Committed

Spitfire tensed as her little brother was led up onto the execution stand. He looked a mess, dried blood and bruises caking his right side and scratches everywhere. He was still mobile though and the way he walked proved he didn't have any internal damage that could complicate a rescue. The mermaid had staked out a convenient attic with a good view of the execution stand but was further away than she had initially wanted; as her apprentices had bravely pointed out to her, she was the distraction, not the rescue. Her little force were scattered amongst the houses closest to the shore and two foolhardy souls had even mugged a pair of Marines for their uniforms so they could stake out the back of the stand. Considering Hotate was half-fishman, he was taking a real risk there.

Runt was lurking around the back of the island, the newly-arrived Trudi was staking out a ship in the bay and both Ripper and Snapper were close by as well but remaining outside the central bay. Jaws was hiding on the seabed at the bottom of said bay waiting for his cue and Snouty was out of range of the probable fight but well within hearing distance for when they needed to run for it. Snouty was the only one of her pets that could carry large numbers of people who couldn't breathe underwater as he had this trick with bubbles that enabled him to pack people up in them for transport, a bit like flutter-kick coating. If they had to leave in a hurry Spitfire would call him, he would grab everyone close by and parcel them up. Then when they were well out of reach of pursuit she could work out who she had to give back to which captains. Much more efficient than trying to get everyone back on the right ships.

Spitfire wiggled her fins in her boots, twisted her trousers for additional comfort and adjusted the red coat hanging over her shoulders. The whole point of the coat was to exacerbate her already uncanny resemblance to her father, just as her hair was tied back in a loose tail without her usual shall ornaments and why she was wearing a simple white corset top under the coat rather than her preferred armour. Tempest had pronounced the resemblance 'freaky' which, since she was one of just three pirate-born mermaids who were old enough to remember Roger properly, was sufficient endorsement. Idly loosening her oversized cutlass, the twenty-foot woman peered outside again. She wasn't very good with haki but she could do Fox' odd Colour of Concealment trick; she'd learnt it so as to creep up on people and scare them shitless. It would come very handy now that she wanted to cause mass panic.

Wiggling out of the window and strolling out towards the open space behind the cannon emplacements, completely unnoticed by the Marines dashing about, Gol D. Spitfire felt her blood heat in anticipation of the coming battle. Today was a good day to fight.

As soon as Fox felt Luffy tear the edge off the paper she'd given him she locked the cabin door, opened her chest and set about dressing in her white assassin outfit, moving calmly and methodically as she entered the proper mindset. First the undergarments: a lightly corseted vest to conceal her breasts, padding to modify her silhouette, close-fitting shorts with a high waist so her belts wouldn't chafe. Then long tabi, laced leggings, a fitted shirt with strategically placed slits for ease of movement and the first layer of weaponry harness. Then a second shirt, this one more like a kimono, loose trousers held in place with a belt and a sash over the top with more weapons hidden in the layers and her boots. Next were her gloves, made of Sea King leather for strength and flexibility, which were laced over the undershirt and held in place by knife sheathes.

Fox paused at this point, quickly performing a series of highly acrobatic stretches to check everything was in place and nothing was loose. Then she moved on to tighten the trouser cuffs so they could be wrapped and tucked into her boots, add an extra sash diagonally across her body to keep Zanchou in place, neatly wrap her hooded scarf around her head and neck to hide what little skin was still showing then finally fasten a waist-length cape across her shoulders and loosely buckle it at her throat. A sharp tug would pull the cape away entirely, but unless that happened it was useful for disguising her movements and distracting her opponents.

Every last garment was ivory white and completely opaque. Slipping the last few weapons into place Fox straightened her back, set her shoulders and lifted her mask out of its bag.

The Fox mask wasn't actually porcelain: it was bone. When she'd snapped and gone on her killing spree it had grown over her face all by itself as a manifestation of the protective camouflage she'd spent her time as a slave developing to hide her real name and background from her owner. When Spitfire had fished her out of the sea after she had jumped off the Red Line it had come off, but she'd been unable to discard it. It was part of her, not a very healthy part but part of her still. It was the part of her that protected her most damaged and fragile areas, Death Refined. Part of why she'd recovered so well from her terrible experiences was that her vulpine shadow was still there to fall back on if things went too badly wrong.

It melded to her skin when she donned it; while so masked she could not see, speak or even breathe. Her Devil Fruit Ability made the latter less than no problem at all and the former two weren't all that important for an assassin anyway. Eyes could be deceived after all and if a situation got to the point of calling an assassin then speech was clearly superfluous. An assassin, more than any other, was a slave. In Fox' case her Phantom was her slave, a part of herself that did her bidding and the bidding of those she trusted enough to lend it to. Her gloved fingers traced the surface of the mask and the facial markings that were the only colour in her entire outfit, the streaks running from ear to eye-socket and down the sides of the snout that were the colour of drying blood.

Behind her the door creaked, then clicked open; the lock was faulty. She did not turn to face Shanks as he paused on the threshold.

"Lisska?" Shanks whispered, staring at the stark white figure standing by the window with its back to him. It didn't look like the little Eyas, barely even felt like her, but there was nobody else it could be.

"Shanks." It was her. He shut the cabin door firmly behind him and she half turned, giving him a good look both at her clothing and the mask resting in one hand.

Lisska never wore white, just as she hardly ever wore black. Her clothes might have white patterns or detailing but she avoided the colour otherwise, claiming it made her look washed out. She avoided black for a different reason altogether: her father wore black and it made her look even more like Mihawk than usual. The only other colour she stayed away from was red, as that too was what her father usually wore. Now seeing the ghost standing in his cabin, a ghost that had an incredibly large bounty and a very long list of bodies to its name, Shanks suddenly understood why Lisska never wore white.

White was for death and killing.

She had been fifteen when she earned that bounty. It physically hurt Shanks to think about it.

"Lisska?"

"It's Fox, Shanks," she corrected him quietly, voice never changing from that soft monotone. "I first became the nickname when I was nine, to protect myself as best I could, and over time I became it. Lisska is the beloved daughter of two very powerful people and given time I could have grown into myself as Lisska, but then my enslavement happened and I needed to keep that part of me safe. Foxes are tricksters and above all survivors; I didn't quite gnaw my own leg off to escape the trap I found myself caught in but the metaphor is an apt one." She sighed. "I've been Fox ever since really. Maybe when my baby is born Lisska will really come out again."

A lot of things suddenly made sense to Shanks, like why she'd always introduced herself to people by the baby nickname her mother had barely used ever since escaping Mariejois. It was who she was now.

"Will you still be my Eyas?"

A faint twitch lifted the corner of her mouth. "That's for you to decide, Shanks. I've not changed from yesterday and I'll likely be the same tomorrow."

"Who knows?" He inclined his head at the outfit. She lifted the mask so the sunlight caught it.

"Spitfire. Me. Zoro." She shifted slightly, the sword hilt at her shoulder rising and falling. "Tempest suspects something but she knows better than to ask."

"Your lover knows?"

"He's the only person I've ever told. Spitfire fished me out of the sea after I jumped off the Red Line and Tempest helps me arrange contracts through the Sea Network." She finally looked up to meet his eyes, her expression distant and fey. "Do what you will." She raised the mask to her face and all hint of personality, gender and humanity faded from her haki like morning mist.

Shanks stared at the assassin standing in his cabin for an instant before the Phantom Fox vanished into a small ball of light which swiftly faded away. Red-Hair raised his hand to his face and groaned quietly.

"What a tangle."

And we're off.