The air in the opulent chamber of the casino "Rain Dinners" was as dry and dead as the surrounding desert, thick with the scent of fine cigar smoke and cold ambition.
Sir Crocodile, Warlord of the Sea, sat in a high-backed chair of dark mahogany, a half-empty glass of amber liquor forgotten on the table beside him.
The usual, placid mask of bored control was gone, shattered by the single sheet of newsprint clutched in his hand.
It was a fresh bounty bulletin. His cold eyes, were locked not on the staggering two-hundred-and-thirty-million-berry figure at the top, but on the woman pictured just below it. Nico Robin.
The "Devil's Child." Her bounty had been reinstated and raised to one hundred million. But the text below her image was what sent a tremor of pure, incandescent rage through his massive frame.
"...harboring the infamous archaeologist, the 'Devil's Child' Nico Robin, making his crew a direct and dire threat to the World Government itself."
Harboring, and being a member of his crew. Nico Robin.
Three years. For three long years, he had played the patient spider. He had found her, she was like a ghost drifting through the underworld, her brilliance and desperation a potent combination.
He had offered her a sanctuary of sorts within Baroque Works, a place to use her talents, a shield from the relentless pursuit of the World Government.
In return, she would help him find the key to ultimate power. She had accepted. She had been the perfect, enigmatic partner, her knowledge of Poneglyphs and history unlocking secrets he hadn't even known existed.
Then, six months ago, she had left for a simple information-gathering mission on that wretched mafia-controlled island in the West Blue. A routine task, but she had never returned from it.
No message. Nobody. Just vanished into the ether. He had assumed she'd finally been caught, that the long arm of CP9 or some rival power had finally snuffed out the last scholar of Ohara. It was an inconvenience, a delay.
He had already begun searching for alternative means to decipher the final clues here in Alabasta, believing the greatest prize, Pluton, was finally within his grasp after a decade of meticulous planning.
But this… this was not an inconvenience. This was a betrayal of the highest order.
She hadn't been captured. She hadn't been killed. She had joined another crew. She had thrown his patronage back in his face and sworn allegiance to some upstart pirate from the East Blue, a man the papers were now calling "the Sea Scourge."
His mind raced, piecing together the timeline, the implications. Had she planned this? Had she used Baroque Works, used him, all along?
Was her disappearance a calculated move to seek out a more powerful patron, one whose ambition matched her own thirst for the Void Century's truths?
The thought was like a poison in his veins. He, Sir Crocodile, a man who manipulated kings and nations, had been played for a fool by a mere scholar.
A low, guttural sound escaped his throat. The fingers of his human hand clenched, crumpling the edge of the poster. The air in the room grew heavy, the moisture seeming to flee in terror.
With a sudden, violent flick of his wrist, his other arm, the one ending in the massive, wicked golden hook, transformed from flesh into a swirling, razor-edged blade of compressed sand.
SWISH-CRUNCH!
The sand blade sliced through the newspaper, not once, but a dozen times in the blink of an eye, reducing it to a cloud of confetti that fluttered down to the rich carpet like a snowfall of lies and insult.
The shreds settled around his boots, the fragmented images of Ragnar's smirking face and Robin's calm eyes staring up at him mockingly.
Silence reclaimed the room, broken only by the faint, ever-present hum of the air conditioning fighting a losing battle against the desert heat.
The confetti on the floor began to brown and curl as Crocodile's passive power leeched the last vestiges of moisture from the paper.
He would make her pay. This vow did not form as words, but as a tectonic shift deep within his soul. He would make her suffer in ways she could not imagine.
He would show her the cost of betraying a Warlord. He would take everything from her, her new crew, her newfound protection, her hope.
He would drag her back to Alabasta in chains and force her to decipher the Poneglyph that would grant him Pluton, and then he would feed her to the very weapon she had helped him unearth.
He reached for a small, ornate golden bell on his desk and rang it once, a sharp, clear chime that cut through the oppressive silence.
Almost instantly, the double doors to his office swung open. Two figures stood at attention, their presence a testament to the organization he commanded.
On the left was a man of immense stature and stoic demeanor, his body seemingly carved from granite, Daz Bonez, Mr. 1. On the right was a tall, flamboyant figure in a swan-themed ballet outfit, his face a mask of theatrical curiosity, Bentham, Mr. 2 Bon Kurei.
"You rang, Boss?" Mr. 1's voice was as flat and hard as his skin.
Crocodile didn't turn to look at them. His gaze was fixed on the distant, sun-bleached horizon beyond his window, where his perfect plan was now threatened by this unforeseen vortex.
"There has been a… development," Crocodile said, his voice deceptively calm, a thin layer of ice over a roiling volcano. "The archaeologist. She lives. And she has aligned herself with a new crew. The Vortex Pirates, led by their Captain Vortex D. Ragnar."
"Nico Robin? Oh, my! After all this time! And with a new crew? How scandalous!" Mr. 2 gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his heart.
"What are your orders?" Mr. 1 showed no reaction, instead, he asked.
Crocodile finally turned, his eyes sweeping over his two most powerful agents. The cold fury in his gaze made even the usually unflappable Mr. 2 stiffen slightly.
"I want every resource, every informant, every whisper network we have activated," Crocodile commanded, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper.
"I want you to investigate their route. They are coming from Reverse Mountain. They will be heading for an island to set their Log Pose. Find out which one. I want to know the moment their ship is sighted in Alabastan waters."
He leaned forward, his shadow stretching long across the room, his hook glinting in the dim light.
"This woman possesses knowledge critical to our operation. Her betrayal cannot stand. And this 'Sea Scourge'…" He almost spat the title.
"He thinks his new bounty makes him a king. I will teach him what happens to false royalty in my desert."
"When there is news, you are to notify me immediately. No one else is to engage them without my express command. Is that understood?" He said as he looked directly at Mr. 1, his intent clear.
"Understood." Mr. 1 gave a single, sharp nod.
"Ooh, the plot thickens!" Mr. 2 chirped, though his eyes were serious. "We shall be your eyes and ears, Boss Croco-baby!"
"Go," Crocodile ordered, turning his back on them once more, dismissing them as he would dismiss mere insects.
The two agents bowed and retreated, the heavy doors closing with a soft, final thud. Alone again, Crocodile picked up his glass and drained the remaining liquor, the burn doing nothing to quell the fire in his gut.
Outside, the sun beat down on the city of Rainbase, a city built on his lies and soon to be the stage for his vengeance.
The pieces were in motion. The hunter was now the hunted, and the sands of Alabasta were about to run red with the blood of traitors and upstarts.
He would have his weapon, and he would have his revenge. Nothing, not a Sea Scourge nor a Devil's Child, would stand in his way.