"ANOTHER ROUND!" Varin bellowed, his voice carrying above the hum of drunken chatter and the clatter of mugs, his fist coming down hard enough on the rickety wooden table to rattle the half-empty glasses already there. The locals didn't so much as flinch—the bartender, a wide-shouldered man with a beard that looked like a cactus had grown on his face, only grinned and obliged, slamming down another bottle in front of him with the easy cheer of a man who had seen this spectacle a hundred times before.
Turns out Whiskey Peaks was aptly named. The "cacti" that stretched up like jagged towers of stone from the island's surface weren't just barren rock formations—they were vast, hardened husks filled with naturally fermenting liquor, a miracle of geography that Varin couldn't decide was divine blessing or a cruel trick of the gods. Either way, the result was the same: the entire island ran on whiskey. Whiskey to drink, whiskey to cook with, whiskey to trade, whiskey to toast strangers who'd wandered ashore.
And pirates—well, pirates were welcomed with open arms. At least, that's what the smiles and free-flowing bottles wanted them to believe.
The streets of the little village were alive with music, fiddles and drums keeping time with the rowdy steps of locals who danced without shame. Torches burned high in sconces hammered into the rock, casting the whole place in a golden haze. Every street corner had another barrel cracked open, another hand offering a cup, another cheer at the sight of new faces. Luffy had vanished almost immediately, drawn to the scent of roasting meat and laughter, dragging Usopp with him. Sanji, of course, was orbiting the nearest crowd of women, pouring compliments and drinks with equal fervor. Zoro had found himself dragged into a drinking contest by the first man bold enough to challenge him, and judging by the pile of unconscious villagers already face-down in the dirt, he was winning without even trying.
But Varin—Varin thrived in it. The burn of the whiskey rolling down his throat, the echoing cheer of men who slapped his back like an old friend, the way his mug was never empty—it was a setting that fit him like an old cloak. He had planted himself at the heart of the tavern, a towering figure among mortals, daring them all to keep up with him. And for every empty bottle that hit the table, another came to replace it, and another after that.
Yet, beneath the revelry, there was something… off. It wasn't just the too-perfect hospitality, or the way the villagers never once frowned, not even when Zoro dropped another challenger with a casual belch. It wasn't even the way they spoke of pirates as if they were honored guests, rather than cutthroats and thieves. No—the unease came from their eyes.
They watched. Always watched. Even when they laughed, even when they danced, even when they poured another cup and cheered with wild abandon. Their gazes lingered just a fraction too long. Their smiles strained at the edges, stretched just thin enough to see the bone beneath.
Varin noticed it. He always noticed. Between gulps and roars for another round, his gaze flicked across the room, catching the sidelong glances, the quick whispers, the way a group of villagers huddled too close in the corner before dispersing the moment someone looked their way.
And he smirked into his drink. "Aye," he muttered under his breath, the whiskey searing his throat with a warmth that felt like fire. "Welcome us all you like. But I've seen honey laid on a trap before."
He tipped the bottle again, foam spilling over the lip of his mug as he drank deep, slamming it down once more with enough force to silence the nearest tables. "Another!" he roared again, his grin sharp and wolfish. The villagers laughed, the music swelled louder, and the night rolled on—too smooth, too sweet, like whiskey hiding the poison just beneath the taste.
The night carried on like a fever dream, a haze of smoke, laughter, and whiskey. The tavern's beams groaned under the weight of bodies pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, every villager and pirate tangled up in a riot of celebration. The band struck harder now, fiddles screaming with drunken joy, drums pounding like cannon fire. Tankards clashed together, spilling amber liquid across the scarred wood of tables, and the torchlight seemed to burn brighter with every roar of "cheers!" that rattled the walls.
Varin had anchored himself at the center of it all, a mountain with bottles at his feet, his voice booming above the din. He was already deep into the drink, but if it touched him at all, he didn't show it. His posture was steady, his words clear, his grin sharp. For every empty bottle, there was another full one waiting, and he downed them like water—no hesitation, no falter.
Inevitably, some poor bastard thought himself bold enough to try his luck.
The man was thick-necked, red-cheeked, with the kind of bravado only whiskey could buy. He shoved his way through the crowd, staggering just enough to earn a few laughs, and slapped both hands down on Varin's table, leaning in with a grin missing more teeth than it had.
"You think you can outdrink Whiskey Pete?" he barked, chest puffed like a rooster. "No man's done it and stood upright after!"
The crowd roared, some chanting Pete's name, others slapping the tables and howling for blood—or at least vomit. A circle began to form, the villagers eager to see another spectacle unfold.
Varin didn't even rise from his seat. He tilted his head, eyeing the man with something between amusement and pity, before lifting his latest bottle and taking a slow, long pull, never once breaking eye contact. The whiskey rolled down his throat in a steady stream, and when the bottle came down—empty—it hit the table with a deep thud.
"Another," Varin said calmly, not to Pete but to the bartender. "Two this time."
The crowd whooped, stamping their feet and slamming mugs, the excitement mounting like a storm. Pete grinned wider, taking the bait, puffing out his chest. The bartender arrived with two fresh bottles, slamming them down between the men with a flourish.
"First to finish," Pete growled, gripping his bottle like a weapon. "Loser's belly will know the dirt tonight."
"Belly'll know worse if you keep flappin' your mouth instead of drinkin'," Varin shot back, his smirk sharp enough to cut.
The signal was given, and they raised their bottles.
Pete chugged hard, head tipped back, whiskey spilling down his chin. His throat worked furiously, gulp after gulp, as the crowd shouted his name. But his bottle drained slower than his pride wanted to admit. Already his face flushed deeper, the fire in his gut warring with his resolve.
Varin? Varin didn't so much as flinch. He drank in long, steady pulls, the bottle vanishing at a frightening pace. He might as well have been drinking rainwater for how it showed on him. By the time Pete had managed half, Varin's bottle hit the table—empty again.
The tavern erupted. Cheers, laughter, even a few stunned curses filled the air. Pete staggered, wide-eyed, staring at the bottle in Varin's hand as if it had betrayed him.
But Varin wasn't done. He reached for Pete's still-half-full bottle, plucked it right from his hand, and finished the rest in one effortless swig. The second thud of glass hitting wood was drowned in the roar of the crowd.
Pete swayed, blinked, and then crumpled like a sack of flour, collapsing onto the floor in a heap. The villagers howled with laughter, dragging him away by the ankles. Someone shouted for another challenger, others begged the bartender for more bottles, and a chant of "Var-in! Var-in! Var-in!" rose up, stomping and clapping in rhythm.
Varin leaned back in his chair, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the fire of the liquor burning steady in his gut. He raised the empty bottle high like a trophy, grinning wolfishly at the crowd.
"Who's next?" he roared.
The tavern nearly shook with the noise that followed.
The chaos rolled on for what felt like hours, and maybe it had been—Varin had long stopped keeping count of time. Every round blurred into the next, each bottle slammed louder than the last, each cheer from the villagers a thunderclap in his ears. He'd faced down three more challengers after Pete, one of them collapsing mid-gulp, another vomiting spectacularly into his own lap, and the last one falling asleep standing up before he even touched his bottle. The tavern was his battlefield, and the pile of empty glass at his boots was the graveyard of every fool who'd dared to step forward.
But the edge of invincibility had dulled.
Varin leaned back heavily in his chair, his shoulders slack for the first time that night. The fire in his gut had spread into his veins, warm and heavy, a tide threatening to drag him under. His head buzzed, not with the confusion of weakness, but with the weight of too much fuel shoved into the furnace. His grin was still there—sharp, proud—but it sagged at the edges, tired now.
The villagers were winding down too. The fiddler's bow slipped on strings, the drumbeats had slowed into lazy thumps, and most of the crowd had melted away into corners to sleep off their own indulgences. Snoring echoed louder than laughter now, the night turning quiet save for the occasional clatter of a tankard hitting the floor.
Varin blinked, scanning the room with the sharpness of a soldier, though dulled at the corners. The crew was scattered across the floor, table benches, even a hammock strung up between posts. Usopp lay on his back, mouth open wide enough to catch flies, snoring with his hands still wrapped around a mug. Sanji had slumped over the bar, a half-smoked cigarette gone cold between his lips. Even Luffy, who could drink a river dry and still look for meat after, was sprawled over three chairs, hat tilted forward to hide his face.
But Varin knew better.
He lingered on the far end of the tavern. Zoro sat against a post, head tilted forward, breathing steady—but his hand rested just a little too casually on the hilt of his sword. Nami lay stretched on her side near the door, one arm tucked under her head, hair spilling across her face. She looked peaceful, but her chest rose and fell with the deliberate rhythm of someone pretending to be asleep.
Varin snorted softly, almost a laugh. "Aye…cowards. Think I don't see it…" His words were slurred, but the meaning was sharp.
His head sagged into his hand, elbow on the table. The whiskey haze pressed in tighter, vision swimming for a moment before steadying. He forced a long, slow breath through his nose, blinking away the fog. They were sharp still, his crewmates—sharper than they let on. He respected that, even as the weight of exhaustion dragged at his body.
The last bottle at his table was still half full. He reached for it out of habit, lifted it halfway to his lips, then stopped. His eyes slid back to the sleeping—no, watching—pair.
With a dry chuckle, he set the bottle back down. "Guess the night's yours."
And for the first time since stepping into Whiskey Peak, Varin leaned back, let the noise fade to nothing, and allowed the warmth of the liquor to finally take him.
Varin didn't so much fall asleep as he simply… drifted. His mind fogged, not unconscious, not aware, just somewhere in between—adrift like a ship without a rudder. He remembered staring at the half-empty bottle, remembered the way the fire crackled low in the hearth, remembered the faint shuffle of Nami "turning in her sleep" and Zoro's sword faintly scraping wood as he shifted. Then—nothing. A soft blank.
When sound returned, it came sharp and sudden.
A scream tore through the night outside, high and panicked, cut off quick by a metallic clash. Then another. Then several more in a storm of ringing steel. The tavern air shifted—uneasy murmurs, quickened footsteps, shadows darting past the thin curtains over the windows.
Varin blinked blearily, dragged back into himself by the din. His body felt like stone, but instinct pulled him up, slow and stubborn. He shoved the chair back, boots scuffing against the floor, and staggered toward the door. His hand brushed the hilt of his weapon out of habit, but he didn't draw—didn't need to.
The night air slapped him cold, but the scene that met him burned hotter than the whiskey ever could.
Zoro stood alone in the square, swords already drawn, posture loose as if he were stretching after a long nap rather than standing amidst a storm. Around him lay a scattering of bodies—villagers who, minutes ago, had been pouring drinks and singing songs, now clutching blades, clubs, or rifles. Most were groaning on the ground, disarmed, bloodied but breathing. A few still stood, circling warily, hesitating to rush a man who looked as though he was enjoying himself.
And he was. Zoro's grin stretched feral in the torchlight, eyes gleaming under the shadow of his bandana. He didn't even look tired—if anything, he looked annoyed.
"You throw a party, get us drunk, then try to slit our throats while we sleep? Pathetic," Zoro barked, deflecting two blades at once with a lazy twist of his wrists. His counter came just as casual—one sweep, one lunge—and two more would-be assassins were hurled into the dirt.
Varin leaned against the tavern doorframe, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He let out a long breath through his nose, half sigh, half chuckle. The fog of drink was still there, but his mind had sharpened in spite of it, pulling threads together. He didn't have to intervene. Not yet. Zoro was carving through them like a butcher through lamb.
Another brave soul charged with a rifle bayonet, only for Zoro to sidestep, slam a hilt into his stomach, then smack him across the jaw with the flat of his blade. The poor bastard crumpled, groaning.
Varin shook his head faintly. "Aye, lad's got it handled," he muttered under his breath, voice low enough only he could hear. His lips twitched into the faintest smirk. "And here I thought I'd have to get up and earn my keep…"
He stayed there, watching, silent sentinel in the shadows, while Zoro cut through the masquerade of Whiskey Peak with steel and disdain.
The street was littered with bodies. The air reeked of sweat and gunpowder, faint wisps of smoke curling from shattered torches. Varin leaned in the doorway, still half-shaded by the tavern's dim light, watching the swordsman work. Each strike was precise, economical—Zoro wasted nothing. The last thug fell with a scream, collapsing in a heap at Zoro's feet.
Only then did the silence break.
A slow, deliberate clap echoed across the square. Three figures stepped forward from the sidelines, where they'd been standing the whole time—watching, waiting. Mister 9 twirled those bats of his with exaggerated flair, Miss Wednesday adjusted her hair with a smug little smirk, and at the center strode Mister 8, revolvers gleaming under the torchlight.
"Well done, swordsman," Mister 8 said, his tone oily, patronizing. "A fine warm-up. But I'm afraid playtime's over." He spread his arms as if presenting himself to the whole damned island. "I am Mister 8 and since you know who we are, and since whoever triedto scout revealed quite a bit of our innerworkings—Your rampage ends here unfortunately."
Varin's lips quirked at that. He'd seen it coming. "Sneaky bastards," he muttered under his breath, though there was a hint of amusement in it.
Zoro's gaze slid over the three newcomers, unbothered, his blades still dripping with the fight that had just ended. "If you wanted a turn," he said evenly, "you should've stepped in sooner."
Mister 9 slammed the bat down onto the cobblestones with a theatrical thunk. "Don't get cocky! You're facing elite agents now!"
Miss Wednesday spun sharp jewels around a wire. blades catching the torchlight in wicked arcs. "You'll regret raising your sword against us."
Mister 8 raised…..a trumpet? Its golden barrel glinting. "This is where your story ends."
Varin tilted his head, pushing off the doorframe just slightly. His eyes narrowed, not out of worry, but interest. Zoro hadn't even broken a sweat yet, and now the real show was starting.
"Elite agents, huh?" Varin muttered with a low chuckle, voice just loud enough to carry. "Guess we'll see if that title means a damn thing."
And then the street erupted again—gunfire cracking, steel singing, Zoro already moving like a storm through the three of them.
It was over before it even began. For all their posturing, the so-called "elite agents" crumbled under Zoro's blades. Mister 9 was sent tumbling through a wall, Miss Wednesday nearly skewered by the flat of a sword rather than its edge, and Mister 8—the one who carried himself like a commander—ended up spitting out blood and teeth on the cobblestones before he could finish his second pompous sentence.
But just when Varin thought it was wrapped up, they'd pulled the most pitiful stunt of all.
Luffy, bloated like an overfed toad from scarfing down an entire stockpile of food, was dragged forward as their last resort. Mister 9 tried to bark threats, Miss Wednesday shrieked about hostages, Mister 8 waved his trumpet as though that'd somehow tip the scales.
And it still fell apart instantly.
Luffy blinked, tilted his head, and promptly fell asleep, his snoring so thunderous it drowned out their attempts to bargain. Zoro didn't even hesitate—he cut the trumpet in half, knocked Mister 9 on his ass again, and sent Miss Wednesday screeching back behind her duck like a coward.
Varin couldn't help it. A laugh rumbled out of his chest, deep and rolling, half-disbelieving at how utterly incompetent this bunch turned out to be. "Elites," he muttered, shaking his head. "Odin save us if this is the best they've got."
That's when he felt it. A pair of eyes on him—not Zoro's, though the swordsman had met his gaze once during a particularly sharp twist, an acknowledgment without words that Varin was there. No, this was different.
It was the duck.
That massive, human-sized beast of feathers and muscle, standing loyally at Miss Wednesday's side, its head cocked ever so slightly. The moment she whistled for it, its gaze snapped toward Varin like a blade. Not curious. Not cautious. Fearful.
Pure, unbridled fear.
Its pupils shrank to pinpricks, wings twitching as if it were caught between flight and collapse. The thing's body quivered, and Varin, for the first time that evening, didn't laugh. He just straightened slightly from his lean against the doorframe, one brow raising.
"Eh? What's the matter, bird?" he murmured low, voice carrying just enough for it to catch in the lull between clashes.
The duck's terror only deepened, and Miss Wednesday, oblivious, barked some command at it to prepare for retreat.
And Varin couldn't shake the thought—whatever that bird had seen in him, it was something deeper than what the humans noticed.
Something instinctual.
And then it hit him—clumsy and blurred through the haze of drink, but no less true for it.
The duck wasn't reacting to the brawl, or to Zoro's blades, or to the absurd hostage situation. No, its terror was fixed squarely on him.
For all intents and purposes, Varin was a predator. Not the kind of man who made his way through life by cunning words or bluster, but a thing that lived in the marrow of nature's laws—the end of the food chain made flesh. And this beast, with whatever instincts it relied on, recognized that. It feared him not because of what he did, but because of what he was.
And in his alcohol-addled mind, that was almost funny. Almost. But not enough for him to care.
He was about to turn away, letting Zoro finish carving through the last of the "elites," when the air shifted. Footsteps—measured, unhurried, with none of the frantic energy of the beaten trio. Two figures emerged from the shadow of the cacti-turned-buildings, stepping into the flickering lamplight of Whiskey Peak's quieted streets.
Two new figures strode into the wreckage of the square, steps unhurried, cutting through the moans of the beaten townsfolk and the slosh of water against the docks. They didn't carry themselves like panicked underlings or half-wit fodder—no, these two moved like people who knew exactly how much weight they carried.
Varin squinted through the haze, trying to steady his vision. The man was tall, a slouching swagger in his walk, hands jammed into his pockets like he had nowhere particular to be. The faint smell of sulfur clung to him, gunpowder trailing his very presence. Beside him, the woman was almost mocking in her brightness, parasol twirling in her hand, blonde hair pinned up, smile just a little too sharp.
Zoro shifted, blades still in hand, eyes narrowing. He didn't recognize them, and neither did Varin.
But the other three did.
The relief on their faces was instant, almost laughably desperate. Miss Wednesday staggered upright, her voice breaking in both panic and elation. "Mister 5! Miss Valentine!"
Mister 9's laughter was ragged, bubbling out of him like a man who'd been drowning and finally saw land. "Finally! With you here, we can finish him—he's nothing against your power!" He pointed a trembling finger at Zoro, whose only response was a scoff.
Mister 8—still clutching his side from the swordsman's blows—managed a bloody grin. "The mission isn't lost yet. With you two, we can crush this intruder!"
The newcomers didn't return the enthusiasm. Mister 5 flicked his eyes over the mess of bodies, exhaled through his nose, and muttered, "Pathetic." Miss Valentine only laughed softly, her voice sing-song as she spun the parasol. "This little town lost to two men?"
The words cut sharper than any blade. Zoro tilted his head, faint amusement flickering in his eyes, but the others—Mister 8, Mister 9, Miss Wednesday—stiffened. Their relief shriveled into confusion, then panic. They hadn't even realized there were two men here. Zoro had been obvious, a walking storm of steel and disdain. But the second? Their eyes darted about, frantic, until realization failed to dawn.
Because none of them had seen Varin.
He leaned there still, half in shadow, shoulders heavy with alcohol but steady enough to catch every twitch in their faces. They didn't even know he was watching—hadn't noticed him since the fight began. Zoro had. The duck had. But the three agents? Oblivious.
Varin let a crooked smile tug at the corner of his mouth, the kind that said he was enjoying a private joke at their expense. He didn't move, didn't speak, just waited, the whiskey haze wrapping his thoughts but sharpening the predatory edge underneath.
The silence stretched. Mister 5's eyes narrowed. Miss Valentine cocked her head, the parasol stopping mid-spin. That was when Mister 9 cracked—voice rushed, desperate, trying to salvage what little face he had left.
"It—it wasn't all of us against two! Just the swordsman! He's the one who cut everyone down—he's the real captain!" His words tumbled out in a rush, hands raised as if that would soften the blow of their failure.
Miss Wednesday nodded furiously, her hair still frazzled from the beating. "It's true! The others—his crew—they're nothing! We never even saw another one in the fight! He's the threat, not us!"
Mister 8, more composed but no less cornered, chimed in, "You saw what he did. Alone. He has to be the captain. There's no one else—there can't be. The others are a front. Dead weight."
Varin's grin didn't falter. If anything, it stretched wider, teeth flashing faintly in the dim light. They didn't even know. They were so sure they'd mapped the battlefield, so certain of what they hadn't seen, that their fear made them rewrite the truth just to fit a story they could survive with.
Zoro, still resting his swords on his shoulders, caught the edge of Varin's expression from across the way. Their eyes met again, just for a flicker of a moment—Zoro's unreadable, Varin's laced with amusement—and the swordsman's lip twitched like he'd swallowed a laugh. He didn't correct them. He didn't need to.
Mister 5 snorted, clearly unconvinced by their flailing excuses. "The captain? That one-eyed drunk carrying three swords?" His tone dripped skepticism. "If he's all it takes to shatter this whole operation, then Baroque Works is worse off than I thought."
Miss Valentine smiled like a cat toying with cornered mice. "And if he's not the captain…" her voice sing-songed as she let the thought trail off, parasol clicking shut with a snap, "…then you three are bigger fools than I imagined."
Miss Valentine's smile never reached her eyes. She tilted her head, blonde curls bouncing as she lifted her parasol, voice lilting like a nursery rhyme with knives hidden underneath.
"Enough pleasantries. This little comedy of errors is starting to bore me."
Her words hung in the air like a guillotine blade just before the drop.
Mister 5 stepped forward, hands in his pockets, his whole frame radiating disinterest that made his presence even heavier. He gave the three a flat look—disdain dripping from every syllable.
"We're not here to help you," he said simply. No anger, no bluster. Just cold fact. "Your failures don't matter. What does matter—what brought us here—is that someone learned one of the Company's secrets."
He let the word hang—Company—like it was too big for the mouths of the three battered agents before him. Their spines stiffened at the weight of it, as though invoking Baroque Works' true structure was taboo even here, even among their own.
Mister 5's gaze swept across the wreckage, the unconscious villagers, Zoro still standing tall with his swords dangling from his shoulders. Then, without even looking at them, he continued:
"And that person… needs to be rid of. Boss's orders."
The last words were a nail hammered in with finality.
Miss Wednesday went pale. Her lips parted in a silent protest before she forced her voice out in a rush. "N-no, wait—you don't mean—" She gestured wildly toward Zoro. "It's him, isn't it?! He's the one you're talking about—he's too dangerous, he knows too much!"
Mister 9 latched onto it instantly, nodding furiously. "Yes! That's it! He must've seen or heard something—why else would you two be here?!"
Mister 8's jaw tightened, his composure cracking just enough to show fear. "If the Boss ordered this, then… then it's already decided."
But Mister 5 still hadn't confirmed. He just stood there, lazy, detached, watching the tension coil tighter with every breath.
Miss Valentine let out a soft giggle, her parasol twirling once more. "Oh, you poor dears," she sang, almost sweet, "still thinking you're safe just because you think you're useful."
Mister 5 finally moved, just a small shift of his weight, enough that his boots scraped against the stone. The sound cut the air like a blade. His expression didn't change, still that same blank calm, but when he spoke it carried the weight of judgment already passed.
"Royalty," he said, voice level, almost casual. "That's the problem. Some pampered noble brat thought it clever to worm their way into the Company. To hide behind masks and numbers." His hands stayed buried in his pockets, as though even lifting a finger would be a waste of effort. "The Boss doesn't like that."
The effect was immediate.
Miss Wednesday froze, her parasol clutched so tightly in white-knuckled hands that the fabric trembled. Her painted smile cracked, and for once, there was no performance in her eyes—just stark, naked fear.
Beside her, Mister 8's usual smug veneer shattered. His jaw went rigid, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard, but the sweat rolling down his temple betrayed him. He didn't dare look at her, and that silence was louder than any denial.
Varin noticed. Even through the haze of alcohol, his instincts cut through sharper than sobriety ever could. Predators knew the weak the way wolves smelled blood. Their fear wasn't for Baroque Works, nor the Boss's wrath—it was for themselves.
The drunk haze dulled the edges but didn't blind him. He leaned back slightly against the wall, eyes narrowing just enough to follow their every twitch. The pieces slotted together easily enough: Mister 5's words, their terror, the way they didn't even try to deflect suspicion elsewhere.
So that was it. The princess and her guard dogs, dressed in costumes too thin to fool anyone with sharp enough teeth.
Miss Valentine let out another giggle, twirling her parasol as she floated a step closer, her voice syrup-sweet but poisonous underneath. "My, my. What a shame. Pretending to be killers when you were just little birds hiding in a wolf's den." She tilted her head, blonde curls bouncing, and her smile sharpened. "Did you really think no one would notice? Princess Nefertari Vivi."
The air grew heavy, charged, as if the night itself leaned in to listen. Mister 9 finally noticed it too—the way his partner trembled, the way Mister 8 wouldn't meet his eyes—and his face twisted in confusion, then dawning horror.
Varin, crooked smile tugging at his mouth, thought to himself that this night was far more entertaining than any bottle of whiskey could provide.
"Suppose I should help a bit," Varin muttered, his words slurred and rolling into one another as he shoved himself off the doorway. His boots scuffed lazily against the stone as he staggered forward, the kind of unsteady gait that looked ready to collapse any second but somehow kept carrying him closer.
He squinted at the taller of the two newcomers—Mister 5, if the whiskey-soaked fragments of his memory could be trusted. Taller, yes, but still not quite reaching Varin's height. Didn't matter. To Varin's eyes, the man looked more like some lean bureaucrat playing at menace than a real threat.
He stopped just close enough to lean into Mister 5's space, the smell of liquor hanging off him like a second cloak. Then, with the kind of casual disrespect only a drunk could get away with, Varin tapped him on the shoulder. Not a punch, not a grab—just a tap.
"Oi," Varin slurred, his finger still lingering like he was reminding the man he'd been touched. "Before you do your… your thingy, mind if I move my captain out of the way?" He jerked a thumb toward the corner where Luffy lay bloated, cheeks puffed like a man who'd lost a fight to a bakery. "Hate to see him get… uh… exploded or squashed or whatever it is you do."
Mister 5 turned his head slowly, his sunglasses catching the firelight, and for a moment his face betrayed nothing. Then his lip twitched, the faintest ghost of amusement—or disdain, it was hard to tell.
"Are you sure that's your captain?" he asked flatly, glancing at Luffy's distended form. "Looks more like an oversized sack of potatoes. Or maybe some bald cactus someone dragged off the cliffs."
Miss Valentine giggled, hiding her grin behind her parasol. "Ohhh, he really does look like a cactus, doesn't he? Fat and round and useless."
The three other agents—Miss Wednesday, Mister 9, and Mister 8—watched the exchange in stunned, silent horror. To them, Mister 5 and Miss Valentine weren't just higher-ranked colleagues—they might as well have been gods. Untouchable. The kind of people you didn't speak to unless spoken to, the kind you groveled before and prayed wouldn't notice your flaws. And yet here was Varin, waltzing into their presence with all the casual indifference of a drunk stumbling into a tavern brawl, treating them not as executioners but as bickering patrons too full of themselves. It didn't make sense. It wasn't possible.
"So can I? He's dumber than a rock, but he's still my cap'n," Varin slurred, words sliding into each other until they barely held shape. His voice carried that rough edge of someone trying very hard to sound sober and failing spectacularly.
Truth was, just standing there and watching Zoro's "fight" had been enough for the alcohol to really settle in. He hadn't moved, hadn't really spoken, just leaned and stared, and all that whiskey he'd downed earlier had sunk deeper with every passing minute. Now it showed plain as day. His footing wasn't steady, his eyes a fraction too slow to follow, his tongue tripping over itself as though it weighed a ton. Varin wasn't just drinking anymore—he was drunk. And very, very obvious about it.
Mister 5's brows furrowed as the giant of a man leaned down on him, the smell of whiskey rolling off Varin in waves thick enough to sting the nose. For a moment, the agent simply stared at him—expression flat, unreadable—as though trying to decide if this was some kind of elaborate mockery, or if the fool in front of him was really just this far gone.
"You're asking me," Mister 5 said slowly, his voice clipped with a practiced calm, "if you can drag that… thing"—he flicked his chin toward Luffy's grotesquely bloated, balloon-like form—"out of my way before I finish my job?" His tone carried less disbelief than irritation, like someone being inconvenienced by a buzzing fly.
Varin swayed slightly on his feet, his broad shoulders rolling with a loose kind of balance that somehow didn't let him fall. He blinked down at Mister 5, then jabbed a thumb back at Luffy with exaggerated clarity, as though the explanation needed to be drawn out for a child. "Aye. Dumb as a rock, eats like a whole bloody army, and laughs at his own jokes." His lips quirked, drunken and crooked. "Still my cap'n. So if you'd be so kind as to—y'know—hold off blowin' people to bits until I drag his sorry arse out the way…"
Behind him, Miss Wednesday and Mister 9 were watching the scene with their mouths open, utterly lost between terror and confusion. To them, Mister 5 and Miss Valentine weren't just assassins—they were untouchable, gods among mortals in Baroque Works. And here was this mountain of a man, not even recognizing the danger, not even caring, just stumbling in with slurred speech and asking one of the boss's top agents to… wait a moment.
Mister 9 muttered under his breath, pale with horror, "He's insane. He's actually insane."
Miss Valentine only laughed, her parasol twirling idly between her fingers as her golden hair bounced with the motion. Her voice carried that same sing-song malice as before. "Oh, how precious. He thinks he's allowed to ask us for favors. Isn't that just adorable, Mister 5?"
Mister 5 didn't even glance at her. His gaze remained locked on Varin, cold and measuring, though his nostrils flared faintly at the stench of liquor clinging to the man. "You're drunk," he said flatly, his words more observation than accusation.
Varin tilted his head, his smirk slow and heavy, eyes glassy but still faintly glinting with that same predatory sharpness from before. "Aye. And you're short." He squinted as if trying to gauge the distance between their heights. "Bloody shame, that."
Miss Wednesday nearly fell to her knees. She slapped a hand over her mouth to keep from shrieking, the blood draining from her face entirely. Insulting Mister 5 was a death sentence. No one did that and lived. And yet, here was this drunkard doing it as casually as breathing.
Mister 5's jaw tightened, but he didn't explode—not yet. Instead, he leaned in close enough that his voice was low, dangerous, almost a growl. "Step aside. Now. Before you regret opening your mouth at all."
Varin swayed again, but instead of retreating, he tapped a heavy, calloused finger against Mister 5's shoulder as if to punctuate his point. "Not until I move him." His finger gestured sloppily toward Luffy's inflated body again. "Cap'n's cap'n. Even if he looks like a sack o' potatoes and a cactus had a child."
The silence that followed was suffocating, stretched taut with disbelief. The three lower agents looked like they were about to faint. Miss Valentine's laughter rang out, high and cruel, echoing over the emptying street. "Oh, this is delicious—he's either the bravest idiot alive, or the stupidest. Either way, I want to see how far this goes."
Varin, for his part, simply dragged a hand over his pale face and muttered under his breath, "By Thor, what've I walked into?" before crouching down, very unsteadily, and hooking one massive arm under Luffy's bloated form. The rubber boy squeaked faintly, his cheeks puffed out like a grotesque balloon, but he didn't stir.
Then, lifting him with casual strength, Varin gave Mister 5 the kind of bleary grin that somehow still carried an edge beneath it. "See? Not that hard. Now you can blow up whoever you like, aye?
How did he get here?
Varin blinked blearily, trying to piece together the missing stretch of time. His head was thick with whiskey fog, his body heavy but still carrying that strange, unyielding strength he'd always had. One second—he was dragging his idiot captain's ballooned carcass out of harm's way, bartering words with a man who could turn his boogers into bombs. The next—he was slouched against a toppled barrel on the far side of town, the sharp tang of dust and smoke thick in his lungs.
The streets were wrecked. Roofs collapsed, cacti walls cracked open like skulls split on a battlefield, rivers of spilled whiskey soaking the cobbles. Villagers who had cheered them hours earlier now hid behind shattered doors, peeking through cracks at the carnage being carved into their town.
And at the center of it—Luffy.
No longer bloated, his stomach somehow shrunken back down to that wiry frame of rubber and chaos, he was tearing through what remained of Whiskey Peak with the kind of unchecked idiotic rage only he could muster. Fists slammed into the ground, sending waves of force rolling through stone. The very air shook with the force of his rage—wild, unbothered, like he hadn't just been carted around like an overstuffed pigskin hours ago.
Opposite him, Zoro stood, blades flashing silver arcs beneath the bruised sky. His bandana was tied tight, his expression that grim, sharp focus that meant he was taking the fight seriously. Every step he took cracked stone, every swing of his blades sang with purpose, cutting through both air and the chaos their captain spilled around him.
Varin dragged a hand down his pale face, smearing dirt across his cheek, his laugh rasping out like gravel. "By Thor…" he muttered, voice dry, "…they're bloody dueling."
And duel they did—captain against swordsman. To any sane man, it looked like betrayal, mutiny—two allies tearing each other apart. But Varin wasn't sane, and he'd seen enough fights to know when men were killing each other, and when they were proving something else entirely, but it was close.
The ground cracked open between them as Luffy's fist met Zoro's blades, the shockwave rattling the glass in the few windows left standing. Tiles rained down from rooftops, whole walls collapsing in the wake of their clash.
Varin exhaled, shaking his head, half in disbelief, half in amusement. "First the whale, now this. Gods help me, I joined a ship full o' madmen."
Yet, even as the town fell apart around him, he didn't move to interfere. He simply leaned back against the wreckage, watching with that same crooked, faint smile—because part of him wanted to see just how far those two could go before one of them broke.
Varin's haze broke with a sharp thud against his ribs. He didn't flinch, didn't even grunt—he only glanced down with one bleary eye to see Nami standing there, one leg half-lifted, her face twisted with pain instead of triumph.
"OW! Damn it—!" she hissed, hopping once on her good foot, clutching the other like she'd just kicked a slab of iron. Her glare shot up at him, sharp as a dagger, though the flush of embarrassment was plain across her cheeks. "What the hell are you made of, Varin? Steel?!"
Varin smirked faintly, not moving from his slouched position against the splintered barrel. His words slurred, heavy with drink, but the mocking amusement still laced them. "Not steel, lass… just… harder than most."
She scowled, shaking out her foot with a muttered curse before spinning to face the chaos still unfolding at the center of town. Luffy and Zoro clashed again, the ground cracking beneath their heels, their duel loud enough to drown out even the shrieks of the cowering townsfolk. Nami bit her lip, eyes narrowing at the sight—it was reckless, destructive, the kind of madness she could never hope to leash.
Nami's nails dug into her palm as she steadied herself, forcing her weight off the foot still throbbing from the failed kick. Her eyes darted back to Miss Wednesday, who looked seconds from collapsing outright. "Forget them," she snapped, pointing sharply toward the princess. "Help her."
Varin followed the line of her finger with a slow, deliberate tilt of his head. His gaze fell on Miss Wednesday and trembling in the wreckage, the girl's desperation written as plain as ink. He blinked once, twice—then turned back to Nami with a faint squint, as though the words hadn't made it through the fog of alcohol.
"...Who?" he asked, voice thick, genuinely uncertain.
The sound that tore from Nami's throat was somewhere between a growl and a strangled scream. She slapped her hand against her face so hard the crack of palm on skin cut through the roar of combat. Fingers spread across her eyes, she dragged them down her face in slow, suffering exasperation.
"That one!" she hissed, jabbing her finger so hard in Vivi's direction she nearly pitched herself forward. "The girl with the blue hair, Vivi—our so-called prisoner who's apparently more than she's pretending to be, that princess, you useless lump of muscle!"
Varin let out a low, rumbling chuckle that sounded like gravel grinding in his chest. "Ahh," he drawled, drawing out the sound until it was almost mocking, "that one." He shifted his weight lazily against the barrel, tilting his head back toward Vivi with a half-lidded stare. "Why didn't you just say so?"
Nami's mouth opened, shut, then opened again, her jaw twitching like she was physically restraining herself from smacking him a second time—even if it meant breaking her other foot. "Because I thought it was obvious," she ground out.
Varin only smirked wider, the drunken glaze in his eyes never quite hiding the sharpness lurking underneath. The chaos raged around them, but for the moment it was just the two of them locked in that exchange—Nami's patience fraying by the second, Varin perfectly content to needle her even through the haze of drink.
Varin's smirk lingered, crooked and half-lazy, as he finally rolled one shoulder off the barrel. He lifted a hand and pointed—not at Vivi, not at Luffy and Zoro tearing up half the town with their mad brawl—but toward the edge of the square, where Miss Valentine's parasol lay cracked and Mister 5 was coughing, still barely on his feet. Both agents were bloodied, their movements sluggish, staggering as though the fight had already drained the life out of them.
"So tell me, lass," Varin slurred, his words thick with whiskey but his tone carrying that mocking edge, "why's our blue-haired guest screamin' like she's about to be torn limb from limb? Looks to me like she's holdin' her own against those two just fine."
Nami's head whipped toward him, eyes wide as if he'd just grown another head. "Are you kidding me?!" she barked, voice cracking in sheer disbelief. "She didn't touch them! That's not her doing—look at them! That's Luffy and Zoro's mess, not hers!"
Varin blinked once, then squinted, his gaze sliding back toward the battered agents. They were swaying on their feet, dazed and bruised, the ground around them cratered where fists and blades had collided moments before. He tilted his head, brow furrowing slightly as he tried to piece it together through the haze in his mind.
"Aye… so you're sayin'..." He gestured vaguely toward the destruction—the shattered stone, the split earth, the smoke curling from collapsed buildings. "All that's not from her?"
"Obviously not!" Nami shouted, her arms flinging wide in exasperation. "Do you really think some girl with a duck did that?!"
Varin leaned back against the barrel again, smirk tugging faintly at the edge of his mouth, though his eyes stayed hooded, swimming in whiskey. "Wouldn't put it past her, lass. Seen stranger things than a princess hidin' claws."
Nami froze, the word hitting harder than she expected, her glare flicking between him and Vivi—who'd gone pale at the slip.
"Princess…?" Varin echoed his earlier word, his brow quirking as if the idea had only just occurred to him. The smirk widened, sharp in spite of the slur. "Now that'd explain a few things…..maybe."