Chapter Text
The sky over Ubasca was the color of old bruises. Clouds hung low and mottled, half-lit by a sun too stubborn to break through. Below, the sea churned around jagged black stone, the swell crashing against sharp volcanic cliffs and pouring into hidden coves like liquid thunder.
Mari sat hunched near the prow of the small courier ship, Sabo at the helm behind her, silent but steady. Their approach was slow and wide, circling the chain from the southeast side as planned.
Five islands lay ahead. Four small. One large. All jagged, hunched, smoke-wreathed things — their volcanic cores long dormant but visibly scarred. Nature and industry clashed violently here: thick green jungles crawling with moss and fog, intersected by the grim glint of steel scaffolding and corrugated buildings dug into the rock face. Crude docking stations jutted from the smaller islands like barnacles, manned by hired guns with binoculars and loud tempers.
Even from a distance, Mari could hear them yelling. She grinned, pushing up the sleeves of the jacket she wore: rough mercenary garb, dark and stitched with fake patches and grease. She felt gross in it. Clunky. Like a costume she hadn’t been given the full script for. The pistol holstered at her thigh wasn’t hers. The knives that came with the uniform were dull. The boots too stiff.
The wind picked up slightly as they drew closer, tugging loose strands of her hair into her mouth. She spat one out, squinting at the dark slant of the dock ahead, trying to memorize every structural detail — the shape of the loading bay, the number of guards by the ramp, the distance between the containers stacked haphazardly against the cliffside wall. It was instinct now. Pattern recognition. A muscle she’d trained into submission.
Still, her fingers itched. Not for her blades, not yet. Just from nerves. She could hear Oceana’s voice in her head, calm and sharp as ever: "Nervous is good, as long as it doesn’t freeze you. Nerves mean you’re paying attention".
Mari blew out a slow breath, adjusted her posture, and shifted her weight like she belonged here. She’d done undercover work before. A dozen times, maybe more. Smuggler crews, short cons, surveillance stints across half the Grand Line during her training with Oceana. But that had always been for data, never this high-stakes. Never when the fallout of failure would mean more than just a broken nose or a missed payday. This was the Revolution. The kind of operation that made ripples.
And she was alone.
Well, not really. Sabo was here. Kind of. Back in the trees, tucked behind shadows and mist, close enough to step in if everything exploded. But he wouldn’t hold her hand. Wouldn’t whisper orders through a transponder snail. This was her mission to run. Her mistake to make. That weight sat heavy in the space between her ribs.
Sabo’s voice snapped her out of it.
“We dock in two minutes. You remember the name of our cover employer?”
“Raul Sendak,” she replied without hesitation. “Small-time arms dealer. Claimed he owed a favor to a merc from this chain. Made up an excuse to send us here to help with fuel security, dropped us with forged IDs and bounced.”
“Good.”
“And I’m your hired muscle. Grew up smuggling, part-time bounty work. Don’t talk much. Real knife-happy.”
Sabo didn’t look over, but she could tell he was frowning.
“Maybe tone down the knife-happy part.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
The boat creaked as it drew alongside one of the smaller outposts — a half-moon stretch of black rock carved with a ramshackle dock and a security station cobbled together from rusted shipping containers and prefab panels. Armed men in mismatched armor stood at the entrance, their rifles slung lazy across their backs, postures loose and cocky. Not Marines; definitely mercenaries. No insignias, no standardized gear, just the vague aesthetic of people who’d been paid to shoot before asking questions.
Mari stood and stretched. She didn’t glance back at Sabo.
“I’ve got it from here.”
He did look over at that.
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” She slung her duffel over one shoulder and cracked her knuckles. “I blend better without the rules. You stay off the radar. Keep eyes from a distance, survey the terrain, see which guards are worth watching out for.”
He hesitated. Mari turned her head just enough to see the conflict flicker across his face. Not doubt in her, not exactly. But caution. Worry.
“I’ll check in every night. The cove on the north side.”
“I know the plan,” he said quietly.
“Then let me work.”
A beat passed. Then he nodded, curt, reluctant. Mari dropped onto the dock with a heavy thud, boots loud against the weather-worn boards. She didn’t look back again. Didn’t have to. She was in character now.
The first hour was chaos. Loud, disorganized, and filthy. The station boss was a thick-necked man with a bad limp and worse breath who introduced himself as “Carver” and didn’t care why she was here so long as she knew how to hold a weapon and didn’t start fights in the mess hall.
Mari assured him of one. Made no promises about the other.
They gave her a bunk in a shared barracks, access to the perimeter patrol schedule, and an old badge that barely passed muster. No one checked the ID too hard. These weren’t people who cared about vetting, just numbers. Warm bodies with mean eyes.
Perfect.
She slipped in like smoke.
By the end of the second hour, she’d clocked the layout of the dock station, figured out where they ran their supply manifests, and which of the mercs liked to brag the most during lunch rotation. The mess yard was a slanted concrete slab ringed by oil drums and broken benches. A lopsided tent acted as a canopy over the eating area, stained with ash and old rainwater. Through the thick fug of smoke and grease, she spotted a group of men clustered near the back wall, laughter rising in short, sharp bursts.
One of them stood out. Tall, narrow, twitchy, like a scarecrow come to life. He wore two knives at his belt and had the kind of sunburned skin that suggested a deep commitment to poor life choices. As he laughed, Mari caught the tail end of his story: something about handling a containment breach single-handedly and making off with the hazard pay. The others around him jeered and hooted.
“Shut up, Vance, you’re full of shit!” one man barked.
“Didn’t stop him from getting the bonus!” another chimed in.
Vance just smirked and tossed a bottle cap like it was currency.
Mari didn’t speak. She just watched. Marked the way he stood too close when bragging, the way his eyes flitted constantly like he was waiting to be challenged. Overconfident. Performative. Easy to draw out. A tick of satisfaction rolled through her. She’d found the first thread.
Later, as the sun dipped low over the treetops and the shadows stretched long across the compound, she slipped away under the cover of a routine patrol change and made her way to the far northern edge of the island. The jungle there was thick and humid, branches slick with mist and undergrowth crunching underfoot. She moved fast, quiet, sticking to the game trail Sabo had mapped out for her.
The cove was exactly as he described it, back when they were refining strategy on the boat ride to Ubasca — a small crescent of black sand hemmed in by high rocks, only accessible through a narrow break in the foliage. Their vessel was moored to the far side, mostly covered by a camouflaged tarp.
Sabo was already there, perched on the rocks like a gargoyle, arms crossed and coat drawn tight against the breeze. He didn’t speak as she approached, just nodded once in greeting. She dropped into a crouch beside him, pulled out the notebook from her pocket, and flipped to the marked page. “Got something.”
He leaned in slightly, scanning the notes as she spoke.
“Name’s Vance. Mid-tier merc. Big mouth. Brags about solo work. Carries clearance tags on his vest, though I’m not sure about the level. Likes attention. He’s got that dumb swagger that screams ‘don’t worry, I got this’ right before a plan goes to shit.”
Sabo’s mouth twitched.
“I like him already,” he said dryly.
Mari snorted. “I figured if we’re looking for someone dumb enough to underestimate us, he’s a strong contender.”
“Did he notice you?”
“No,” she said, confidently. Then added, “Maybe. I don’t think so. Either way, I didn’t engage. Just logged his habits and bailed. I’ll see if I can get closer tomorrow.”
Sabo nodded. “Good. Keep your distance. I’ll shadow him during shift changes if I can. See where he sleeps. Might help us figure out where to intercept.”
She handed him the notebook. “Make a copy if you want. Just give it back.”
He grabbed it and started noting down all the info Mari had gathered for the day in his own pad. They sat in silence for a few minutesas Sabo wrote. The waves rolled in and out across the sand like breath, steady and slow. Mari reached for a rock nearby and started idly scratching the dirt beside her boot with it — not fidgeting, exactly, but just something to do. Her nerves weren’t loud anymore, but they hadn’t vanished either. She knew how to fake calm. But Sabo had a way of making the faking harder.
“Day one,” she said finally. “Not terrible.”
He gave her a sidelong glance. “You’re doing fine.”
She rolled her eyes. “Try not to overdose on encouragement.”
He huffed something that might have been a laugh, or just a tired breath, as finished up copying her notes and handed Mari her notebook back.
They stood at the same time, neither of them acknowledging the quiet satisfaction that the first step hadn’t gone to hell. Mari adjusted the strap on her gear and ducked back into the jungle without another word. Sabo waited a beat, then vanished in the opposite direction, footsteps silent on the rocks.
The next day dawned wet and grey. Mist clung to the trees like a second skin, and the metal fixtures of the compound sweated condensation even into the late morning. Mari adjusted the straps of her gear harness and stepped into the day like she belonged to it. One of the early-shift guards shot her a nod. She returned it with a smirk and kept walking.
The interior compound — what the guards referred to as “the pit” — was all hard angles and welded iron. Elevated walkways crisscrossed above wide gravel yards, most of which were stacked with fuel drums, weapons crates, and heavy-duty transportation tanks. The refinery itself loomed like a blister in the landscape: reinforced steel, smog-belching stacks, and a hum beneath the ground that you could feel in your teeth if you stood still long enough.
Mari didn’t stand still. She moved in easy loops — not lingering too long anywhere, not hovering near key choke points. Just enough to suggest idle curiosity, maybe a greenhorn merc trying to look busy. Nobody questioned her. People here barely spoke unless it was about supply shortages or whose shift ended first.
It was too easy to blend in.
By midday, she had eyes on the full rotation: four shifts staggered unevenly, half of them pulling double duty between the yard and the tunnel-side perimeter. Her assumption about a sea-access route was looking stronger by the hour. Too many barrels headed toward the jungle fringes to just vanish into foliage. Something was feeding them out, and not on land. From the elevated walkway near the northwest edge, she spotted it: a faint slope carved unnaturally into the rock, with rusted rails bolted down at intervals. Not a road. Not a cargo lift either. Too discreet. Too clean.
A tunnel.
Maybe even the pipeline exit itself, or one of its relay points. She memorized the angle, filed it away. No way to get close without looking suspicious — not yet.
She found Vance again during the second shift turnover. He was leaned against a support column near the munitions storage, gesturing wildly to two other guards as he recounted some clearly embellished story about breaking up a smuggling ring with just a sidearm and a boot knife. Mari didn’t linger. She didn’t need to. She already knew what kind of person he was. And now she knew where he usually stationed himself — near the armory, farthest from the main refinery doors.
It was all starting to align.
But by late afternoon, the buzz of adrenaline had begun to sour. Her skin felt tight. Her muscles wired too close to her bones. She’d kept the mask on all day — easy confidence, lazy strut, casual sharpness in her tone when needed — but under it, something gnawed.
This had to work.
She didn’t want a backup plan. Didn’t want to screw this up. It wasn’t just about proving herself — though, yeah, that too — but about getting it right. This was the kind of mission the old her would’ve blown to hell with too much fire and too little foresight. But she wasn’t that girl anymore. Oceana had taught her better. Trained her better. Patience. Observation. Knowing when to step in and when to wait. Still, the waiting made her itch.
By the time the sun dipped low again, bleeding orange behind the island canopy, she was already weaving her way back through the underbrush. The same trail as last night. Slower this time. Tired. Wired. Frustrated.
Sabo was already at the cove. Arms crossed. Same stance. Same blank expression that meant he was thinking too many things at once and probably judging her for half of them.
“Hey,” she muttered, dropping into a crouch beside him again and brushing leaves off her shoulder.
She hated how stiff she felt. Like everything under her skin was coiled just a little too tight. She’d done everything right today. Played it smart. Cool. Unbothered. And still, the part of her that craved momentum, that needed action to prove the mission wasn’t slipping through her fingers, was gnawing at her ribs.
“Anything new?”
She pulled the notebook from her vest and opened to a fresh page. “They’ve got barrels heading northeast out of the yard in regular intervals. Every four hours. They vanish into the jungle.”
Sabo’s brow furrowed. “Same direction as the rock shelf?”
She nodded. “There’s a slope with rails. I think it leads into a hidden tunnel. Could be connected to the sea route you mentioned.”
His brain clicked through the details like a safe tumbling into place. It did track — the terrain matched, the pattern was consistent. But that didn’t mean they could afford a misstep. Not with guards swarming the perimeter and an op this delicate. He could already hear the fallout if she acted on impulse.
He took that in with a slow breath, then nodded once. “That tracks.”
Mari hesitated, then added, “I want to get closer. Tomorrow.”
Sabo’s eyes flicked to her. “It’s too soon.”
“I can handle it.”
He clenched his jaw. She said it so easily, like handling it was the only metric that mattered. Like risk was a switch she could just flip off. She was capable — obviously — but capability wasn’t a guarantee. That’s what she didn’t get. Not yet.
“We don’t know enough yet.”
She bristled. “We won’t know until we look.”
“Look smart,” he snapped. “Not fast.”
Mari stood. Pacing, just a little. “This whole thing — it’s crawling. We’re just circling the perimeter, waiting for something to fall into our laps. We know who to target. We know the layout. I could have him isolated by tomorrow.”
Her hands were twitchy at her sides, too restless. This wasn’t impatience, it was dread disguised as drive. If they waited too long, they’d miss their window. She could feel it. That dread settled in her bones like a countdown she wasn’t allowed to acknowledge.
“You could also get caught.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“You don’t know that,” Sabo said, rising now too. Not yelling. Just firm. Steady. The tone that usually got people to listen.
But not her. Never her. She was the one person who always questioned him, who saw every command as a debate instead of a directive. And the worst part? She was smart enough to back it up. It drove him insane.
Mari crossed her arms, chin lifting. “You didn’t see how loose they are. Their security sucks. Vance smokes through half his shift and nobody says shit.”
“And if you go rogue and we lose our chance to hit the tunnel?”
She opened her mouth — then shut it. The silence stretched.
God, why is he always like this? It wasn’t just caution, it was like he wanted perfection before action. As if waiting long enough would make the risk go away. But she’d lived through too much to believe that. Waiting just gave danger more time to catch up.
Sabo’s jaw ticked, and he looked away. His gloves creaked slightly as he flexed his fingers.
“I know you’re good,” he said, quieter now. “I wouldn’t be backing you if I didn’t. But this isn’t a solo run. You’re not freelancing with Oceana anymore.”
That one landed.
Mari’s shoulders tensed. Of course he brought her up. Oceana, the one person who actually taught her how to hold back, how to focus. But this wasn’t a lesson anymore, it was the real thing. She didn’t want to be scolded like a rookie with a twitchy blade. She wanted to be trusted.
Sabo sighed, some of the fire gone from his voice. “You’ve got instincts. But instincts alone aren’t gonna carry us through a six-day-ish op on a guarded island chain.”
“I know,” she muttered.
He stepped closer, voice still low. “Then act like it.”
He didn’t know why it came out so harsh. He didn’t even think she was wrong — but she scared the hell out of him when she acted like the rules didn’t apply. Not because she was reckless, but because she was so damn capable while doing it. Like she didn’t realize how fast it could all fall apart.
They stood there in the dimming jungle light, the air thick between them. Mari finally ran a hand through her hair and looked away.
“I’ll wait. One more day. But if we don’t make a move soon—”
“We will,” Sabo said. “Together. On the right day.”
He meant it. He didn’t want to do this without her, didn’t want to sideline her, didn’t want to go in alone. But he also couldn’t afford to lose her. Not just because she was good. Not just because the mission needed her. Because he needed her to make it out. He couldn’t bear to lose anyone else. Especially not now, so soon after…
She didn’t answer. Just stared out over the water, where the last of the sun dipped below the horizon and the stars began to blink alive. Sabo stepped back, nodding once.
“I’ll keep watching Vance. You keep blending in.”
Mari gave a vague, two-fingered salute and turned back toward the path. As she walked, her spine felt brittle — too straight, too sharp. Not because he’d dressed her down, but because she wanted his approval and hated that she wanted it.
Neither of them said goodnight.
It was the next day.
Mari had spent most of it doing exactly what she was supposed to do. Or trying to, at least. She trailed guard rotations, logged supply shipments, eavesdropped at mess hall tables, and ducked through half-shuttered corridors in search of anything that might hint at access points to the refinery tunnels. But no doors opened. No slips were made. No alarms tripped. It was dull, and frustratingly still. She was getting tired of pretending to stretch and loiter and pretend-smoke with a stick of dried seaweed between her teeth. Her hands itched for momentum. Her nerves prickled like they could sense opportunity just out of reach.
Which was probably why, as night settled in, she ended up ditching protocol. Again.
The jungle behind the eastern ridge was thick and tangled, choked with undergrowth that scratched at boots and gear. The moon was only a pale slip overhead, thin enough to keep her hidden, bright enough to outline the uneven terrain. Mari moved in a crouch through the dense brush, steps soft, breath even. Her shoulders were tense but steady, eyes flicking between the distant refinery lights and the narrow path ahead.
Behind her, the faintest rustle signaled Sabo’s presence as he kept to the ridge above — shadowing from a distance, his preferred vantage. They hadn’t spoken since the last check-in, not really. Not after the tension that had simmered between them during that argument on the shoreline.
Now, the only sound was wind rustling through leaves and the distant churn of the refinery, like a mechanical heartbeat in the belly of the island. Mari crept closer to the ridge's edge. Below, just past a broken stretch of cliff face, the shoreline curled into a black inlet. And tucked against the rocks there, barely visible in the dark, was the tunnel entrance.
It didn’t look like much. A wide steel grate embedded into the rock, mostly hidden by algae-crusted debris and sea-blown drift. It looked like any other runoff pipe, maybe a relic of old infrastructure. But the faint metal sheen, the locked panel on the side, and the thick condensation pooling around its edges gave it away.
Her heart jumped a little.
This is it. The pipeline exit.
She crouched lower, watching the grate through the brush. A pair of guards passed nearby — not close enough to spot her, but close enough for her to study their movements. Routine patrol. Sloppy spacing. One of them lit a cigarette. She tracked their steps, chewing the inside of her cheek. A dozen thoughts jostled in her head. Timing. Access. How deep the pipeline ran. Whether the tunnel was reinforced. How long it would take to wire explosives that wouldn’t get spotted until detonation.
Then — movement.
A shadow peeled away from the far ridge. A single guard, separating from the rest of the patrol team. Thin. Wiry. Smug in his gait. That same guy from the mess hall — Vance.
Mari felt her muscles coil.
He stepped away from the group, heading toward the far cliff edge, muttering something under his breath as he lit another cigarette. His hand dipped to scratch his side, and his radio-snail clipped to his belt buzzed; he ignored it.
Mari’s fingers twitched toward her gear belt.
Now. This is it. Isolate him. Drag him into the treeline. Fast. Silent.
She shifted to rise.
And then a firm hand grabbed her arm from behind and yanked her back into the brush. She nearly spun around and lashed out, but stopped just short when her eyes locked onto Sabo’s blue ones. His face was inches from hers, the shadows sharpening the lines of his jaw, making his expression seem almost carved in stone.
“What the hell are you doing?” he hissed, voice low but clipped. “Were you seriously about to move on him? Alone?”
Mari yanked her arm free, glaring. “He was isolated. No backup. Perfect window.”
“It wasn’t clean,” Sabo snapped. “We don’t know if he’s wired. If he checks in. If someone else is tailing him. You want to blow the whole mission on a whim?”
She growled under her breath, spinning away from him to crouch near the ridge again. “We’ll lose him by tomorrow. He knows things, Sabo. I can feel it.”
Mari’s chest felt tight. It wasn’t just the lost opportunity — it was the pressure. Of getting everything right. Of not wasting time. Of proving herself, not just to him, but to the ghost of every lesson Oceana ever drilled into her. She’d handled risk before. She knew what she was doing. So why did it feel like he didn’t trust her?
“You can feel it?” His voice tightened. “That’s your justification now?”
Mari shot him a scathing look. “What else do you want? A signed confession from the guy before we make a move?”
“You need to think,” he said, voice rising slightly. “Not just act. This isn’t a tavern brawl or a smuggling scam in the South Blue. This is an active, organized syndicate network. One misstep and we’re both dead. And this whole op? Blown.”
He meant it. Every word. His voice cracked with the weight of it. She froze, not from fear, but from heat. The frustration in her chest was burning hotter than ever.
“What the hell do you want from me?” she snapped, voice low and sharp. “You want me to be confident but not reckless. Skilled but not decisive. You tell me this is my mission, that I lead — but the second I decide to act, you pull me back.”
It wasn’t just aggravation. It was confusion. Sabo had been the one pushing her to take point, to learn, to lead. But now, when it mattered, he kept yanking the reins back like she couldn’t be trusted to steer. What was the point of any of it if he wouldn’t let go?
Sabo’s expression shuttered, hardening. “Because I’ve been doing this longer. Because if you’re wrong, people could die. You could die.”
Her jaw clenched. She looked away. And there it was — that same quiet fear again. Under all his rules and planning, there was always this tension in him. Like he was waiting for the worst to happen. Like he thought it would. Mari’s mouth pressed into a line. She didn’t get it. You couldn’t fight like that, like you were already bracing to lose.
She turned back toward him, low and sharp. “If you live your whole life afraid of anything that could get people killed, then what’s the point of it? Indecision gets people killed too.”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he exhaled through his nose, sharp and silent, like he was biting back something worse. He didn’t argue. Didn’t defend himself. But the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease. If anything, it deepened. In his mind, the image of her limp body flashed behind his eyes — a nightmare, a memory-that-wasn’t. Blood in the water. The scent of burning oil. The feeling of being too late.
“Tomorrow,” he said tightly. “We observe again. We confirm his route, his habits. Then we plan extraction.”
Mari didn’t respond for a long time. Her pulse pounded. Her fingers dug into the soft earth beside her boot. She hated how raw the anger in her throat felt — not just anger at him, but at herself. Because he wasn’t entirely wrong. She hated that he had to be the one to say it.
Finally, she nodded once, clipped. “Fine.”
Sabo lingered a second longer. Then he moved past her, heading back toward their trail through the trees, steps careful and quiet. Mari followed a few paces behind, eyes locked on the dark path ahead. They didn’t speak again for the rest of the hike.
Back at the cove, the night was colder than usual. Wind whipped off the waves and sent brine curling through the rocky inlet. Their little docked boat creaked against its ropes. Mari sat on one of the driftwood stumps near the edge, hunched forward, elbows on her knees. Her hands were still dusted with earth. Her hair clung to her face with sweat and salt. She hadn’t taken off her gear yet. Couldn’t bring herself to. Her body felt stuck in that moment — the rush of adrenaline, the ache of restraint.
Sabo stood a few feet back, arms crossed, posture still tight. He hadn’t relaxed either. The silence stretched between them. Too loud. Too brittle.
Mari ran a hand down her face, then glanced over.
“What if we miss our shot?” she asked, voice low. “What if waiting means someone else takes him off rotation or—?”
“We don’t take half-chances,” Sabo said. “We wait. We confirm. Then we strike.”
Her jaw ticked.
“I know,” she muttered. “I just— I don’t want to blow this.”
Sabo looked at her, and something in his gaze softened, just barely. “Neither do I.”
Another beat of silence.
Mari finally stood. “Tomorrow, then.”
He nodded and that was it. She turned and made her way up the trail, disappearing into the trees, leaving Sabo alone with the wind and the waves and the bitter taste of everything unspoken. He stayed on the shore long after she left. The wind tugged at his coat. The stars blinked faintly overhead. He kept picturing her stepping out into the open, walking into a trap. Getting hurt. Getting lost.
Too much like Ace, a voice in his head whispered. Brave. Brilliant. Impulsive. Fire in her blood.
He clenched his jaw, fists curling at his sides. She scared him. Not only because she was reckless — but because the possibility of losing her would mean failing again. And he wasn’t sure he could take that. He let the wind bite through his gloves, face tilted toward the stars.
“… You better make it, Mari,” he muttered.
Then he turned, and disappeared into the trees.
Mari didn’t sleep that night. She paced the small clearing near her makeshift camp for a long time. The fire burned low, casting jittery shadows against the tree trunks. Her gear was piled beside her, untouched.
She kept thinking about the tunnel. The guard. The moment. About the way Sabo had looked at her: equal parts furious and afraid. She hated how much it shook her. She didn’t even know why it bothered her so much. But his voice when he grabbed her — that panic barely buried under all the calm — it had clawed into her chest and refused to let go. She sat eventually, dragging her knees up to her chest, arms wrapped around them.
“… Maybe I’m not cut out for this,” she whispered to the night. “Maybe I’m too much like Oceana said. Too fast. Too loud.”
She rested her head against her knees. But even now, with her doubt thick and gnawing, the thought of backing down curdled her stomach.
No. She had to see this through. If only to prove them both wrong.