The steady tick-tock of the timer resounded in the silent room. Two people were seated on the floor, staring at the half-empty chessboard between them. Clothes lay strewn around them, as did a few empty wine bottles. The air was suffocating, despite the heroic efforts of the ceiling fan. The woman pressed her knuckles into her burning cheeks. She hadn't thought this one through. At all. She hadn't taken into account the heat wave which had forced her into far less clothes to begin with and didn't allow for her chunky costume jewelry which always came handy in situations like these. Not that she often played strip chess. More that she didn't. And she had seriously underestimated her opponent, who stared at the board with a slight smile, apparently without a care in the world. He smirked widely and took her other knight, looking at her almost innocently. She gnashed her teeth and took a sip of her glass. A few drops of red wine dribbled down her chin and she wiped at them furiously, missing the way the man's dark eyes followed their movement. She squared her shoulders. Well, she thought viciously, let's see you win now, you bastard. Slowly, she unhooked her bra and slipped it off. She bit her lip to stave off laughter. It was one of those laws-of-physics-defying bras that was padded like a bulletproof vest. It made his eyes widen slightly. Without a word, he lashed at her, crushing her against his bare chest as he claimed her lips with bruising force.
"Hey, Benn," Liz murmured against his chest. "Hmmm?" "Do you remember that one time? With the strip-chess?" "Hmmm." "Do you remember the last layout of the board?" "Not really. But I know I would have won." Liz didn't answer. She knew he was probably right.
The door opened with a clang and, in a flurry of cheerfulness and sunshine, Red-Haired Shanks burst into the room. Benn nimbly shifted Liz between him and the wall and pulled the blanked over them. True to form, Shanks threw himself onto the bed without a care in the world. "May I help you?" she deadpanned. "Yes," the captain answered cheekily. "Run over to the East Blue and…" "No." "Well, I tried." Benn lit a cigarette, looking pointedly at his friend. His pointed look was lost on him, though. "I wanted to talk to Liz about what exactly prompted Old Wolfie to take a leaf out of Whitebeard's – may-he-rest-in-peace - book." Liz bit her lip.
The pirate captain Valentine, known throughout West Blue as the Grey Wolf, wasn't one of those newfangled super rookies because she wasn't a rookie. She had been a pirate for 34 years, from cabin girl to captain, and had managed to keep her existence a secret for the better part of 20 of those. She and her crew were very nondescript – not the faces likely to be remembered. And they were sneaky. They could disguise themselves like nobody's business and could, and in fact had, stolen things out of the pockets of various Marine high-ranking officers. They were the epitome of stealth, as light on their feet as cats. Their first mate could cloak an entire fleet with her Devil Fruit powers. They believed whole-heartedly in the virtues of information, efficiency and having fall back plans that spanned the length of several alphabets. And they never went in guns blazing (firearms were in fact forbidden aboard the Fang) or swords swinging, they snuck very quietly, took most of the valuables and retreated onto their cloaked ship just as discreetly. In the morning an unfortunate watchman would be puking his guts out from the knock-out shot, and the ship would be a little lighter, but hey. The sea is a dangerous place. And that was it – a very nice, peaceful life, filled with just the right amount of excitement - until that one fateful day.
Captain Valentine hadn't removed the calendar on which it was marked, circled in purple ink and red over it. She looked at it a lot more often then she liked to admit. More often than it was healthy for her, probably.
They had been trailing a cruise ship for the not-excessively-wealthy because hidden in its cargo hold were three almost priceless paintings which one of her special friends thought would look just lovely in his office. It was supposed to be an easy job. They were getting ready for the raid, Ellie taking one last sip of coffee before cloaking the ship, when the watchman had dropped from the crow's nest and yelled, "Cloak us now!" before handing Valentine the eyeglass. The invisibility shield covered the Fang and large part of the surrounding sea like a thin layer of gently rippling water. Valentine almost dropped the eyeglass with a gasp. Their target, the Mirabelle, was ablaze. A column of thick black smoke rose from it, obscuring the stars and the new moon. Further away she saw a ship departing at great speed. Something moved spasmodically on the deck of the Mirabelle, trailing sparks and brilliant orange flames. The woman lowered the instrument and was silent for a moment, fighting back the bile. Then she squared her shoulders, as steadfast as always. "We have to get there. Liz, give us a boost." The shipwright nodded. "25 seconds," she said and vanished. The crew ran to their designated safe spots as the sails and masts retracted swiftly into the body of the ship. Valentine gripped the helm. Next to her, Hans, a tall, broad man gripped the safety rigging with Ellie in front of him, leaning against his chest with closed eyes. She was very short and slight and against him she looked almost like a child. "Brace yourselves!" came a yell. The stars above turned into lines as the ship darted forward like a bat out of hell, propelled by its Jump engines. Wind lashed at them and salt water sprayed at them. Hans moved his arms, leaning forward to cover as much as Ellie as he could. Valentine felt maybe a little envious as she spared them a glance in-between short, swift turns of the helm. The roar of the engines ceased and the momentum carried the Fang all the way to the Mirabelle. Hans's large hand squeezed Ellie's shoulder briefly before he dashed for the cargo hold. The girl was already focusing her cloaking into a shield to protect them from the thick smoke and the stench of burning flesh. Already there were crates of extinguisher bombs and Rhee, their cook, had donned a protective asbestos suit. Hans took a bomb and threw it on the deck, in the middle of the inferno but, instead of bursting into a ball of cold gas and smothering the flames, it shot into a column of white-hot fire. Valentine grabbed one of the bombs herself and threw it against their own deck. It did what it was supposed to. They stared at the inferno, at a loss for what to do. For about 5 seconds, anyway, because they were the Grey Wolf pirates. The captain pursed her lips tightly and addressed the ship doctor. The man shook his head sadly. Valentine sighed. "Liz, put the fire out." The shipwright took of her beanie which she handed to a fellow crewmember and disappeared, a stiff breeze following in her wake. Powerful waves rocked the two ships as a tight maelstrom rose from the sea, carrying tons of water and tumbling them on the Mirabelle. A loud crack of thunder could be heard, despite the clear sky and Liz appeared again, soaked to the bone, slumping against the doctor who draped her arm across his shoulders and carried her towards the sickbay. Armed with a classic fire extinguisher, Rhee boarded the Mirabelle in a flare of haki, soon followed by Hans and Valentine.
When they returned, covered in soot, the smoke had cleared completely but the captain asked Ellie keep the shield as it was. She wiped at her eyes and said, in a hoarse voice: "Lower the flag."
Jason, the navigator, began lowering the Jolly Roger. It was a simple skull and crossbones design, but it was printed with a special duo-chrome paint that shifted from silver to black as the light played across it. When it fluttered in the wind, it faded in and out of sight just like the Grey Wolf pirates did when they meant business.
What was left of the 250 passengers and crew of the Mirabelle could have fit into a bucket. The pirates searched the ship with the patience and care that could have commended the respect of any archeologist or criminologist. They took countless samples, sprayed revealing chemicals, picked up bits of scorched things and put them in numbered bags, photographed every inch and ran it through a fine tooth comb.
They poked a hole in the hull of the ship and watched her sink as Valentine recited a poem with her trademark panama hat under her arm. Nobody knew any prayers. That night after dinner, they held council. Rhee was washing dishes while Valentine, a skilled bartender, dished out drinks more liberally than she ever remembered doing. Liz absentmindedly downed a generous helping of absinthe without tearing her eyes from a sheet of paper filled with small, cramped writing. "Right," she said with a grimace. "Listen up." Rhee wiped her hands and turned, whiskey glass in hand, ice cubes twinkling gently with her movements. Others straightened, watching the shipwright intently. "Me'n'Jay 'n'Doc got everything analyzed. Firstly, I have no idea what accelerant they used to make our extinguisher bomb do what it did. There is no reason to believe that they know what we put in them, but… Anyway, we determined that there was something rather big in the cargo hold that didn't appear on any papers, and nobody – of the crew, that is – knew it was there. A metal box coated with antimagnetic wolfram. And they dumped a big ol' load of phosphorus over the ship before adding the mystery accelerant. Overkill, but effective."
"Antimagnetic wolfram?" Hans asked, his brows furrowed. He leaned forward. "What the hell were they hiding?"
"I don't know," Liz said, extending her glass. Valentine fixed her another drink. The shipwright dragged the glass back. She leaned her cheek on the table and looked thoughtfully at the small flame that slowly consumed the sugar cube. "Also, there is the matter of the ship we saw running away. Pirates, Marines, Revolutionaries or something else?"
"I don't think it was Revolutionaries," Jason said.
"I don't think I know any pirates who are that thorough," Ellie said. Or that sick.
"Doctor Indigo," somebody said in an almost admonishing tone.
"Ain't he dead?" Rhee said.
"He's dead," Valentine said with finality.
"But then…"
Silence descended among the pirates.
Shanks grabbed one of Liz's hands and studied it carefully. She was a scientist and a shipwright, yet her hands were white, slender and smooth, not a scar or callous in sight. He supposed it was thanks to her Devil Fruit. "How's the New World?" she asked no one in particular. "It's great. You guys should come." "No, thanks. West Blue's enough for us. And we expect things to get real interesting, real soon. In fact, you guys should stay here a while." Shanks stared thoughtfully at the ceiling.
I was going to conform to the RPG law of steering well away from established characters. Really, I was. But Shanks has no shame and neither have I.