Things you need to know: Again, I removed Part IX, so everything after that has been moved back a numeral! If you feel like you've missed something, go back a chapter and finish Boy's fight with Drakula. And I changed the summary! I liked the penguins, but with the introduction of the Great Pirate Age, I felt I had to update it. Mihawk's taking a step forward, so the story must as well.

ALSO, if you thought Mihawk became the world's greatest swordsman last chapter, he didn't. That was a mistyping on my part and the inconsistency has been removed thanks to someone's quick review action, which I greatly appreciate.

And she updated only three months later! This is pretty good time for me, guys, you have to admit! This chapter flowed a lot better than the last one, especially since I got to introduce a canon character who will figure big into the rest of Subtlety. And a couple of OCS, who are, once again, at you guys' mercy. I submit them for your approval.

I realized after finishing the Part XI that I've written Roger's death THREE TIMES now. What the heck?


Part XII: Resolve

"Obstacles cannot crush me. Every obstacle yields to stern resolve. He who is fixed to a star does not change his mind." -Leonardo da Vinci (1452 - 1519)

When the Pirate King's life was extinguished, Mihawk felt as though all the air had been sucked from his lungs, and gasped faintly as cheers rose around him. A man with a presence so great that its absence leaves a vacuum. The thought that such a man had just allowed his own execution seemed momentarily terrifying—Mihawk wondered again just what the Pirate King had been thinking.

Around him, the crowd had begun to disperse. Some, dressed in the unremarkable clothes of local citizens, seemed to wander aimlessly, unheeding of the rain now sheeting down, speaking to each other in voices muffled by the storm. Others, apparently more aware of their surroundings, had begun to rush for their houses or whatever shelter nearby buildings offered. And others…

For some reason, Mihawk found it easy to spot them in the crowd, despite the water warping his vision and clinging to his eyelashes. They were the ones dressed more gaudily, either standing stock-still, staring up at where Roger's blood seeped through the slats of the scaffold, or heading away with drive and purpose. Some went in groups, one leading the way with a beckoning hand in the air, and all of those leaving were heading towards the sea.

Towards the One Piece.

Mihawk knew instinctively that they were pirates. Logically, it made no sense for pirates to attend such a high-security event—the risk ought to have been greater than anyone cared to take on. But part of him knew it meant something for the outlaws to witness this execution, and, more importantly, to hear that speech. And he could see them, scattered throughout the crowd. He watched as, one by one, the pirates left standing like statues began to come to life, turning away and following their brethren to the ports.

There was one pirate, however, who caught his attention and held it. Mihawk had to pause and study him for a moment as to the reason why, but it soon became clear. There was something flashing at his side, a glimpse of steel whose brief reflection of a streak of lightning had attracted his eye.

A swordsman. It was difficult to discern any details through the rain, but even from a hundred or so feet away, one feature was clearly visible: a broad-brimmed straw hat with a scarlet ribbon. He had a hat.

The excitement of the speech, still electric in the air, seemed to have left Mihawk with his own sense of adventure, much as he preferred not to show such things. With no vessel sturdy enough to carry him through the Grand Line (he would remedy that later), his only outlet currently was a good fight.

But this is East Blue. "Good" is a relative term.

Shut up.

He started towards the immobile pirate, one hand going to the hilt of the nameless sword that had served him for so long. "Hey, you!"

No response. Clearly this one had been more affected by the execution than most. Mihawk thought for a second he saw the rain-blurred figure's shoulders shaking, but as he drew closer the pirate turned and his face was placid, albeit mournful.

"…You talking to me?"

On closer inspection, he couldn't be older than seventeen. Mihawk was on the verge of reconsidering and even opened his mouth to drop a careless excuse when he was blindsided by a shockingly white smile.

"Huh…I've been standing here for a while, haven't I? Wanna go get a drink, kid?"

Mihawk drew himself up, affronted. "Kid? I am nineteen, and you're—"

"Fifteen," said the boy, a little less cheerful now as he removed his straw hat and inspected it absentmindedly. "Going on sixteen. Gonna get myself a proper crew right away, though."

"…Right," said Mihawk, a little bit unsure of where this was going.

"First this and then that damn clown running off like he can make it on his own…" muttered the boy, apparently to himself as it did little but bewilder Mihawk further. Then he blinked, jammed the hat back on his head, and looked brightly up at Mihawk through a fringe of hair red enough to rival the hat's ribbon. "So, you were saying—about that drink?"

"You were the one saying that," Mihawk corrected, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at the kid's wild see-saw of emotions. "I think there's something wrong with you."
"No, no." The pirate clapped one sympathetic hand on his shoulder, which Mihawk instantly shook off with alarm. His new acquaintance seemed unperturbed by this and continued, "There is something wrong with you, my friend! You look like you've eaten a lemon." He paused, squinting, considering, up at Mihawk's increasingly stiff expression. "…or two. It's decided. You're gonna buy us both beers."

"Why would I do that?" snapped Mihawk, and slid his sword a half an inch from its sheath with one thumb. "I only started talking to you because I wanted to fight you."

Silence, save for he hiss and slap of rain. As a white flash on the horizon brought the pirate's face into sharper relief, Mihawk saw realization blooming over his dripping face. Now he understood—and Mihawk couldn't help the beginnings of a fierce smile as he prepared to draw and do battle—

"Do I owe you, then?"

"I know it's—" He paused. "What?"

"No? Urr…I've ticked off a lot of people in the past… You gotta remind me, my friend, I'm a little short of memory right now."
"I'm challenging you!"

"At least tell me how much I owe you, then!" the boy said, laughing ruefully. "Seem to end up owing a lot of people…a lot of money."
"One swordsman to another," Mihawk ground out, teeth gritted around the words, "I am requesting that you do battle with me. Though the longer you keep acting like a total imbecile, the closer I might get to making that a demand."
"A wha—a swordsm—a… Oh, this old thing?" The boy patted the sword's hilt fondly. "Aw, I've been in fights with it, but I'm not really a swordsman, y'know? It's like…I dunno, a hobby or something."

"You are an insult to the art," said Mihawk, his voice flat with disbelief.

"Don't do much painting either. Hey, about that drink—"

"That request is now officially a demand."

"…I what? Did we talk about this before?"
Iai.

The move was so familiar by then that it was almost comfortable, even in the pouring rain like this. Mihawk settled momentarily into his finishing stance, enjoying the feeling of a technique mastered, and then frowned, replaying the split-second of movement in his head. Form—correct. Footwork—a little sloppier than usual but functional. And I wanted to take a piece off that stupid hat, but…

…He had no memory of making contact with anything. Mihawk spun on his heel to stare again at the red-haired boy, trying to keep any hint of accusation out of his expression.

"Careful, there…you just barely missed my hat," the pirate told him, eyes wide, mouth twitching into a frown. "It's been through…a lot."

Mihawk sensed a very long story in the hesitation, but he had no intention of asking the boy to elaborate. "How did you dodge that?"

"I think you're aim's off," said his opponent—if he could indeed be considered as such. "Maybe you should—"

"Shut up!" Alright, if the hat was the only way to make this brat serious, so be it. Mihawk dodged forward, pleased to find that though the weight of his now-sopping clothes certainly required more effort than usual, his agility was more or less unchanged. He feinted, as though for a proper attack to the boy's stomach, and then, as the pirate was arching away from the blade, Mihawk brought it up towards the brim of the hat. Water flew from both of them in a flurry of movement—this kid was quick, but not quite quick enough.

Mihawk waited at a distance, mainly out of curiosity, as one hand reached tentatively up to the hat and brushed the woven straw. When it reached the inch-deep slice, the hand froze, fingers examining the rent as one might a flesh wound.

There was a long moment of relative silence as Mihawk waited, breath inadvertently held, for a reaction. Then the boy smiled again, perhaps a little less genuinely this time, and said, "…Well, it's been through a lot worse."
"Not after I'm through with it," Mihawk told him, wondering even as he said it exactly what it was about the hat that was so special to this peculiar pirate boy.

Apparently, whatever the reason, it was strong enough to invoke his fighting spirit. That daft face hardened into an expression wholly separate from any Mihawk had seen on it so far, and the boy actually put both hands to the cutlass at his waist.

"That's low," he said, drawing the swords slowly as though it was against his better judgment. "You know, usually I'm pretty easy-going about this kind of stuff…people can do just about anything they like to me so long as they don't mess with my friends. But until I get my own crew, this—" he gestured to the hat, "—is all I got left."

"Nicely said," Mihawk drawled, wondering if the sarcasm would even register with the younger boy. "Now, why don't you show me what you can do?"

"This is not a good time," said the redhead, looking almost regretful as he leveled his sword at Mihawk. "But if you're going to be like that…"

"Excellent," said Mihawk, and followed suit. This boy…

this boy looks familiar.

"What's your name?" he said, searching vague flickers of memories. A worn face, a poster—the red hair, but without the hat—

Surely he didn't have a bounty.

Surely.

The boy pursed his lips, apparently considering the question. Then he looked straight into Mihawk's eyes with no semblance of surprise at their color and said, "No. Don't think I will."

"What?"

"You're kinda rude and you went for my hat just so you could fight me. If I lose, I'll tell you."

"If I—" Mihawk, strangled by his outrage and inexplicably vexed by the pirate's sudden change of character, decided on the spot that it would be best not to waste his time arguing over the idiot's name.

How important could it be, after all?

Thirty seconds later, Mihawk was on his back in the rain, his head ringing, a long wound streaming crimson from his left shoulder to his hip. He felt as though the tendons in the crook of his right elbow had been severed, and the same slice had bitten into his side as well. There was a moment of ungainly panic when the bitter taste of blood flooded his throat, and then he realized he had bitten his tongue. So…no internal damage (so far as he knew).

He rolled awkwardly over, bracing himself with one shaking arm, and spat into the gurgling contents of the roadside gutter. Blood, phlegm and bile ran with the copious rainwater. For a moment he lay there, thoughtless, staring at the rushing stream as though in a trance. Then, after what seemed like an eternity in the endless downpour, the faintest blur of motion caught his eye. Mihawk stared at the hand extended to him, wary and still burning with adrenaline. Was this some new threat?

But as it turned out, the pirate boy seemed to think the fight was over. He flexed his fingers, and Mihawk, turning his head to glare up at him, wondered how someone so open-faced could possibly be so unreadable. But this…this wasn't…

"I don't halt my fights simply because I've fallen over," he growled, shifting into a crouch. "Just because you—it doesn't matter whether there is a difference in skill. And there isn't one. That's my swordsmanship, understand? We're going to continue until one of us goes down for good."

"But I'm not a swordsman," said the kid. "Remember? It's like a hobby. You just attacked me 'cuz you felt like a fight. And I get that feeling, but unless you really want me to kick your—"

"Fine," said Mihawk. He felt somehow that this was giving in too easily, but honestly the boy's reasoning was the kind he'd lived his life by—only those who truly considered themselves swordsmen were worth fighting. And he was suddenly very tired. Against his better judgment, he took the sun-browned hand and hauled himself to his feet, groaning as his injuries throbbed.

"Now, let's go get that drink! I'm Shanks, by the way! Red-hair Shanks, that's what it says on my poster."

"…I thought you weren't going to tell me if I—" Mihawk stopped himself, cursing his mouth for talking without permission. He has a poster, he has a bounty posterHe was not going to ask about the bounty. Absolutely not.

"Well, we called it off. And I feel better now. You want beer?"

"Wine," said Mihawk, shaking his head in disbelief. Shanks was right—he wasn't a swordsman.

He was a natural disaster.


Mihawk hated alcohol.

Honestly, truly. Wine was better than beer—at least, he felt more elegant drinking it—but ever since the fight on Over-forest island, more than a cup or two made his head spin. Shanks, on the other hand, was a prolific drinker, and the jovial, balding man behind the bar seemed to have no problem with serving copious amounts of beer to fifteen-year-olds. Mihawk, not to be outdone at this as well, took a sip every time Shanks quaffed a mouthful, and found himself dizzyingly ill by the third round.

"Lightweight!" crowed Shanks.

"I hate you."

"Yeah, whatever." He slammed his empty tankard down on the bar with such extreme force that the counter rattled, grinning ferociously. "Gimme another, man!"

"Right up, kid!" The bartender's spirits seemed just as high as the rest of the crowd—everyone was still buzzing with Roger's speech, though whether with terror or excitement was unclear. It was a bizarre atmosphere, and it was not improving Mihawk's outlook on life. He watched sourly as Shanks downed another pint or so to the encouraging chanting of the crowd.

"So," he said dully, "you said that hat has 'been through a lot'."
Shanks bared his teeth in the same blinding smile he'd showed before. "Aw yeah! You have no idea!"

"I've been on the Grand Line," said Mihawk, affronted. "I shouldn't think any surprises are in store for me just because—"

Shanks had begun to exhibit a worrying proclivity for interrupting. This time it wasn't even a coherent statement, just a kind of disbelieving roar that quickly turned into an uncontrollable fit of laughter—like "…" …Et cetera.

"What?" Mihawk snapped, and then groaned and pressed his forehead to the bar as pain pierced his skull. The bar's owner had kindly given them a heap of his old clothes for use as bandages, and even boiled them. Apparently, Loguetown was in a generous mood.

"On the Grand Line…does not…nearly cover it!" Shanks managed between guffaws.

Mihawk was strongly reminded of a certain old man's hearty mockery, and managed one of his keenest death-glares out of the corner of his eye. This did not appear to deter Shanks, though he did seem to become somewhat calmer, settling forward with his elbows on the counter to grin knowingly at his new "drinking buddy".

"This hat," he said, touching the brim with, again, that strangely respectful attitude, "has been to the New World."

Mihawk thought he'd heard the term before and took a guess. "The other side of the Red Line at the end of the—"

"That's the place!" said Shanks, interrupting. Again. "And around the world, my friend. Around the world."

Mihawk was about to protest at the number of times Shanks had called him my friend in the past half hour, but then the implications of the sentence came home to him. He blinked, and when his eyes opened again, he saw the kid in a new light.

For a second.

And then the wonder and shock was replaced with disbelief and he said, "You were part of Gold R—"

"Not so loud," hissed Shanks, in a stage whisper that Mihawk felt was loud enough itself to carry to every corner of the room. He had the look of someone who had just realized he'd said more than was appropriate, but he needn't have worried—the clamor had yet to die down.

"Would you stop interrupting me?" he grumbled, waving one loose-jointed hand at Shanks. "I'm not going to ask you to tell me the tales of your adventures or something idiotic like that. I've had enough of long-winded men."

"Long-winded?" Shanks chuckled reminiscently. "I've known some guys like that! I mean, the Captain, for instance—you shoulda heard him after he finished a pot of beans!"

Mihawk covered his head with his hands, turning his face back to the counter. "Why am I sitting next to you?" he groaned, his voice muffled.

"'Cuz it was my idea to go drinking!"

"I still hate you."
"Whatever! Hey. Hey."

Mihawk chanced a look up. Shanks was staring intently at him, like a stupid man who believes he has had a very smart idea. Not a good sign.

"…What."
"You should join my crew."

"No."

"Okay."

Mihawk mumbled wordless fury into the beer-stained wood a hair's-width from his nose and wondered how on earth he'd ended up in the company of such a ridiculous person.

"Well, if you're planning on getting your own crew and going out on the Line again—like I am—I can give you some helpful tips!"

"Ugh," said Mihawk.

"Hey, I know about some pretty crazy monsters…weird things that happen on the different season islands…oh, and all the big-name pirates!" Mihawk raised his head a little at this, interest piquing in spite of himself.

"Is that so?"

"'Course! You name 'em, we've fought 'em!" A wolfish smile flashed across Shanks' face. "Golden Lion Shiki, Whitebeard…it was fierce."

"Red-hair," said Mihawk, hoping the kid would listen if he used the title. It seemed to work, but there was no telling when Shanks would start talking again, so Mihawk continued before he could acknowledge. "Do you know who the greatest swordsman in the world is?"

"Yeah," said Shanks, serious and unblinking. He seemed to receive the question as though the answer was common knowledge, which infuriated Mihawk further—he had been searching for a description, a poster, or at least a name for years now, with no result. And now this red-headed, preposterous, under-aged alcoholic…

…Well, it was maddening. But he industriously worked his features into an expression of neutral interest. "You can give me a name?"

"Drink some beer."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You haven't been drinking any beer! Rum's better, but this good fellow here says some other pirates drank him out before the execution."

"I refuse. Any more of this will have me unconscious on the floor."

"Just one pint?"

Mihawk stared, hatred of intoxication and, of course, of Shanks, battling with his obsession. Finally, he said, "Alright. But the next time we meet, Red-hair, I'll do battle with you properly, swordsman or no, and that will be my revenge for this ignominy."

"I don't really know what that means," said Shanks contentedly, "but I guess we're rivals now, huh?"

"Oh, yes," Mihawk said, gripping the tankard in front of him with white-knuckled hands. "Very much so."
"Excellent. I think you'll be a lot better at it than Buggy…" Shanks' mouth quirked contemplatively. "…Even if you do wear women's shirts."

Before Mihawk could rally a defense for the rosebud-patterned silk, Shanks spun languidly on his bar stool and leaned back with an air of great contentment. Hawk-eyes Mihawk, now officially Red-hair's new rival, rolled his eyes and tried to forget this fresh indignation. He went back to sizing up the hated beverage before him.

A minute later, Mihawk was clutching his head in wordless agony, blackness threatening to overwhelm his usually flawless eyesight. Adding insult to injury, Shanks was laughing; Mihawk could feel great the bursts of guffawing pulsing in his skull. It was one of the only sounds audible through the thick blanket of silence that seemed to have dropped over him, save for a faint, high buzzing filling his head.

"You really are a lightweight, aren't you?"

Mihawk tried to explain his situation to the riotous pirate boy, but the only thing that came out was a kind of helpless "gnnnnhh".

Not his finest moment.

"Hey, can you hear me?" A hand struck him with hearty force in the small of his back, intensifying Mihawk's headache tenfold but, miraculously, bringing his hearing flooding back with a crackling pop.

"Yyyes," said Mihawk, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Yes, I can hear you. I think I may vomit."

"Now, why would you go and do that? Don't you wanna know who the world's strongest swordsman is?"

"Yes," said Mihawk, and threw up at length on the floor. Shanks observed this with a bemused expression, which he was still wearing when Mihawk straightened, wiping his mouth.

"Okay. It's this guy called 'Monarch' Danial Brasser. Monarch's his pirate-y nickname, like 'Red-haired' for me, and…I don't know yours."

Danial Brasser.

Just like that.

The thrill that ran through Mihawk at the information conflicted nastily with how little he had to go on. "That's all you know?"

"Told you everything," said Shanks, looking a little hurt. "Might have a poster for you somewhere, though… Hey, Mister, I'm staying in the little room at the back! Can you bring me my stuff?" And the barman, lenient as ever, turned to comply. Mihawk felt a twinge of envy—no one had ever been so quick to do something for him. Damn the red-head and his charisma.

"You'll have a job and a half finding him, though," said Shanks speculatively, staring at the barrels on tap behind the bar. "I hear he doesn't like running into trouble."

"Doesn't like… Then how does he accept challenges?" asked Mihawk a little thickly, trying to flex his fingers and finding them numb.

"Is it a job requirement?"

"I should think so!" Mihawk snapped, pressing his hands to the surface beneath them. His fingers spread, white and bony, over the dark wood. "There will always be men devoted to the art, seeking the greatest… Whether or not we're all up to par, it's his duty to let us test our skills."

Shanks was giving him an odd look. "I guess that's your resolve, then," he said. "When you get there, you'll be that kind of world's greatest swordsman, huh?"

"Yes," said Mihawk. Later, he would wonder about that "when". When you get there. But for now, he had to focus on staying awake…just until the barman came back with that…

…poster.

He woke up.

For a moment, disorientation tossed his brain into chaos; where was he? What had he been doing there? And why, in the name of sanity, did his head hurt so much?

An old man, whose name he could not recall through the pounding devil of a headache splitting his skull, had once told him that the consumption of alcohol was basically the slow poisoning of one's body. (…and then proceeded to down the rest of his second bottle of gin.) Mihawk now had an inkling of the truth in this statement—more than an inkling, in fact. He even considered the theory that Shanks had slipped something in that mug of beer before—

Red-hair.

He snapped upright at the memory, and immediately regretted it. Every pain in his body increased to a point that was almost unbearable. His wounds, which had been forgotten in last night's haze of alcohol, had begun to remind him of their presence with a vengeance. He clapped one hand to his burning chest, grimacing, and then, letting his hand move over his shirt front, felt something shifting under the cloth. He reached under his shirt and withdrew…

The poster.

Mihawk stood up so fast that every stiff muscle and split tendon burned fiercely all at once. He had fallen unconscious on the floor of the bar, and no one had bothered to move him to a bedroom. Of course, in some establishments, regulars who drank themselves to sleep woke up on the street. It could have been worse. Mihawk staggered towards the door, checking himself for all the essentials.

Knife: check.

Sword: check.

All clothes: check.

Money: None. But he hadn't had any in the first place, so this was no great issue. Now he just had to find his hat and coffin, and he could get out of East Blue and head somewhere a little bit more…aggressive.

He stared down at the crumpled standard-issue bounty poster as he walked. "Monarch" Danial Brasser, 80,000,000. Mihawk wondered when it had been issued—he wasn't sure whether he could classify "World's Greatest Swordsman" with a bounty, but eighty million seemed…small, somehow.

Which was ridiculous. That was a lot of beri…not that the money was his goal. More importantly…

Mihawk turned his hazy attention back to the picture. It was blurred, clearly taken while the man was in action. His head was turned down and away from the photographer, his eyes hidden in the shadow of a shiny black top hat. Hungry for every tiny detail, Mihawk took in an angular, respectably-sized nose, a thickly-stubbled jaw, and a short brown ponytail whipping from under the top hat. Frustratingly, there was no way to judge the man's physique from this picture alone.

Well, no matter. It wasn't as though physique was the only qualification for swordsmanship—Red-haired Shanks was living proof.

Red-hair. The poster crinkled as his fingers twitched reflexively into a fist, and Mihawk, alarmed, loosened his grip before returning to his fury at the events of last night. He couldn't understand his own actions at all, starting from the point where he gave up on a fight and continuing until he fell unconscious. Drinking alcohol, which he hated with a passion, and in the company of that buffoon, no less! The thought almost dizzied him to the point of collapse again.

All in all, wandering with a hangover, consumed by his thoughts, it took Mihawk rather longer than it should have to come back to his coffin.

Or rather, where his coffin should have been. It was missing, along with his hat. For ten horrible seconds, Mihawk was speechless with outrage at this transgression. And then he was just speechless in his usual way, because, frankly, the things were gone and there was no point yelling about it. It would only have exacerbated his headache, he thought morosely, staring at the place where his mode of conveyance had once been.

(His hat…he'd lost the stupid hat. Foolish sentimentality-he was as bad as Red-hair.)

Well, there were only so many options at this point. He could go and buy a new coffin, of course, but this was probably the least plausible choice because he currently had no money. The second option, which would cost less but was far less pleasing in theory, was boarding with an out-bound pirate crew.

Unfortunately, the more he thought about it, the more favorable the latter seemed. After all, a ship would be much safer conveyance than a coffin, and any pirate captain would be foolish to turn down a crew member so skilled at swordplay (Mihawk did not believe in pretension of modesty). The trick would be finding a ship that was not heading for the Grand Line, as so many were sure to do after Roger's speech. He did not want to revisit those seas until he was certain he could find Brasser there.

So…it was time to find a pirate crew.

His best opportunity, he judged, was to simply wait by the docks for the pirates still left on the island to emerge from whatever dens of iniquity where they had been cloistered. This took longer than he expected, but Mihawk found that napping out of the sun in the shelter of an out-of-business restaurant most agreeable.

He had learned enough even while traveling the Blues to know that any given man on the street could not be judged by his appearance. Rather, he preferred to size up passing mariners by their presence. Even the most ostentatious pirate was nothing without a weight to his bravado, the air that he should be taken seriously. Mihawk let several groups pass by before he noticed a pleasing sensation of gravity to the way one band, middling in size, strode toward their ship.

Time to act. He rose, letting the action be a preliminary test of his physical well-being. His body did not flow so much as twitch, but after a couple minutes of painful movement, he knew his muscles would loosen.

That was not his concern now, in any case. If this particular crew was not comprised of forces of nature like Red-hair, Mihawk felt certain he would be able to defeat any given member. (This was a depressing statement in and of itself).

He picked out the captain at once; he was the largest and ugliest, walking with a certain telling spring to his step as he led the ragtag bunch behind him into the shadow of one of the many docked pirate ships. But this man carried no sword; true, his demeanor suggested battle experience, but…

Fists wrapped in cloth, reinforcement for wrists and knuckles, and a broken nose that healed crooked. Boxer, maybe for money, since he seemed to have come across other fist fighters in his journeys.

But there had to be a swordsman somewhere (there always was), and if he had even a shred of respect for the path of a swordsman, Mihawk had struck gold. Of course, if there was no swordsman, he could just take a slice out of the next ship over and see how they responded to that.

But oh, yes, there he was—the longsword sheathed across his back was so ostentatious as to be advertisement. His hair was black, like Mihawk's, but just as tangled and wild as Mihawk's was groomed and smooth. Still, who was he to judge a man by his hair (though he didn't appear to own a hat)? Ignoring this last, Mihawk walked purposefully towards the crew.

Mihawk had no concept of shyness or waiting until the appropriate moment to approach someone. If he wanted something done, he would do it at the first possible opportunity—and in general, "right now" had served him well.

He did not approach the captain; he had no intention of asking to join this mismatched band, as his pride would not allow it. He would show them what he could do, and then the captain would ask him.

"You, with the sword," he said, his voice rasping a bit from disuse and the hangover still twinging in his skull. He clears his throat as they all turn to look at him, a bit annoyed that the gesture might make him come across as nervous. "I challenge you to a duel." He put one hand on the sheath of his own sword, nodding pointedly to the other swordsman so that his meaning was fully understood.

Even so, it took a moment for the man to respond—he stared from under the thatch of black hair obscuring his eyes, frowning as though trying to decide on an answer. All Mihawk could see of his tanned face was a snub nose and a thin, wide mouth. Neither feature gave anything away for five whole seconds, during which Mihawk's impatience, always so close to the surface, waxed swiftly.

Then suddenly the pirate grinned and nodded, showing large, rather yellowed teeth, and reached up over his left shoulder for the hilt of the longsword. "Alright," he said in a deep, strangely musical voice, and Mihawk nodded with satisfaction. Finally. "…But I'm not the one you want."

Mihawk raised one eyebrow, not understanding (logically, the swordsman, the man carrying the sword, is the one I intend to face…unless…)

Unless he turned around and handed it to someone like that. Mihawk narrowed his eyes, intrigued, trying to catch a glimpse of whoever now held the sword and wondering how short they must be if he had to lean down…like…that…

"That's not funny," he said in the sharpest, most serious voice he could muster.

"No, it's not," said the black-haired man, grinning broadly. "You should see what she does to people who underestimate her."

"I am Dracule Mihawk," said Mihawk, and even now he savored the words. "I killed Drakula Ebons. I defeated countless swordsmen throughout North and West Blue. I traveled the Grand Line and emerged unscathed. I did not do all this with the intention of dueling a little girl!"

"Then you'll have to find someone else, Hawk-eyes," said the captain, speaking for the first time. He was watching Mihawk closely with an attitude of wariness that told Mihawk some of his bounty posters at least had made their way to East Blue. And he was about to retort when a high-pitched gasp drew his attention back to his prospective opponent.

The little girl was staring at him with huge, round brown eyes, her face colored with excitement. "You're Dracule Mihawk? Wow! Tarsky, can I fight him? Please? Can I?"

"I think he just said he doesn't want to," said the man (Tarsky) who apparently acted as the child's beast of burden.

To Mihawk's utter bewilderment-though he let none of it show on his face-the little girl seemed utterly put out by this news and turned on Mihawk the most dispirited gaze he had ever seen. He stared back, momentarily at a loss for words, not least because she was holding a four-and-a-half-foot-long sword as though it was a kitchen knife. Not an ordinary girl, then.

With an effort of will that hardly seemed appropriate for an experienced swordsman, Mihawk drew his sword and let his knees flex, preparing for action. The sword's amiable nature almost seemed to glow beneath his hands, and he spared the still-immaculate blade a surprised glance. He had almost forgotten about the weapon's "personality", especially in the aftermath of his battle with Drakula. The sensation was almost like a nudge or a reminder, but just as Mihawk began to wonder what exactly it was meant to remind him of, the girl interrupted.

"My name is Suma," she told him in a tone that could only be described as dutiful, and bowed respectfully. From such commonplace pleasantries, he would have expected the conventional stance of a beginner, but this girl's beginning pose was singularly peculiar.

Mihawk had never seen a swordsman begin with the sword over his shoulder, but this girl let the blade hang until it was almost vertical down her back, the tip resting on the cobblestones. He coughed, willing the heat not to rise to his face at the thought of facing such a ridiculous opponent.

"You're wide open," he told her, unable to stop himself. He couldn't just let her—

"Then why don't you attack me?" she said, and winked. Instantly, all pity vanished. The brat! Did her personality change during battle, or had he just reached the end of his rope with confident idiots?
Either way, she was going down.

He made his move, and instantly she was in action too, levering the sword heftily over her shoulder in a surprisingly powerful vertical stroke. It was clumsy, though—he wasn't even within range when she began, and it would take her too long to lift that weight again…

But no, she wasn't trying to lift it again. Instead, using the momentum of the first swing, she had used the sword as something like a pole vault, doing a handstand on its hilt for one dizzying moment as the vault reached its zenith. Then she dropped forward, feet first, swinging downwards again with strength disproportionate to her slender stature.

All of this Mihawk comprehended after it actually happened. The nuances of a swordfight were often lost in the frenzy of action, and in this case he had no time to actually think about what she had done or how he was suddenly within the range of that four-foot bar of steel. All he knew was the necessity of avoiding it, and suddenly he thought perhaps he had overestimated his body's capacity for action—

-blood spurted from his shoulder, where the tip of the blade had taken an inch-deep slice out of his flesh

No, no doubts, especially not against some was the fight with Red-hair that had done it, he thought bitterly as he tried to get a handle on the pattern of her techniques. That frivolous, arrogant fifteen-year-old pirate, grinning like defeat was nothing!

And pain tore him from his thoughts again, this time from his left thigh. Mihawk swore involuntarily and refocused, his head starting to throb again. He was distracted, aching, and frustrated. It was a bad combination, one that might have been his downfall without the aid of his exceptional reflexes. If he could just concentrate properly for one moment, it would be over before she could blink…

Use your head! Suma used the sword as an extension of herself, and not in the way any ordinary swordsman would; its length demanded precision and acrobatic creativity. Mihawk had tested his strength against many incredibly large swords, but their owners for the most part had possessed the build to manage such weight dexterously. This little girl, on the other hand, used the flow of momentum to carry her from one move to the next, and was doing so with great skill.

But not enough skill, perhaps. His alcohol-addled brain had begun to sharpen with pain and the thrill of a proper fight; despite the creativity of her attacks, the girl seemed to favor attacking from his left. He could block properly now, adjusting to her speed and recalling the subtlety of motion he had seen in the best swordsman he had encountered. It was all a matter of matching her…

Every blow directed at him slid away as he sidestepped, countered, and, yes, occasionally twirled on the spot. If any of the crew thought this looked funny, they weren't laughing. And neither, Mihawk noticed with great pleasure, was the girl. She was getting desperate, already red-faced from effort. Her movements were clumsier, her vaulting stunts becoming less frequent. There!

She dodged forward, swinging with all her might towards his left side, and Mihawk, anticipating this, blocked the long blade directly and closed the gap between them with a lightning-fast lunge. He was expecting the expression of fear on her face and the familiar feeling of victory. What he did not expect was the sudden irregular shock that ran up his arm and the disturbing sensation that his sword was much lighter than it should have been…and the pain spreading from his left forearm, where Suma's sword was buried in his skin.

It was over. Mihawk pressed the stub of the nameless sword's blade to the girl's throat, noticing with a faint feeling of emptiness that there were only about three inches of steel left attached to the hilt. The remaining length glinted in the corner of his eye, half-blinding in the early-morning sun.

"I could kill you now," he said conversationally, trying to restrain the anger rising in his throat. "I win."
Suma grinned, instantly innocent and admiring again. "Wow! That sounds really cool! But Mister Hawk-eyes…" she frowned, squinting up at him as though she wasn't in danger of dying. "You don't seem very resolved. Did you lose to someone? I heard you don't lose a lot, but you look a bit…"

Suddenly, Mihawk was tired again. He withdrew, barely wincing as he pulled his arm away from the blade embedded in it, and turned to face the captain. "I'm coming with you."

The man's battered and rather ugly face stretched in surprise. "You just tried to kill our girl, Hawk-eyes."

"And she tried to kill me!" Mihawk retorted, sparing a little energy to be affronted. "But neither of us killed the other, and I need a place to sleep. I've proven myself useful and I will board your ship."

Interestingly enough, it was Suma who came to his aid in this matter, apparently disregarding the fact of their battle, which had ended only moments hence. Instantly distraught at the captain's skeptical reaction, she ran and leapt at the man with rather more energy than Mihawk would have expected from a recently defeated opponent.

"No, Molar, you have to let him join! He's Dracule Mihawk! He's got a bounty of-"

"I saw the poster!" said Captain Molar, attempting to jerk his bandage-swathed right fist from her grasp—for she was, indeed, clinging to it for all she was worth. "You seriously think this guy won't come after us in our sleep?"

"Of course not!" said Suma knowledgeably, frowning as she was finally loosened from the man's arm. "Didn't you see how he told Tarsky he wanted to fight before we started? He's got swordsman's honor!"

Molar addressed Suma, but his small black eyes were focused directly on Mihawk as he spoke. "Yeah, well, this is a new age, Su. I wouldn't believe him for a moment, alright? We're pirates, and honor ain't part of the job description."

"So don't trust me," said Mihawk coolly, though he couldn't help feeling faint annoyance at the captain's suspicions. The little girl, as much as he hated to admit it, was right—he had no intention of attacking anyone from behind, unless they deserved it or showed themselves to be cowards by running from him. "I still need a place to sleep, and I can do so wherever you deem most appropriate."

"…Right," said Molar, and suddenly his nature seemed to change completely. He nodded amiably to Mihawk, even baring a gap-toothed set of teeth in an attempted smile. "Well, if that's the case, no problem! Welcome aboard."

He extended a hand, which Mihawk pretended to ignore, staring instead past the man before him at the ships moored at Loguetown's docks.

"Which one is yours?" he asked disinterestedly, glancing randomly at one of the crew members—a slender young man with almost feminine features.

The other gestured vaguely over his shoulder, speaking with a voice as androgynous as his physical appearance. "Behind this one here. Schooner, easily manned by six or even five if we're short." He gave Mihawk a hard look that contrasted strangely with his seemingly womanish demeanor. "You'll be extra weight. You'd better be worth this, swordsman."

"Do you have enemies?" asked Mihawk, tilting his head in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the ship.

Molar laughed, clapping him heartily on the back. Mihawk hated being clapped on the back, but found himself to be of sound enough constitution to resist buckling under the fist-fighter's blows. Training his muscles had paid off.

"Enemies? 'Course we do! Gambling debts, deals we've thrown, people we've stolen from…it's a mixed bag, like every—"

"Then I'll be worth it," said Mihawk, and then, as a second thought, added, "but don't touch me."


Later, settled on the most secluded corner of the deck he could find, staring up at the sky, Mihawk thought about what Molar had said earlier.

Honor ain't part of the job description.

He wondered with faint apprehension whether other pirates setting out from Gold Roger's execution felt the same. Over the years he had encountered more swordsmen than he could name, but all of them had committed themselves wholly to the battle and the swordsman's unspoken code of integrity. For a moment, he could not help envisioning a world where every man on the seas committed himself instead to a life of deceit and mutiny as it favored him.

He hadn't realized such things were important until now.

Nor had he realized what comfort he had taken in the presence of the nameless sword. There was no familiar weight at his hip now, and the sense of insecurity was maddening. Mihawk despised insecurity almost as much as he despised the creeping notion that he was acting like a child who had lost its favorite toy.

He didn't know why he had left the pieces of the sword as well as its scabbard on the white-paved Loguetown road instead of taking it to ask after repairs. He didn't even know exactly how the little girl had managed to slice straight through steel, though he had a sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with what Suma had said about his "loss of resolve".

He was determined to regain that resolve. Recently, he had felt as though his goal had wandered, become less focused. If he was to experience further humiliations in this new age, he would suffer them and return to his purpose stronger than ever. If he had to leave everything of his old self behind to do so, so be it. It wouldn't be the first time.

The past faded into the distance, along with the coffin that had borne him for so long, the red-feathered fedora, and the sword whose name he had never known.


A young apprentice at a recently-opened sword shop in Loguetown was walking to work the day after the Pirate King's execution when he came across a fine sword, regrettably split in two, and its mate scabbard.

Taken back to his master and appraised, the sword was found to be the legendary Yubashiri, and was given with reverence to the most talented smith in the city. Repaired and re-appraised as having lost no great amount of quality or keenness, it was still the finest sword on their shelves. And so it was stowed away in the back rooms, with much speculation over what crass, uneducated swordsman could have discarded it.

And there Yubashiri, the Snow-Runner, stayed, until many years later when the young apprentice had inherited the shop from his father. And then another crass, uneducated swordsman came along and got it for free.

And that just goes to show how weird the world is.


Mihawk is a very strange character to write in comparison to, say, the Strawhats, because he is a solitary fellow. I have no crew to bounce his personality off of, and even those who do interact with him don't stick around for long. That's why, I think, I was so pleased to get to write Shanks here! He'll be a constant in our valiant main character's life-a rival, a secondary goal to the greatest swordsman. He's a great foil for Mihawk, and it was just hilarious writing them together!

Yes, I took liberties with Yubashiri! So sue me. I thought it would be a very One Piece-y coincidence. Also, Molar and his crew won't be around for long-like most of the OCs I've created for Subtlety, they're just here to make a point.

Speaking of OCs, quiz time! Who can tell me what Jamba Curry looks like? I never did a huge description paragraph for him, but I dropped little bits of it throughout the story and I want to see whether everyone got a good mental picture from that or whether I just plain failed. Humor me, please!

Now, a slightly sad reflection mostly on my own inadequacy: I think I've lost one or two reviewers during the enormous gap during which I didn't update. I'm not angry about any lack of reviews (I'm already super-spoiled on that front), and if they dropped it because they stopped liking it, who am I to argue? But if there are people out there who think Subtlety is dead and wish it weren't...well, they'll have a few new chapters waiting for them if they ever check back, I guess.

Speaking of reviewers, all of whom I love and appreciate...

REVIEW REPLIES (Let the SBS corner begin!)


Ysaye: I was (and am) glad to finally update! Thank you for reading and here's some Shanks for you! ;D


Majin Hentai X: Yes, we've finally gotten into proper One Piece! :D I need to write that list of things that needs to happen on a post-it note and stick it on my computer...become greatest swordsmen, join Shichibukai, fight Zoro... I'm hoping to really put some meaning into Mihawk's perspective of his fight with Zoro-like everything has been leading up to this. It's gonna be good.


Lecat: D'you know, I really didn't know it was a Princess Bride quote until everyone started telling me so. XD But this is alright-it's a brilliant movie. I too will miss Curry! It's the passing of an age, and I'm glad you enjoyed reading the beginning of the Great Pirate Era. I hope to do just as well during this age!

SniperKingSogeking0341: Backstory for another hugely major One Piece character who may at any point reveal the truth and completely nullify my fanfiction?

...

...Maybe. XD I want to finish Subtlety before I go anywhere near Shanks, though. For now, all you get is some brief goodness from everyone's favorite redhead. Even if someone has never heard of Shanks, he is their favorite redhead!


SilverRainFalls: Indeed, I have reached the stable ground of canon! ...But I've realized I still have a long way to go before the Strawhats are even born. I need a timeline, seriously. It's weird writing this version of Mihawk, because he's still young, but working towards maturity, which means I have to mix grown-up Mihawk and Boy more delicately than ever.

I was awfully sad to see Curry go-he's become very dear to me as a character and I had so many other story ideas for him. But there was really no avoiding it, not after that battle. Still, eleven chapters is a lot!

And you get a prize for predicting Shanks' arrival! :D


All Nightmare Long: And I love making up explanations for canon fact! That's mainly where these stories come from, you see. Lord, yes, Roger's execution is brilliant. Now, there's a character who could use an excellent backstory. I think I found a good one recently, but I swear I can't remember the name of it...get back to you on that. I'm told that the quote at the beginning of the chapter is a Princess Bride quote, though I didn't know it myself. Thank you too for writing and sharing!

I wouldn't want you to hold your breath for three months either, but at least it wasn't half a year this time, eh? XD I'm improving!


Tiramisu30: I am deeply touched that my story was the first you reviewed under your new screenname! I'm happy to see it back on track as well, and also to know that you actually enjoyed slogging through its inordinately long chapters (I never have the patience for long stories myself, so I guess that makes me a hypocrite). XD Thanks so much!


strawberryshoez: It's nice just to know you've been reading it! Though reviews are always received with a warm and fuzzy feeling, of course. Past-fics are indeed few and far-between, good OCs even moreso. I personally am trying to live up to Y St Ace's (probably never-to-be-updated-again) Bellemere past-fic, which is really brilliant.

Aaahh, the three types of haki... I've been hoping to avoid addressing this, for some reason-it's like a school assignment I've been putting off. The first proper explanation I read of what haki actually is was just a basic description of how a normal Japanese person would understand it, and it's how I've been using it since then. The One Piece universe just takes the concept of real-life haki and exaggerates it, which is what One Piece does. I suppose in this case if I had to pick a certain kind of one of the three, I would have to break down and say the energy and resolve Mihawk used in the last chapter was Haoshoku Haki. On the other hand, Shanks has been seen to knock people out simply with his presence (not even concentrating), and I'm not sure whether that means he has Haoshoku Haki. I do believe there is a basic sort of haki that has nothing to do with any of the three kind Raleigh mentioned. This said, Mihawk must be able to use haki in some capacity, as his very intimidating nature and reputation do that for him. However, I'm starting to re-think the last chapter, because technically what both Mihawk and Drakula exhibited was more like sakki, or killing intent. That's mostly what we see from Zoro. On the other hand, Mihawk might still have thought of it as haki at that point, not knowing the difference, so perhaps all I have to do is have someone correct him on that count later.

...Okay. Sorry about that block paragraph of doom.

Anyway, now that it's been mentioned, I'll go and do my research about the different types of haki and try to find out whether any of them specifically suit Mihawk or whether he's just a mighty swordsman.

If anyone else has thoughts on this, please include them in your next review or send me a note! And I'll see if I can find the article I read on haki.


BlizzardXIII: Good, 'cuz as much as I keep expecting flames, I suck at responding to them rationally! XD

And I am glad you like Curry! Boredom may indeed be a large factor in how much time he spends rambling. I admit to using the thesaurus more than once to find the longest word possible, but reading a bunch of old books has upped my vocab enough to write his dialogue without a lot of trouble. It is true that Curry would be an oddity in One Piece-I don't know how Oda would bring across the dialogue of a character like that. I don't think Japanese works in quite the same way, after all.

Thanks! :D


cinnamon-shake: Geez, you re-read all of it? And you're still alive to review? D: It's probably a bad sign that I shudder at the thought of re-reading my own story... XD

Indeed...I knew from the beginning that Curry would have to leave, but as I've said before, it felt like a loss to me as well. Does this count as "soon"?


Phalanx: You win a prize for resourceful reviewing! Sorry about the chapter trouble...it was a necessary amputation. That said, I will now reply in much the same nature as you reviewed, because I like how concise a numbered list makes a message.

1) Hurray, my fight scenes have been approved by someone with experience! I feel like a dream has been fulfilled, heh...

2) Thank you-I was afraid the way he got his name would seem sort of cheesy and contrived.

3) The hat indeed! Though not the one we see in canon. I went back and was surprised to find that it has a white feather rather than a red one.

4/5) Hopefully Shanks, though not Curry's equal in bombastic language, as you say, will be the entertaining half of the Mihawk dynamic from now on. Also, I was looking to make Curry's proof of Mihawk's improvement as brutal as possible, just so it was undeniable. I guess I'm cruel that way...?

6) Season Two begins! We need a new opening song, new animation, and new voice actors! (Actually, before all that, I need to actually get an anime.) grin

Thank you for your fabulous review! And yes, that is the fic I meant when I mentioned it last chapter. Nice job. ;)


nautikitti: Thank you, you're too kind! I look forward as well to future chapters-it's been a great ride so far (if interspersed with way-too-long hiatuses).


Dawn of Destruction: YOU. ARE. AWESOME. TOO. Not least for reading it all at once. Thank you for stopping to review! If I ever try out coffin travel, I'll let you know whether it is as unhealthy as it seems, awright?


Mocobo: I am humbled and flattered by your review-I don't really know any other way than to be hard on myself, but I'll do my best to treat myself more kindly from now on, if it bothers you so. Thank you! Ack, you're totally right...I didn't even think about Curry's red hair as a young man recalling Shanks! Maybe he's...Shanks' grandfather or something. No, never mind, that would link him to canon too much. Just try not to think about it! XD And I love doing cameos-good job catching Bellemere, by the way. I wish I'd thought to include a few more here, but I'll have plenty of time for that later.

You have my full permission to advertise! The reason I finished this chapter is probably thanks to the unwitting encouragement of some commenters on Arlong Park forums who were suggesting this story to their buddies. I was so buoyed by reading their posts and I set directly to work on Mihawk's fight with Suma.

And he will stay adorkable for as long as I can drag it out! I have no intention of making him Serious!Mihawk until I really have to. And of course he'll always have that dark sense of humor.


Gazer: It does indeed live! I have to apologize once again to you (and to SLER down there) for the whole chapter-y fiasco. It won't happen again. As for Part IV, there were a few people confused by it, and the writing was sort of terrible. I am still rather amused by it, but perhaps that was not the place for it. Thank you so much for letting me know I really got you involved in the story-that's high praise and not something I often hear. With the last chaper, I feel I've graduated high school early or something-it all happened at once! Curry leaving, Boy turning into Mihawk, the Great Pirate Age beginning... sigh

Still, THREE MONTHS! I'm on a roll!


SLER: I know I'm doing well when you're happy to see "Subtlety" in your inbox! I'm so lucky to have viewer who beam at my chapter notifications. I don't even know where I got the idea for Mihawk's anemia-I was just like, "there has to be a reason why he's pale and cranky and tired all the time", and this just kind of clicked. I suspect in canon he's just naturally that well. Oh, well, c'est la vie.

Cleared up the whole "world's greatest swordsman" mess...sorry for that misunderstanding, as I said. But now it's gone.

I made someone cry? Someone cried because some guy I made up left the scene? I...wow. That's unusual. But I do feel I've achieved something, somehow (not that I take any delight in the thought of people crying).

Mihawk's inborn morbidity pays off in the use of a coffin as conveyance! Hey, maybe you can test it out for me! (I discussed this above somewhere...)


And in closing: What's up with all these people saying the re-read the whole thing, or read it all in one go? You're all crazy! But it also makes me really happy. I hope it didn't eat up too much of your time, guys. There are far more important things to be doing.

...

EVEN THOUGH IT MAKES ME REALLY HAPPY.