– Ross –

Ross' first impression of his opponent was that he was round. To think about, Satori had been round as well, but at least the former priest had possessed a clearly definable head sitting atop his corpulent body. Ross' current opponent did not, the man having a small, rounded bump instead within which his facial structures were set. If one counted Vice Admiral Jack, that made for three fights the Bellamy Pirates had been involved in with spherical opponents.

Once was chance, twice was coincidence. Three times was enemy action, though for the life of him Ross couldn't see what anyone would gain by setting them up against tough enemies of this particular physique. Perhaps the world was out to get them by gaslighting them via familiarity into thinking that such body shapes were healthy and normal amongst the elite? A plot to get them all to overeat and defeat themselves via diabetes and cardiovascular complications?

...what sort of disturbed mind could even come up with a sinister ploy like this?

"You monsters!" Ross gasped out in horror, pointing an accusing finger at the round man who had the audacity to look hurt. "You people are villainous degenerates!"

"Chapapa, that's so mean!" Fukurou exclaimed, pointing his own finger at Ross just as accusingly. "Take it back, chapapa!"

"No, I won't!" Ross refused.

"Yes, you will!" Fukurou insisted.

"No, I won't!"

"Yes, you will!"

"Will not!"

"Will too!"

"Will not!"

"Will too!"

"…"

"…"

Having expended all the air in their respective lungs, both Fukurou and Ross fell silent simultaneously, huffing and puffing from the verbal exertion, yet glaring at each other with unchanged intensity.

"Huff…huff…I think I know why, but just to make sure… pant…why do you want me to take it back?"

"Chapapa, because it's…huff…simply not true. It's slander, chapapa!" Fukurou panted in response.

"So, you're not planning on inflicting severe and irreversible harm on our health and well-being via insidious means?"

"Well, we are…"

"Aha, a confession!" Ross triumphantly exclaimed, though Fukurou ignored it to keep talking.

"…but I wouldn't exactly call it insidious per say, chapapa. We're master assassins. It's what we're supposed to do." Fukurou explained, making Ross' eyes widen even further.

"…"

"Plus, we weren't exactly hiding what we were doing either, chapapa."

"It was that obvious?!?!" Ross shrieked, clasping his cheeks in horror. What the heck? How was he just seeing this now?

"What did you think we were going to do to you?" Fukurou asked, tilting his head, and ergo his entire body, to the side. It was a comical sight, but laughing was the last thing Ross felt like doing at this point.

"Well, definitely not this!"

"You're a pretty weird guy, chapapa."

"I'm weird? Look who's talking!"

"You keep insulting me. How impertinent!" Fukurou snarled. "You're starting to make me angry, chapapa!"

"Why are you getting angry? If anybody should be upset it's me, you round menace!"

"How dare you call me fat! Soru!" And just like that, the situation escalated from a heated argument into a heated fight, like it had always been meant to be. "Iron Ball!"

"You even fight the same as the last guy!" Throwing himself out of the way of the giant bowling ball, Ross allowed himself to feel vindicated for a moment before his mind began to wander down memory lane…

Out of everyone on the crew, Ross was perhaps the one who most embodied the phrase 'jack of all trades, master of none'. He was decently sneaky thanks to his heritage, decent with a gun and decently powerful, even if he was by no means a heavy hitter of the likes of his captain or even Lily.

"Super heavy shigan speed punch: Jugon!"

To be honest, this was his own fault. Whereas others had decided to dedicate themselves more or less into further developing their strengths, Ross had gone his own way, determined to iron out any deficiencies which others could exploit before doing anything else. Ross had been certain that it was a sound strategical decision back when they had first set sail. After all, one had to first learn how to stay alive before thinking about winning fights and gaining glory.

"Jugon! Jugon! Stand still! Jugon!"

And for their entire stint in the Blues, this approach had worked wonderfully, cementing Ross' position as one of the top combatants on the crew. He'd been Ross, the man with no weaknesses. Unfortunately, things had started unravelling once they entered the Grand Line, an ocean from which common sense had fled eons ago, and Ross had increasingly found himself in the unenviable position of having half a dozen skills under his belt but none he could use to win a fight. Something, which had done his paranoia no favors. What use was it if one had shored up one's weak points to the global average, if being average was the greatest weakness in of itself?

"Jugo…"

"Impact!"

Here, one needed to be superhuman to counter another superhuman, and Ross knew very well that he wasn't one. Which, coincidentally, was also why he had been so captivated by dial warfare, seeing in it a way to set him apart from the rest and bridge the ever widening gap. But even then, there simply had been no way a relative amateur like Ross could compete with someone with a decade of experience like Laki.

He had spent many sleepless nights pondering this quandary he'd created for himself, trying in vain to find an easy fix he knew did not exist. Should he work on his marksmanship? Use his canvas like that one Paulie guy used his ropes? Master the rokushiki? The new dials? Or should he continue as he had been doing and try and master everything at once? He was already training harder than almost anybody else in his own opinion. How much more effort would be needed if he went with the latter option? Would it even be physically possible?

Then one day, he'd had an epiphany.

"Geppou."

"Hey, come down from there! You can't use geppou! Chapapa!"

Why shouldn't it be possible? Like he'd noted earlier, common sense didn't apply on the Grand Line. There was no need to give up on anything. Why be bound by the outdated notions of what was possible and what was not, notions which had accompanied him since birth? He was already performing feats of physical prowess that the old men back home only knew from old legends and folktales.

All he needed was the earnest desire to succeed and the rest would follow. There was no need to question anything, no need to worry about the perfect plan. He just needed…to do it.

Just.

Do it.

Simple as that. What was the saying, 'where there's a will there's a way'?

Kicking off the air, Ross entered into a steep descent and reaching terminal velocity in an instant, essentially flinging himself like a rocket at his surprised foe.

"Jet Punch."

"Chapapa, wait! Tekkai!"

Naturally, when Ross buried his fist deep in Fukurou's gut despite the latter's tekkai, it resulted in the expulsion of a vast quantity of air from the rotund agent's interior, forcing his mouth wide open.

"Gaakh…a doriki of 999…"

From there, it was but the work of a moment to toss a gas-filled breath dial into the open cavity and zip it shut, Ross clamping his legs around Fukurou's barely existent neck and holding on tight. The agent's panicked attempts to unzip himself and spit out the offending shell were foiled by Ross' iron-clad grip on the zipper, the sailmaker's own tekkai making him resistant to any and all attempts to ply him off his victim.

Then with a soft hiss the dial activated, purple smoke pouring out of the small holes in Fukurou's head. Ross rode the big guy all the way down to the ground, only letting go once he began foaming from the mouth. But he wasn't done yet. Ross had seen too many movies where the hero thought the battle over, only for the villain to get back up and deck him from behind while the hero's guard was down. That wasn't going to happen to him, no sir. Ross was going to make sure the enemy was down and stayed down. He was paranoid like that.

Funny thing about paranoia. It motivated a man like nothing else.

And when a man was sufficiently motivated? Well, sometimes they surprised even themselves.

"Jet Punch: Armament!"

----------------------------------------

– Hewitt –

If Hewitt was being honest to himself, things weren't going that well, but he supposed it was to be expected when fighting against someone who had managed to survive Aisa's bombardment. Sure, it hadn't been unscathed and the woman was singed and her hair frizzled, but the woman had weathered a storm Hewitt wouldn't have been able to in a hundred years. So he had ignored the irony of the slightly charred lady preaching about her beauty and perfect skin, and focused on defeating her.

Still, when he had first tagged in for an exhausted Aisa, the woman had been a little sluggish. In combination with her flabbergasted state she'd been in when Hewitt had guessed her devil fruit power (he was a cook. He recognized soap bubbles when he saw them), it had allowed Hewitt to surprise her with a quick rankyaku: kitchen knife version. After that, the woman had covered herself in bubbles again and simply refused to come out of her soapy shell.

"Aren't you going to come out?"

"Why should I? So that your little monster can throw lightning at me again?" the bubbles scoffed with an anxious undercurrent. "Once was enough, thank you very much."

Things had started going downhill from there as Hewitt very quickly found out that he did not want to touch her soapy suds. Her Relaxing Bubbles were terrifying enough, requiring only the smallest touch to wash his strength away, but the true horror lay in the ability she lovingly called Golden Bubbles, which she had demonstrated on a hapless guard. The silver lining had been that it seemed relatively simple to counter, requiring only contact to water of which there was plenty to go around. After all, he just had to melt the snow with his flame dials.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

Unfortunately, the icy temperatures ensured that the newly formed puddles didn't stay fluid, freezing the water solid within seconds. While he'd love to be able to declare that no cook feared soap, reality simply wasn't as idealistic. To be honest, Hewitt was certain that should he be turned into a silky, soaped up doll like the guard had been, the woman wouldn't be giving him the opportunity to use his flame dials again.

Thankfully, Hewitt had been able to stalemate the woman until now, his supply of vinegar eating away at her soap by reducing it down to its base components. However, unlike his own limited stockpile, the woman's ability to produce bubbles seemed virtually endless and sooner or later he would run out of ways to bypass her bubble barrier. It was at times like this that Hewitt regretted not accepting one of those devil fruits. A bit more firepower would have been very useful about now.

Physical means hadn't worked so far, that giant bar of soap being nearly impervious to anything in Hewitt's arsenal and as mentioned, he didn't have that much vinegar left.

Then a thought struck him.

It was stupid…but he may just have an idea.

Now, Hewitt wasn't quite sure why he chose to battle the bubble monster, though if he had to narrow it down, he would guess it was due to familiarity. From the moment on that soap had been invented, it had been the right of passage for every junior chef to do his stint as the kitchen's dishwasher. You bathed in it, you lived in it…it got up your nose if you weren't careful and sadly, being careful was almost never an option when the restaurant was fully packed with hungry customers. Even now Hewitt could hear the voice of his old sous-chef screaming for his newly cleaned plates.

So yes, Hewitt was very familiar with soap and bubbles in all its forms. Which was why he could infuse his voice with confidence and say the following with an air of authoritative certainty.

"You really need to get a better brand. The quality of soap you're using is deplorable."

In response, the bubble monster reared back as if struck, forming into the rough shape of a human female.

"W-what? How insolent! I'll have you know that this is a luxury brand worth…"

"If I'm not mistaken, the soap you're using to form those bubbles is Saint's Delight, which to be fair, is a historically famous brand. One that has at one time or another been used by a world noble, so you can be forgiven for being mistaken." Hewitt explained to the pile of bubbles. "Sadly, you didn't do your research that well but then again, it isn't a tale well known amongst the wider populace. About two hundred years ago, the company making that soap experimented with a new ingredient on the orders of a celestial dragon who absolutely needed his soap to smell like his favorite peppermint dog, a species which had been specially bred for him. Unfortunately for almost everyone involved, the world noble's wife had a cat who utterly loathed said dog."

"…but what does that have to do with…"

"I'm getting to that. So, when the world noble used his soap, the cat went into frenzy, and everyone suddenly started looking for someone to blame. Of course, you couldn't blame the cat, the lady would have been very displeased if anyone dared to insinuate that Sir Cuddles Cuddlington were even capable of such violence under normal circumstances. Obviously, the soap was an assassination attempt by the company."

"…as an assassin, I can assure you that we do not stoop to such means. That's just silly."

"At this point, the board of directors made a ruthless but effective decision. They sacrificed their entire research team, cutting them loose and offering them up on a silver platter to the world noble, along with the entire company in exchange for their lives. Surprisingly, the world noble accepted the tribute and as a result, the company changed owners literally overnight and the assassins were summarily executed by being fed their own soap."

"..."

"Now, here's the question. If the entire research team got killed for displeasing a world noble, the same man who now owned the company, which person in their right mind was going to work as a researcher there?"

"Very few, I'm guessing."

"Exactly zero. Nobody applied. What made matters even worse was that for security reasons, the company had never written their recipes down, passing it down via oral tradition from master to apprentice over the centuries. Now, they couldn't go bankrupt as their new president was going to kill them and they couldn't not supply the man with his special soap, so they did the only thing left for them to do. Corporate espionage."

"Corporate espionage?"

"Yep." Hewitt said, popping the 'p'. "They bought time by giving their entire stock, which by this point consisted entirely of dog-scented soap, to their president while they tried everything to steal a recipe from somewhere else. Any recipe. Unfortunately for them, their rivals weren't stupid and had predicted that something like this may happen, which caused most of their efforts to end in utter failure. The only one they did manage to get their hands upon was from a company specializing in pet supplies, which they rebranded and placed the world noble's signature on. It was an instant hit."

"…"

"In fact, the world noble was so pleased that he declared this new soap to be the only product they were allowed to sell to the public. Not long after, he got bored of his new company and got a new dog. As a consequence, the company was forgotten by everybody in Mariejois, but as they never received permission to change their marketing strategy, they kept on going to this very day."

"Wait, you're not saying…"

"I'm saying that Saint's Delight is the same soap that was used to wash pets two centuries ago."

"That can't be true! There is no way they haven't changed it!" The bubbles gasped in disbelief, but Hewitt just shrugged.

"They never received permission to change the recipe either."

"…"

"…"

"Ieeeek!" With a scream of pure horror and disgust the bubble sheep exploded, sending its constituent bubbles flying everywhere and leaving only a panting female figure behind. Incidentally and also more crucially, it blocked her sight of Hewitt…at least long enough that by the time she looked up, he was already thrusting his knifes down at her unguarded neck.

"Impact knife!"

"Kami-e!"

Across the snowy streets and through demolished homes they duelled, Hewitt's knives repeatedly clashing against her hands, his legs against hers. Hewitt would aim for her tendons, she would try to gouge out his eyes. And throughout it all, neither landed a single decisive blow, both using their paper arts to great effect in their deadly dance. To most onlookers, they would have been evenly matched.

Yet, when they separated, it was unmistakable who had gained the upper hand, with Kalifa smirking at Hewitt, who gnashed his teeth in frustration. The longer they fought, the more obvious the difference in experience was making itself known. Her blocks were cleaner, her blows sharper, her dodges were precise in a way Hewitt simply couldn't match.

Not only that, but she also reacted extraordinarily quickly to Hewitt's moves for it to be normal. Extraordinary in a particular manner that Hewitt had gotten very familiar with in the last months, which meant he had no trouble recognizing it here.

"Haki!"

"That's right. It's a power I gained to get revenge on that ugly orange-haired bitch, but testing it against you first is a satisfactory start." Well, horse crap. "I do admit it takes some getting used to, but you've been a wonderful training dummy."

Light dials flashed, drowning the world in white light with sound dials crushing all sounds beneath the cries of a wailing siren. A quick soru carried Hewitt forward, his knives sailing for Kalifa's covered eyes even as his newly drawn carving forks plunged into her boots, only for the prongs to bend against her iron skin.

"Too late!" The cleaver Hewitt interposed between her kick and his neck saved his life, the sturdy steel holding up against her rankyaku, but not able to stop the kick sending the cook rolling on the icy floor. "You should have done that before I mastered this power."

Then the pain registered. The cause wasn't that difficult to find, Hewitt only having to look slightly down to see Kalifa's finger buried into his gut. When had that happened?

His retaliatory swings were easily blocked, and Hewitt received another three holes in his chest for his troubles, her long manicured nails finding purchase between his ribs.

When was the last time he'd really been wounded? He couldn't remember and Hewitt found that his body didn't know how to respond either. Even on Skypiea he had gotten off more or less Scott free and ever since then he had never truly been in danger.

It hurt. His mind numbly noted as Kalifa stabbed him another half a dozen times before allowing Hewitt to slowly sink down unto his knees. Should a small hole bleed that much?

"You're a pathetic excuse for a man." Kalifa declared, holding his head by the hair and forcing him to look up at her.

Pathetic?

"Look at how easily I beat you, even without my devil fruit. Even that child was a greater challenge than you." she mocked, lightly slapping him across the face and pushing him unto his back.

The stones felt cold, sapping his strength. But he refused throw in the towel just yet. There was still something he could do. Something he must do…create an opening.

Aisa was special…unlike him.

"At least take heart that you were killed by the most beautiful woman you'll ever see."

She's also smart. She won't miss.

"I r-really…" …should tell you…

"Hmmm? What was that?"

"The…s-story…"

"I suppose I should thank you for that. This way I can focus on changing what soap I create instead of using…that." Kalifa spat out in distaste. "So, I'll do you the favor of letting you utter your last words."

"I lied."

"What?!?" Kalifa screamed out, her face contorting in all sorts of grotesque ways. And with her worldview having been shattered for the second time in ten minutes, Kalifa froze as her brain tried to recalibrate itself.

"El Thor!" Zzzzzaaaaappp!!!

As a consequence, she completely failed to react to Aisa reducing her to a charred wreck.

"...how…i-insolent…" Beaten and burned, the agent collapsed face first into the melted ice right next to Hewitt, who could finally relax.

Aisa really deserved a cookie. Though maybe after a little nap.

"Hewitt! Don't die!"

Now if only he could figure out why the air tasted so bitter...