… Nico Robin
The heavy door closed behind them with a soft metallic thud — quiet, but final. Like the click of a trap snapping shut. The private room in the underground of Rain Dinners wrapped around them with a dense stillness, made of cold stone, dark wood, and secrets.
The lighting was soft, golden, coming from hanging lamps that cast long shadows over the rock-carved walls. The glow suggested more than it revealed, painting blurred outlines across faces and intentions. The distant noise of the casino had vanished completely, swallowed by the isolation of that underground refuge.
Only silence remained…
… and unspoken intentions.
Robin moved to the sideboard in the corner, her steps soft like sinking sand. She poured a glass of wine with a slow, almost lazy motion, but her eyes — dark, sharp — never stopped watching. Always in motion.
Five outsiders.
Four women, one man.
None of them looked out of place. None stumbled in the setting.
Every single one of them looked at her like they knew exactly where they were — and more importantly, why they were there.
They didn't move like Marines, nor did they have the unpredictable air of pirates. They were something else. Something Robin couldn't quite label — and that alone was enough to keep her on guard.
She turned and walked with controlled grace to the chair closest to the central table.
"Make yourselves comfortable", she said casually. Her voice soft, with no explicit authority — but it carried the weight of someone who rarely needed to explain herself.
They did— too easily. Especially the guy. He chose a wide couch, sinking into it like he'd sat there before. He was clearly the center, even if he didn't act like a leader. The space around him seemed to shift to fit him. The four women arranged themselves nearby like a well-practiced choreography — each in her orbit, but clearly connected to him. Robin watched closely: it wasn't subservience. It was something stronger. More intimate.
Trust.
And in this world of pirates and betrayal… that was worth more than gold.
Robin brought the glass to her lips for a small sip — not because she wanted to drink. It was performance. A dance she had perfected. The woody taste of the wine meant nothing compared to the flavor of the moment.
She enjoyed the act. Crocodile did, too.
"I don't usually find strangers here", she said eventually, without lifting her eyes from the glass. The words landed neutrally — but their weight was unmistakable.
Aidan took a second to answer. Not hesitating — just absorbing the space with the same calm Robin had. His eyes wandered to the maps pinned on the wall: trade routes, strategic points in the desert, Alubarna circled in dark ink.
Then, he looked at her.
"Just passing through", he said, with a slight shrug. "Vacation. Change of scenery. The world's big, and the desert has a peculiar charm, don't you think?"
Robin raised one brow slightly, her lips curling into a restrained smile.
"'Charming' isn't a word most would use for Alabasta."
"Maybe not", Aidan agreed, leaning back casually. "But any place with enough history to be buried… that's the kind of place that draws me in."
Robin didn't move, but her eyes did. A flicker — quickly hidden.
He knew. Or at least… he sensed.
But he didn't say it. Not directly.
And Robin respected that. Far more than she'd respect someone who spilled everything.
"Not many tourists with a taste for ancient history."
Aidan just smiled, that kind of layered expression that spoke in subtext.
"Not many people with a taste for forgotten stories, either."
This time, Robin lowered her gaze — for just a second. Barely noticeable. Like a quiet acknowledgment of a distant echo. She stood and walked to a shelf on the side. Her fingers brushed lightly over a small alabaster statue, its features worn by time.
Like everything in Alabasta.
"This country doesn't welcome outsiders. Especially not now", she said, still facing away.
Aidan gave a small nod, catching the nuance.
"Sometimes the best parts of a trip aren't in the travel guides."
Robin smiled genuinely. He could play the game without showing his cards.
So could she.
"You're free to stay in Rainbase. Lodging and a seat at the table are yours…" she paused, smiling, "… as long as you don't break any more Baroque Works agents."
Rogue let out a low laugh. "Depends on the agent."
Jean tilted her head, the calm of someone who had already processed everything — and accepted it.
Robin raised her glass again, this time slightly toward Aidan.
"Enjoy your stay, tourists", her eyes met his, shining with mischief. "And if you stumble across an interesting story… let me know."
He matched the tone perfectly.
"Only if you're willing to listen."
Robin smiled — almost tenderly.
"I was born to listen."
And for the first time in a long time, she felt like she might've found a story worth hearing.
… Aidan Quinn
The door clicked shut behind us with a soft metallic snap, marking the end of our little meeting with the woman who, for a long time, has been my favorite character in all of One Piece.
Miss All Sunday. Nico Robin — or Robin Nico, if you go by the western order… but no one calls her that. It just doesn't fit.
And in person… she was way worse.
In the best way.
High-level mental collateral damage. You could feel it.
She walked like someone who never needed to rush because she was already two steps ahead. Her voice was low, hypnotic, and every sentence came with that sweet kind of poison that made you want to hear more — even though you knew you were stepping into dangerous territory. The kind of woman that'd make half the players press "yes" in a dialogue without even reading the second option.
But the worst part… was the look.
Long, straight black hair cascading down her back like liquid shadow. Her bangs fell just right over her forehead, with that perfectly calculated mysterious touch — the kind of cut that looks simple until you try it and realize it doesn't work unless your face belongs on a 6'2" model-archaeologist.
Her tanned skin contrasted with the deep blue of her low-cut top, which didn't even pretend to hide anything. Short skirt. Sunglasses pushed up into her hair. Tall enough that I had to tilt my chin up just to maintain eye contact — and honestly, I wasn't complaining.
Perfect.
Like… unfairly so.
If she had a stat sheet, her "charm" section would come with an asterisk and the note "bugged by default."
We had barely left the private room, and the silence between us already said everything.
Ororo was the first to break it.
"You only picked this world because of her."
I turned, but she was already giving me that judgment-and-thunderstorm stare.
"Don't even make that face", she continued. "You do the same thing with us. When you want something, you get quiet. You pick the time, the place, and then boom— the flirting, the perfectly timed line, the calculated move. And now you're doing it with her."
"Maybe I just like casinos and trouble."
"Aidan", Jean sighed. "Come on."
I raised my hands, all fake innocence.
"Okay, okay. Maybe… just maybe… I picked Alabasta slightly influenced by the fact that Nico Robin is here. Just a little."
Rogue let out one of those long, dragged-out laughs.
"Knew it. The way you stayed all calm while she was threatening us in that velvet voice? Please. We know you."
"She has bangs", I muttered. "You all know I have a weakness for bangs."
"You have a problem", Jean corrected.
Before I could come up with another comeback, Raven spoke up for the first time since we left the room. Her voice was low, like she was talking to another dimension — which, knowing her, might've been true.
"Two Robins… so different…"
Everyone turned to her. She kept going, like in a soft trance: "One's a guy with major ego issues and unresolved daddy problems… and the other… is this super-tall woman with a low voice and unnecessarily generous boobs."
I blinked.
That might've been the longest sentence I've ever heard Raven say.
"… was that a compliment or a critique?"
Raven just shook her head, the hood covering half her face, and mumbled, "Confusing. Very confusing."
Ororo chuckled, despite her earlier serious vibe. Jean was smiling. Even Rogue looked a little more relaxed.
...
Alabasta smelled like old dust and burnt spices. Not the kind of scent you find at a market or a festival — something heavier. Like incense burned in tribute to forgotten gods.
The kind of place where the wind doesn't blow to refresh you—but to remind you. Remind you of drought, of time, of history buried beneath every step.
After our talk with Robin, we spent the day exploring the edges of the city. Nothing organized. Nothing traditionally touristy. We walked without a set destination, guided more by the desert's invisible rhythm than by any map.
We wandered through narrow alleys that snaked between markets covered in hand-dyed fabrics—indigo blue, rust red, sun-burnt yellow. The smell of dried meat, mint, and spicy curry filled the air at every turn. Tiny stalls crammed between worn walls sold everything: spices, copper trinkets, jars of colored sand, and lies disguised as relics.
In underground cafés, men and women gathered in tense silence. Down there, tea was served with bitter leaves and sharper eyes. Even sugar felt like it was bartered with caution.
The clay rooftops shimmered under the sun like furnace plates. Kids played in the shade of faded banners—ancient crests that no longer meant anything. Men in sweat-stained turbans played dominoes on makeshift tables, using tiles carved from animal bones.
And between the sounds of the streets — in the space between voices and footsteps…
There was tension.
Not an if, but a when.
"This place is hot", Rogue muttered, pulling her shirt collar up to wipe her sweaty neck. "And I don't just mean the weather."
"Yeah", I replied with a crooked smile. "There's a rebellion ready to explode. Literally."
Ororo stopped walking. Her blue eyes scanned the area like silent radars. Women speaking in hushed tones. Soldiers passing in pairs, hands close to their weapons. Walls marked with symbols disguised as tribal art.
"You knew this before bringing us here?" she asked.
"Of course I did."
She gave me that "hopeless idiot" look she wore so well.
"We're in the middle of a civil war about to go off… and you thought, 'Great vacation spot.'"
"I call it cultural tourism", I shrugged. "Best part? There's an entire city buried under this desert."
They all stared at me. Jean crossed her arms, her gaze cutting through me like analysis.
Raven said nothing, just waited — because she knew the explanation was coming.
"Alright, history class", I announced, raising my arms like a half-bored tour guide. "Alabasta is one of the oldest kingdoms in the world. It's survived dynasties, storms, invasions, and time. It was the only kingdom to refuse joining the World Government when it was founded— which tells you a lot about the pride of these people. Ancestral pride, sacred traditions, and all that beautiful stuff that usually ends in ruins."
We walked to an open plaza where the sun felt even harsher. Vendors shouted their deals amidst colorful turbans, fabric rolls, and birds trapped in golden cages. One was selling water. Clean water — the most valuable thing in this kingdom.
The faces of the people buying it were thin.
Sunken eyes. Slow steps…
Tired people.
"The drought isn't new", I explained, not hiding the grim tone. "It's been dragging on for years. Most think it's a divine curse or just bad weather… But really, it's strategy. Sir Crocodile, the 'people's hero,' created the scarcity. He blocked water routes using tech and tactics. And now he shows up as the savior."
Jean looked around, probably picking up things no one else could. She was good like that — sensing the cracks before stepping on them.
"Manufactured crisis, offered solution. Induce chaos, then sell the cure. Classic."
"And it works. The people believe their king abandoned them. Now they're ready to take up arms— or at least accept any savior with a promise."
We passed an alley where a group of teens rested. One wore a blue armband—the rebels' symbol. Their eyes followed us. Not with open hostility… but with that kind of tension that snaps into violence if someone breathes wrong.
One of them clenched his fist — like he was holding an invisible rock.
They were right on the edge.
Raven broke the silence in a whisper barely audible: "They don't want to change the world. They just want water."
"And that", I said, "is enough to set a kingdom on fire."
Later, we reached what was left of Erumalu. Ruins buried in sand and dry moss. Walls that once held up palaces now offered shelter to makeshift tents. Vendors piled their goods between broken columns. Kids played with water bottles like they were magical stones.
"Erumalu was a thriving city", I said, leading the group through a cracked stone alley. "Until the river that fed it was diverted to supply the capital. An official decision. A calculated sacrifice."
"They let people die to protect the rich", Rogue muttered, kicking a dry rock that rolled into a pit of dust.
"More or less. Officially, it was a 'strategic choice.' In practice? A massacre by dehydration."
Raven knelt by an old dry fountain. At the bottom — rusted coins and a shard of broken pottery.
She stayed there for a few long seconds, then murmured: "They're still making wishes."
By late afternoon, we arrived at the Whispering Canyon.
A valley carved by nature and dead kings. Royal tombs and cave walls etched with ancient inscriptions lined the dark cliffs. The wind's sound there… wasn't normal. It actually whispered. It slid across the rocks and shaped incomprehensible words — like prayers in a language no one speaks anymore.
They spread out quietly, respectfully. Each exploring in their own way. Raven traced the walls. Jean touched the ground with her palm. Ororo climbed a ledge for a better view. Rogue leaned against a cracked column and closed her eyes for a moment.
And I stood alone for a while. I leaned against a warm stone wall and closed my eyes.
There… in that forgotten part of the desert…
I remembered.
"This is where everything's going to collapse."
The rebellion. Crocodile's plan. Robin's motives. Everything pointed to what was buried beneath Alabasta. A truth hidden by sand and centuries of silence.
I showed them Alabasta, just like I promised. The landscapes, the culture, the scent, the weight of the desert. The beauty and the grief.
A perfect tour guide.
Now they just had to decide if they wanted to save this dying kingdom… or not.
... Crocodile
The smoke from his cigar hung in the air like poisonous mist, blending with the suffocating heat of the private room at the top of Rain Dinners. The desert breeze forced its way in through the half-open windows, but it didn't bring relief — just dust and memory.
Crocodile stood in front of the tinted glass wall overlooking Rainbase, eyes half-lidded, as if he weren't watching the city, but something behind it. His broad shoulders held a posture shaped by years of being done with fools and distractions. His left hand held the lit cigar. His right — adorned with the golden hook — rested on the back of a chair like a silent, constant threat.
Behind him, Nico Robin waited in silence.
"They're not with the Straw Hats", he said at last, his deep voice dry. "But they're not with the government either. Or the rebels. Or any known pirates. And yet… they broke Mr. 6 like he was some worn-out toy."
Robin said nothing. Crocodile didn't ask questions expecting answers — just confirmation that the world still spun the way he wanted.
He turned slowly, casting a heavy gaze toward her.
"Aidan", he spoke the unfamiliar name like he was chewing sand. "Too young. Too confident for someone I've never heard of."
He grabbed a folded report from the table. The paper was stained with blood and sand — like it had been recovered from a messenger who didn't finish the job.
"You saw them", he said. "What do you think?"
Nico Robin answered calmly, face unreadable.
"Polite, curious, observant. Especially him."
"That doesn't help me", Crocodile snapped, stepping forward, eyes sharp. "We're at the boiling point. The princess is wandering the desert with the Straw Hats, the people are ready to riot, and the army's already whispering behind closed doors. I don't need more variables in this game, Nico Robin. Especially one hiding behind manners and clever little phrases."
The sound of his hook scraping across the metal table filled the room for a moment.
"He didn't show up by chance. No one ever does."
Robin held her perfect posture, even under the weight of his presence.
"You want me to eliminate them?"
Crocodile let out a short laugh.
"No."
He turned back to the window, the cigar glowing between his fingers.
"Not yet."
A heavy silence followed, broken only by the soft crackle of the ember.
"Bring them to me", he said at last. "I want to see if this kid's just a curious tourist or another parasite who thinks he can steal my spotlight."
Robin nodded slightly. She already knew where to find them.
So did Crocodile.
Everything in Alabasta — every shadow, every whisper, every step — was under his gaze. The desert was his domain. The sand, his blood.
And the stage? His trap.
"And Nico Robin…"
She paused at the door, glancing back over her shoulder.
"If he's got something interesting to say… I want to hear it."
A short smile curled on his lips, marked by arrogance and absolute conviction.
"But if he tries to play against me…"
He took a long drag from the cigar.
"… I'll bury him along with that stupid little story about justice."
As Nico Robin left, Crocodile remained still, staring out beyond the city — where the first clouds of rebellion were already rising on the horizon.
It was the beginning of the end.
And he didn't tolerate endings that weren't written by his own hand.