. You shadow her at street level through relay paths. Reeve, lock the estate windows—she’ll breach through high entry. Focus on flank points: north library balcony, east corridor windows, roof chimney access.”
Ruby was already moving. “Copy. Setting shadow rotation.”
Vincent’s voice lowered.
“She’s the knife. You’re the surgeon. Follow her cut.”
---
Market Row | Recon Echo, Eastern Alleys
Ruby gave a flick of her fingers. Rhea peeled off the rooftop scaffold and dropped soundlessly into a nearby alley, tucking her weapons beneath her long coat. Her movement was all muscle memory—shadows and narrow breath. She slinked behind crates and clotheslines, keeping Major in her peripheral as the Devil Pirate disappeared into a fog-drenched side street.
“She’s heading toward the outer curve. Alley flank matches northeast access to the Bonanno estate,” Rhea whispered. “No tail. No counter-surveillance. She moves like she owns it.”
“Keep three corners behind,” Ruby whispered. “Reeve—she goes second-floor, east wall. If she disappears fully, it’s a breach. Keep the angle sharp.”
“Already scoped. No balcony movement yet,” Reeve replied, shifting slightly in his nest across from the estate. “But she’s gone from my lens. Confirmed visual drop.”
“She’s cutting in.”
Ruby flicked a matchstick from her coat pocket and bit the end.
“We follow the echo.”
---
Market Row | Snaps and Crew – Shadow Unit Bravo
Snaps chewed a toothpick like it owed him money.
He and his two men—Ditch and Lou—stood half-shrouded behind fruit carts and stone benches, mixing in with the crowd. Their suits were plain. Their movements, sharper than the cobblers and fishmongers around them.
“Target's still buying carrots,” Ditch muttered. “Seriously. Carrots.”
“She’s playing it cute,” Snaps said. “But we know who she rides with. Ranger, Major, that damn butcher knight. This is the little sister act. Means she’s bait. Real heat’s comin’.”
“Vincent said eyes, not engagement,” Lou grunted. “Even if she’s soft.”
“She ain’t,” Snaps replied, his gaze never leaving her.
They watched as Marin smiled at a vendor, her hand never far from her side, where her staff hung folded like a crutch. She moved like a civilian, but her spacing said otherwise. She was ready. Coiled. Trained.
“Yeah,” Snaps murmured. “She knows we’re watching. Good. Let her. The second she twitches wrong, we got the shot called in.”
He tapped his wire.
“Marin still in the square. Playing innocent. We keep leash-tight. Devil Pirates don’t step where they ain’t planning to burn something down.”
- Messages
- 11,143
- Reaction score
- 38,385
- Points
- 29,500
- Salty Doubloons
- 216
[RUBECK ISLAND]
The stench of Rubeck Island was part gunpowder, part guttered wine, and something old and criminal left to ferment in the rain. It soaked into the walls, into the pavement, into the lungs. Somewhere behind locked doors, the island's families laughed over bribes and blood money, but out here, beneath the crooked streetlamps and rusted signage, it was deathly quiet.
Major stood with her shoulder against a graffiti-smeared wall, cigarette smoke curling from a broken window above her. Her rifle, matte black and primed, rested comfortably in her hands. She didn’t glance at Ranger or Artorias. She didn’t need to. The street was mapped in her mind with escape routes, vantage points, and overlapping fields of fire. She had been dropped into worse places than this. But something about Rubeck gnawed at the back of her teeth. Too clean. Too quiet. Too false.
Ranger, adjusting the collar of his rain-spattered coat, studied a crumpled map with a faint sneer. "No signposts in this city," he murmured, mostly to himself. "Everyone pretends like they know where they're going, but it's all circles and broken promises. Philosophically appropriate, I suppose."
Major flicked her gaze to him, unimpressed. "Focus. We don’t have time for metaphors.”
He smiled a little too wide, as if mildly offended. “I’m just saying, if hell had a tourist guide, Rubeck would be on page one. Right next to ‘Things Not Worth Saving.’”
Behind them, Artorias loomed in silence. A towering figure half-swallowed by the dark, his weapon sheathed and his breath barely audible. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But something about him made the alley feel colder. Less human. He was a thing to be unleashed, not negotiated with. Both Major and Ranger knew that well.
The Den Den Mushi vibrated in Major’s coat pocket. She didn’t hesitate. No name came through the line, no greeting. Just a low voice, measured and severe. “You’re running behind schedule. One family’s already been taken care of. That leaves two. Take one out tonight. Remember, you’re being tested.”
Click.
Major slipped the snail back into her coat and muttered, “We’ve waited long enough.”
Ranger tilted his head, fingers laced behind his back, mocking the formality of a gentleman. “Shall we divide and conquer, then? You take your scalpel to the western block. I’ll waltz north and see which rats scurry.”
“I don’t dance, Ranger.”
“And I don’t aim. I just... arrive,” he quipped.
Major didn’t respond. She stepped away from the wall, pulled her rifle into a ready position, and disappeared into the mist-drenched backstreets like a bullet without sound. Somewhere west, one of the families would feel the weight of her trigger finger before the hour ended.
Ranger gave a theatrical sigh and straightened his gloves. “So uncultured,” he murmured to no one, before slipping into the shadows himself, heading north with a quiet confidence only he would think wasn’t arrogance. He moved like a man who believed no street was unknown, no lock unpickable, and no soul too corrupt to be charmed until it needed to be put down.
Artorias remained still. Watching. Breathing. Barely.
The hunt had begun.
- Messages
- 71
- Reaction score
- 125
- Points
- 500
- Salty Doubloons
- 141
Marin looked over her shoulder at Milo and Jax, who were apparently assigned to tail her. She was unsure about taking out those two men, but she wanted to be sure if she was ready to go on the offensive. Ever since signing up with the Devil Tide's Pirates, she felt uneasy about her role in this unit. She would play her part, and then respectfully resign her position and try to find a new crew to join who would give her a better role in their crew. She would still collect her share of the bounty for this mission and maybe head home to Zou or find a crew to utilize her powers and skillset.
She contacted Ranger via her Den Den Mushi, "Marin here. Waiting on your orders. Want me to attack those who are following me?" She waited for that answer. It was now or never.
She contacted Ranger via her Den Den Mushi, "Marin here. Waiting on your orders. Want me to attack those who are following me?" She waited for that answer. It was now or never.
- Messages
- 4,184
- Reaction score
- 9,290
- Points
- 11,400
- Salty Doubloons
- 434
Ruebeck Island #7
@Marin @Hiei
Rubeck – Outer Ring Alley Watch | Ruby’s Lens
Reeve adjusted his perch from the upper loft of an old tailor’s shack, tracking the trio through the lens of a battered monocular. Rain flecked the glass. He didn’t wipe it—didn’t need to. The movements below were too clean to miss.
“Eyes on all three,” he whispered into the wire. “Major linked up with the other two—Ranger and the knight. They’re coordinated. Silent, but not subtle. The way they form on entry... it’s military.”
Ruby crouched against a water barrel behind a shuttered grocer two blocks down. Rhea was already navigating through a parallel street, feeding angles from the south. The moment Major moved, Ruby’s eyes narrowed.
“She’s going west. Solo. Intent.”
“Ranger’s splitting north,” Rhea cut in. “Swagger in his step. Confident or suicidal. Maybe both.”
“And the brute?” Ruby asked.
Reeve’s voice came back, lower now. “Still at the rendezvous. Watching. Waiting. That one's not moving without purpose.”
Ruby’s jaw tightened. “We don’t chase the sword. We let him sit. That’s not bait. That’s a damn bear trap.”
She tapped her line twice.
“Patch me in to Vincent.”
---
Vincent’s Wire Room
The sound of the rain crackled faintly through the comms, mixing with the low jazz leaking from a gramophone somewhere off-frame. Vincent leaned forward, lit cigarette casting long shadows across his map.
“Three deployments,” Ruby relayed. “Major west. Ranger north. Artorias stationary.”
He inhaled smoke like it was air, then slowly exhaled through his teeth. “They’re sweeping the grid. Not for recon. For surgical strikes.”
“We move?”
“No,” Vincent said. “We bleed ‘em. Not here. Not all at once.”
He circled an area on the map with a stub of charcoal. “Let Major keep walking. Reeve, feed her false movement—pull her west toward the old shipping depot. The one with Bonanno staging on the second floor. They’ll handle her.”
He flicked ash from his cigarette.
“Ranger... he wants to play cat. Fine. Rhea, shadow him. Don’t engage. Let him think he’s leading. When he rounds into the North Quarter, cut his exits. Keep your blades clean.”
“And the knight?” Ruby asked.
Vincent’s eyes narrowed.
“We isolate him. Feed false routes to their Den Den intercepts. No updates. No contact. Make him paranoid.”
Ruby nodded to no one.
“And what if he doesn’t move?”
Vincent crushed the cigarette in a tray. “Then we let the devil sit in his cage.”
---
Rubeck North Sector | Recon Path - Rhea
Rhea moved like a second skin along the soaked walls, matching Ranger’s distance perfectly. She never let herself be more than a shadow’s width behind. His posture relaxed, but his route? Predictable. He wasn’t improvising. He was mapping.
Rhea spoke low into her wire.
“North block grid confirms trajectory. Pull team Echo to block his return. He’s circling back to force a reaction.”
---
Rubeck West Sector | Rooftop Observation - Reeve
Major's path was clockwork—angles, cover, minimal exposure. Reeve scouted ahead via the rooftops, already coordinating Bonanno security teams to reposition and mask themselves behind the depot's abandoned cargo stacks.
“She’s coming up on the perimeter. Sixty seconds until contact range. Per your order, we let her breach. We let her think she’s clean.”
---
Rubeck Central | Ruby
Ruby stepped through the slick mist as her team scattered. She watched Artorias from afar—still unmoving.
“Vincent,” she said quietly. “If he does move… what’s the call?”
There was silence on the line.
Then, coldly: “We call Tessio. And we give the Luccheses their first real problem.”
Rubeck Outer Market | Snaps’ Perspective
Snaps leaned against a rusted lamp post, a stick of jerky half-chewed between his teeth. The rain hadn’t let up, but he didn’t seem to mind—he never did. His coat was soaked through at the shoulders, a dark line of water trickling down his collar, but his eyes were dry and sharp, locked on Marin like a hawk watching an overconfident field mouse.
“Still playin’ the innocent act,” he muttered, nudging Milo beside him. “You see that twitch in her step? That ain’t casual. She’s clocked you and Jax twice now.”
Milo frowned. “She hasn’t moved aggressive though.”
“She don’t need to,” Snaps replied, voice low. “She’s waitin’ on a signal. Maybe from the creep in the alley. Maybe from the real puppeteer.”
Jax shifted beside the vegetable cart, eyeing Marin as she moved from stall to stall. “She’s armed. Staff’s hidden, but it’s in reach. Not a civilian twitch to her. Military discipline. You don’t check shadows that often unless you’re trained.”
Snaps narrowed his eyes, watching Marin’s hand linger just a little too long at the hem of her jacket. The subtle nod to her Den Den Mushi hadn’t gone unnoticed.
“She’s talking to someone,” he said. “Eyes forward. Play dumb. But we’re done tailin’ from a distance.”
He clicked his tongue twice.
“Patch me through to Vincent.”
---
Vincent’s Wire Room
The call came through with the low hiss of static.
“It’s Snaps. The girl’s awake. Twitchy. She just made contact with her team. Wants to go offensive, I’d wager.”
Vincent’s reply was a smooth, simmering thing. “She’s testing the leash. Let her bite, but only the air.”
Snaps scowled. “You sure?”
“Positive,” Vincent said. “She’s not the hammer. She’s the canary in the mine. Keep eyes on her. If she makes a move, redirect—don’t engage. And if she runs?”
“Let her.”
Vincent’s voice turned razor-thin.
“If she vanishes from sight for more than ten seconds… you have my permission to put a bullet in her leg. Not fatal. Just enough to remind her who’s holding the leash.”
Click.
---
Snaps tucked the receiver back into his coat and gave Milo and Jax a quick gesture—two fingers forward, then a sharp curl back.
“Let her hear us,” he said. “Let her know we’re still behind her. No sudden moves. Just enough pressure to keep her nervous.”
Milo nodded. “And if she bolts?”
“We follow. But we don’t chase. We let her lead us.”
Snaps tilted his head toward Marin.
“Let’s see if the Devil Pirates brought a tactician… or just another pretty face."
Interior – Bonanno Estate, Rubeck
The heavy oak doors of the Bonanno estate’s study creaked shut, muffling the storm outside. Inside, a fire cracked weakly in the hearth, casting warped shadows on the portraits of long-dead patriarchs. Sonny Bonanno stood at the center of it all—tie loose, brow damp, and cigarette burning down to the filter between his fingers.
The large Den Den Mushi on the desk wore a grim frown that matched his own.
“All right,” Sonny muttered. “We’re all here.”
Three smaller snails, each tuned to a separate line, croaked to life almost simultaneously. The voices of the remaining family heads poured in with varying degrees of composure.
Michael Colombo, sharp and cold: “I warned Lucchese. I told him those pirates weren’t small-time. Told him you don’t gamble with devils.”
Fredo Gambino, nervous and cracking: “We all thought they’d go after the Marines! Not us! Not families! Tom was fortified, he had—he had at least thirty guns between his clubs and the docks!”
Connie Genovese, calm and venom-laced: “Thirty guns don’t matter when you let the snake into the house. Lucchese brought them into Rubeck. Fed ‘em scraps, thinking he could leash monsters.”
Sonny exhaled smoke through his nose, voice low and firm. “The Lucchese Family is gone. We can’t change that. What we can do is not follow them into the grave.”
He leaned forward, one hand on the desk, the other gripping the receiver hard enough to whiten his knuckles.
“They’ve got infiltrators. Trained. Coordinated. They’re splitting our attention while picking us off. One by one. Quiet. Precise.”
Colombo hissed, “And you think it’s just them? You think the Marines ain’t watching this collapse with popcorn in hand? We take another wrong step, and it’s not just the pirates at our throats. It’s Cipher Pol. Or worse.”
“Agreed,” Sonny said. “We can’t strike out. Not yet. We pull back. Consolidate. Quiet rooms only. Trusted faces only. Anyone acting strange gets the floor cut out from under ‘em. I don’t care how long they’ve worn the family crest.”
Fredo croaked, “And if they come for one of us next?”
Connie answered for him, voice as icy as a northern current: “Then we make sure they don’t leave. Not through the front door. Not in pieces.”
Michael added, “I’ve got safe houses in the east quarter. Two under false fronts. I’ll move my core there tonight.”
Sonny nodded, more to himself than the snails. “Good. Everyone goes dark for forty-eight hours. No outside business. No shipments. We sit. We watch. We listen.”
There was silence for a long moment—only the fire popping and the snails breathing.
Then Connie Genovese whispered, “And if they come for us anyway?”
Sonny Bonanno stared out the rain-streaked window toward the city lights, distant and trembling.
“Then we make Rubeck burn,” he said. “And we drag them into the fire with us.”
@Marin @Hiei
Rubeck – Outer Ring Alley Watch | Ruby’s Lens
Reeve adjusted his perch from the upper loft of an old tailor’s shack, tracking the trio through the lens of a battered monocular. Rain flecked the glass. He didn’t wipe it—didn’t need to. The movements below were too clean to miss.
“Eyes on all three,” he whispered into the wire. “Major linked up with the other two—Ranger and the knight. They’re coordinated. Silent, but not subtle. The way they form on entry... it’s military.”
Ruby crouched against a water barrel behind a shuttered grocer two blocks down. Rhea was already navigating through a parallel street, feeding angles from the south. The moment Major moved, Ruby’s eyes narrowed.
“She’s going west. Solo. Intent.”
“Ranger’s splitting north,” Rhea cut in. “Swagger in his step. Confident or suicidal. Maybe both.”
“And the brute?” Ruby asked.
Reeve’s voice came back, lower now. “Still at the rendezvous. Watching. Waiting. That one's not moving without purpose.”
Ruby’s jaw tightened. “We don’t chase the sword. We let him sit. That’s not bait. That’s a damn bear trap.”
She tapped her line twice.
“Patch me in to Vincent.”
---
Vincent’s Wire Room
The sound of the rain crackled faintly through the comms, mixing with the low jazz leaking from a gramophone somewhere off-frame. Vincent leaned forward, lit cigarette casting long shadows across his map.
“Three deployments,” Ruby relayed. “Major west. Ranger north. Artorias stationary.”
He inhaled smoke like it was air, then slowly exhaled through his teeth. “They’re sweeping the grid. Not for recon. For surgical strikes.”
“We move?”
“No,” Vincent said. “We bleed ‘em. Not here. Not all at once.”
He circled an area on the map with a stub of charcoal. “Let Major keep walking. Reeve, feed her false movement—pull her west toward the old shipping depot. The one with Bonanno staging on the second floor. They’ll handle her.”
He flicked ash from his cigarette.
“Ranger... he wants to play cat. Fine. Rhea, shadow him. Don’t engage. Let him think he’s leading. When he rounds into the North Quarter, cut his exits. Keep your blades clean.”
“And the knight?” Ruby asked.
Vincent’s eyes narrowed.
“We isolate him. Feed false routes to their Den Den intercepts. No updates. No contact. Make him paranoid.”
Ruby nodded to no one.
“And what if he doesn’t move?”
Vincent crushed the cigarette in a tray. “Then we let the devil sit in his cage.”
---
Rubeck North Sector | Recon Path - Rhea
Rhea moved like a second skin along the soaked walls, matching Ranger’s distance perfectly. She never let herself be more than a shadow’s width behind. His posture relaxed, but his route? Predictable. He wasn’t improvising. He was mapping.
Rhea spoke low into her wire.
“North block grid confirms trajectory. Pull team Echo to block his return. He’s circling back to force a reaction.”
---
Rubeck West Sector | Rooftop Observation - Reeve
Major's path was clockwork—angles, cover, minimal exposure. Reeve scouted ahead via the rooftops, already coordinating Bonanno security teams to reposition and mask themselves behind the depot's abandoned cargo stacks.
“She’s coming up on the perimeter. Sixty seconds until contact range. Per your order, we let her breach. We let her think she’s clean.”
---
Rubeck Central | Ruby
Ruby stepped through the slick mist as her team scattered. She watched Artorias from afar—still unmoving.
“Vincent,” she said quietly. “If he does move… what’s the call?”
There was silence on the line.
Then, coldly: “We call Tessio. And we give the Luccheses their first real problem.”
Rubeck Outer Market | Snaps’ Perspective
Snaps leaned against a rusted lamp post, a stick of jerky half-chewed between his teeth. The rain hadn’t let up, but he didn’t seem to mind—he never did. His coat was soaked through at the shoulders, a dark line of water trickling down his collar, but his eyes were dry and sharp, locked on Marin like a hawk watching an overconfident field mouse.
“Still playin’ the innocent act,” he muttered, nudging Milo beside him. “You see that twitch in her step? That ain’t casual. She’s clocked you and Jax twice now.”
Milo frowned. “She hasn’t moved aggressive though.”
“She don’t need to,” Snaps replied, voice low. “She’s waitin’ on a signal. Maybe from the creep in the alley. Maybe from the real puppeteer.”
Jax shifted beside the vegetable cart, eyeing Marin as she moved from stall to stall. “She’s armed. Staff’s hidden, but it’s in reach. Not a civilian twitch to her. Military discipline. You don’t check shadows that often unless you’re trained.”
Snaps narrowed his eyes, watching Marin’s hand linger just a little too long at the hem of her jacket. The subtle nod to her Den Den Mushi hadn’t gone unnoticed.
“She’s talking to someone,” he said. “Eyes forward. Play dumb. But we’re done tailin’ from a distance.”
He clicked his tongue twice.
“Patch me through to Vincent.”
---
Vincent’s Wire Room
The call came through with the low hiss of static.
“It’s Snaps. The girl’s awake. Twitchy. She just made contact with her team. Wants to go offensive, I’d wager.”
Vincent’s reply was a smooth, simmering thing. “She’s testing the leash. Let her bite, but only the air.”
Snaps scowled. “You sure?”
“Positive,” Vincent said. “She’s not the hammer. She’s the canary in the mine. Keep eyes on her. If she makes a move, redirect—don’t engage. And if she runs?”
“Let her.”
Vincent’s voice turned razor-thin.
“If she vanishes from sight for more than ten seconds… you have my permission to put a bullet in her leg. Not fatal. Just enough to remind her who’s holding the leash.”
Click.
---
Snaps tucked the receiver back into his coat and gave Milo and Jax a quick gesture—two fingers forward, then a sharp curl back.
“Let her hear us,” he said. “Let her know we’re still behind her. No sudden moves. Just enough pressure to keep her nervous.”
Milo nodded. “And if she bolts?”
“We follow. But we don’t chase. We let her lead us.”
Snaps tilted his head toward Marin.
“Let’s see if the Devil Pirates brought a tactician… or just another pretty face."
Interior – Bonanno Estate, Rubeck
The heavy oak doors of the Bonanno estate’s study creaked shut, muffling the storm outside. Inside, a fire cracked weakly in the hearth, casting warped shadows on the portraits of long-dead patriarchs. Sonny Bonanno stood at the center of it all—tie loose, brow damp, and cigarette burning down to the filter between his fingers.
The large Den Den Mushi on the desk wore a grim frown that matched his own.
“All right,” Sonny muttered. “We’re all here.”
Three smaller snails, each tuned to a separate line, croaked to life almost simultaneously. The voices of the remaining family heads poured in with varying degrees of composure.
Michael Colombo, sharp and cold: “I warned Lucchese. I told him those pirates weren’t small-time. Told him you don’t gamble with devils.”
Fredo Gambino, nervous and cracking: “We all thought they’d go after the Marines! Not us! Not families! Tom was fortified, he had—he had at least thirty guns between his clubs and the docks!”
Connie Genovese, calm and venom-laced: “Thirty guns don’t matter when you let the snake into the house. Lucchese brought them into Rubeck. Fed ‘em scraps, thinking he could leash monsters.”
Sonny exhaled smoke through his nose, voice low and firm. “The Lucchese Family is gone. We can’t change that. What we can do is not follow them into the grave.”
He leaned forward, one hand on the desk, the other gripping the receiver hard enough to whiten his knuckles.
“They’ve got infiltrators. Trained. Coordinated. They’re splitting our attention while picking us off. One by one. Quiet. Precise.”
Colombo hissed, “And you think it’s just them? You think the Marines ain’t watching this collapse with popcorn in hand? We take another wrong step, and it’s not just the pirates at our throats. It’s Cipher Pol. Or worse.”
“Agreed,” Sonny said. “We can’t strike out. Not yet. We pull back. Consolidate. Quiet rooms only. Trusted faces only. Anyone acting strange gets the floor cut out from under ‘em. I don’t care how long they’ve worn the family crest.”
Fredo croaked, “And if they come for one of us next?”
Connie answered for him, voice as icy as a northern current: “Then we make sure they don’t leave. Not through the front door. Not in pieces.”
Michael added, “I’ve got safe houses in the east quarter. Two under false fronts. I’ll move my core there tonight.”
Sonny nodded, more to himself than the snails. “Good. Everyone goes dark for forty-eight hours. No outside business. No shipments. We sit. We watch. We listen.”
There was silence for a long moment—only the fire popping and the snails breathing.
Then Connie Genovese whispered, “And if they come for us anyway?”
Sonny Bonanno stared out the rain-streaked window toward the city lights, distant and trembling.
“Then we make Rubeck burn,” he said. “And we drag them into the fire with us.”
- Messages
- 11,143
- Reaction score
- 38,385
- Points
- 29,500
- Salty Doubloons
- 216
[RUBECK ISLAND]
Ranger sprinted across the shattered street, rubble crunching beneath his boots as he ducked behind a crumbling wall. Smoke curled into the sky, choking the air with grit and ash. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a compact Den Den Mushi. The snail blinked to life, its eyes swiveling.
“Marin, I need you to channel your Electro power,” Ranger said into the receiver. His tone was sharp, urgent.
He closed the call, slipping the Den Den Mushi back into his coat as he vaulted over a burnt-out vehicle. His thoughts turned grim.
'She's not ready for this.'
A heavy thud echoed through the smoke behind him. Major emerged from the haze, her frame a mass of armored plating and reinforced limbs. Her cybernetic body moved with a mechanical grace, pistons hissing with every step. She raised one of her arms, the forearm folding open to reveal a built-in firearm. The rotating barrel clicked into place, and she took aim.
Gunfire erupted in sharp, deafening bursts. Muzzle flashes lit up her face in flickers of orange. The rounds tore through the air, scattering chunks of stone and metal in their path. She adjusted her stance, lowering her center of gravity as the recoil pressed against her armored body.
Then, her arms began to shift.
Mechanical plates along her forearms separated and pulled back with a pneumatic hiss, exposing the inner structure. Beneath the surface were coiled conduits and lines of embedded detonators, blinking red in rhythmic pulses. Cables fed into the base of her spine, glowing faintly as they connected her arm systems to her core. Her fingers bent inward and locked in place. From her palms, a spherical trigger mechanism unfolded, pulsing with energy.
The detonation sequence had been primed, not yet triggered. Her body remained still, arms extended, weapon locked and ready. The air around her shimmered slightly from the heat and charge buildup radiating off her cybernetic frame. Ranger crouched low behind cover, eyes narrowing as he observed her transformation.
It had begun.
Mastery = 100 = Large Building Level +2 B-rank bullets = Town Level
- Messages
- 71
- Reaction score
- 125
- Points
- 500
- Salty Doubloons
- 141
Marin nodded and turned to face those men who were following her. She understood what needed to be done. After she received the orders from Major to use her electro, she began to channel her electro through her horns.
"Ram Fu Style: Electro Horn Blast!" She then felt the electro flow into her horns, lighting on the tips of them like a natural electric Rod. She then snorted in frustration, lowered her head, released her electric based attack at the men (Jax and Milo) who were following her.
STR 61
DPR technique (Electro Horn Blast) +3
Defensive Armament Haki +1
total DPR - City Level
"Ram Fu Style: Electro Horn Blast!" She then felt the electro flow into her horns, lighting on the tips of them like a natural electric Rod. She then snorted in frustration, lowered her head, released her electric based attack at the men (Jax and Milo) who were following her.
STR 61
DPR technique (Electro Horn Blast) +3
Defensive Armament Haki +1
total DPR - City Level
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