… Jean Grey
The sun in Alabasta didn't just burn — it pressed down. Like the sky itself was trying to shove the world back into the sand, crush bones, and evaporate doubt. It was an old heat — dry, arrogant, merciless.
Jean hovered just above the golden sand, slightly detached from the physical world. No footprints behind her. No sweat on her skin. The heat didn't touch her. It was like she was on a different frequency — one note above reality, where the desert couldn't reach.
And weirdly… that made sense.
Even in the middle of a collapsing country, surrounded by misery, rage, and hunger, she felt… light. Not her body — her mind. Like an invisible weight had been lifted. A limit she didn't know she had, quietly left behind.
She floated just inches off the ground, her light-colored cloak rippling in the thick, hot breeze. Her eyes half-closed, focused not on what was in front of her — but on what floated around. Scattered thoughts carried like fine sand in the air.
The trip to the rebel cell had been long, but not hard. She didn't need to track with her eyes or follow physical clues. All she had to do was quiet her mind and dive in — like diving into an invisible ocean made of memories and fear.
"Base is about six kilometers out... maybe a little more. Three watchposts, disguised. They don't even trust each other. Repeated codes, crossed signals... too much noise for too little purpose", Jean's mind drifted gently over others, brushing them with the care of someone who didn't want to stir up old traumas. Each passing thought left behind an impression: the taste of distrust, the scent of thirst.
"… food only till tomorrow…"
"… the last shipment was dry…"
"… is she coming back? she promised…"
"Most of them aren't soldiers. Just angry civilians who are willing to shoot."
She touched down softly on top of a ridge, her sandals barely making contact with the rock. The heat radiated like a furnace beneath her feet, but she ignored it. Down below, in a natural dip between dunes and ruins, lay what they called the rebel camp. A cluster of tents patched with cloth scraps, cracked wooden walls, and recycled metal sheets. From afar, it looked like a ghost town. But Robin had said: the desert's great at hiding what matters.
Jean felt the murmurs beneath the surface. The lives pressed into silence.
She moved down calmly, alone, wrapped in red and black, walking like someone who didn't need permission to exist in that space.
She passed armed men sitting in the shade, hands dirty, eyes half-shut. Women with stern faces and deep lines carved by struggle. Children who stared without smiling — because they'd forgotten how.
No one stopped her.
Not because she was invisible, but because Jean suggested they didn't see her.
She projected her presence like a faint background noise. Not threatening, but easy to overlook. A mental whisper: you've got more urgent things to worry about. It was a simple trick, and one she was getting better at every day.
She stopped in front of the largest tent. The canvas was thick, patched, marked with faded symbols painted by hand.
Jean placed her hand on the surface and closed her eyes.
Three minds inside. Two buzzing with barely restrained anger, the third… too tired to think clearly. The air inside was thick, heavy. The whole tent felt like a frayed rope, seconds from snapping.
She stepped in.
The fuse lit instantly.
Two men jumped to their feet like they'd rehearsed it, hands on weapons. The woman, quicker, already had an old gun pointed straight at Jean's chest. Her eyes were wide, hair hastily tied back, fingers tight on the trigger.
Jean didn't move.
"Good afternoon."
Her voice was soft. The energy around her rippled slightly, like a cool breeze sweeping through a closed room. A quiet reminder: she wasn't exactly helpless.
"I didn't come to hurt anyone. I'm not your enemy."
Silence.
Only the muffled sound of the tent fabric shifting in the heat.
Jean took a step forward.
"My name is Jean Grey. I'm here to talk."
The weapons wavered slightly.
The older man — thin, sharp-featured, skin toughened by sun and mistakes—looked from the armed woman to Jean.
She raised her hand, peaceful.
"I can prove I'm not a threat. But for that, I need a little trust."
A long pause. Then, finally, the leader gave a small nod of his chin.
Jean didn't force her way in — she touched. A mental contact as gentle as a good memory on a bad day. She created a bridge… a window, and through it, showed them what they needed to see.
Crocodile behind the shortages. The manipulation of water routes. His smiling face while whole towns dried up. She showed them Aidan — briefly. Just enough to make it clear he wasn't working for anyone.
She didn't say a word. The images did the talking. When she pulled back, they were all sitting. The weapons were on the ground. Their hands were empty. Their expressions… different. Still hardened, but no longer closed off.
The woman grabbed a dented metal canteen and held it out to Jean. It wasn't much, but it was water. And in Alabasta, a sip of water was almost a blessing.
Jean drank it in one go.
And that's when she felt it.
The warmth of the water in her mouth, the silence around her, the clarity in her own mind.
She wasn't tired. She didn't feel the weight she used to. The effort that used to steal her breath… now felt different. The psychic field around her opened up like a blooming flower.
Jean closed her eyes for a second—and in a five-hundred-meter radius, she felt every mind. Separate, detailed. Hungry people, people with faith, kids sleeping in fear, men with nervous fingers hovering over triggers.
And it all… flowed like breathing.
Jean opened her eyes slowly.
Maybe this had been Aidan's plan all along.
A chance to use their powers for something meaningful.
To put them in places where they had to shine. Where they had to act — not as soldiers — but as catalysts for change.
… Rogue (Anna Marie)
The desert heat was a pain in the ass. Not the usual sweaty, annoying kind like in a crowded room — no. This was the kind of heat that clung to your skin, that burned from the inside out, that made the air shimmer like the whole world was frying in the oil of some pissed-off goddess. But for Rogue, this was nothing. She'd dealt with way worse. Like… her own body. Like the whole sucking-the-life-out-of-people through skin contact and spending days hearing voices that weren't hers screaming inside her head.
Sweat down her back didn't even come close.
She and Raven walked in silence along a path of packed sand, their footprints vanishing with every gust of hot wind. No car, no camel, no shade. Just the two of them walking under a bright blue sky, with Alubarna a blurry golden smudge on the horizon.
No chatting or distractions.
Just the mission.
Intercept, neutralize, stop.
Simple and direct. No fluff, no extra details.
Crocodile had his agents scattered across the desert like pests, and if anyone was gonna stir up the rebels, push things toward violence, drag Alabasta straight into chaos… it'd be those big-shot types with dumb code names and inflated egos. Aidan had been clear: "If you see someone with a ridiculous name, flashy outfit, and anime villain energy— drop 'em."
So Rogue was ready… or almost.
Because this mission was also a test — and not just of strength. It was personal. Aidan had said, in that way of his that mixed confidence, sarcasm, and total disregard for rules, that this was her moment. Her chance to finally use everything she'd been training for.
She'd already learned to turn her powers on and off — in theory. She could do it, if she focused hard enough. But that was just step one. Knowing how to flip the switch didn't mean she could drive the machine. Now was the time to use it for real.
And, as usual, the problem was how Aidan explained things: "People in this world have tougher bodies. They're stronger, more durable, more… everything. One touch won't cut it. You'll have to hold on longer. You'll have to endure your own power."
Easy for him to say. He didn't carry hell in the palm of his hand.
Rogue glanced at Raven, who walked with her usual perfect posture, hood low over her face. Still as a statue or a bored gargoyle. Always looking like she was about to recite tragic poetry or curse an entire bloodline.
"You gonna stay quiet this whole walk, or are we just doing the funeral silence thing?" Rogue asked, popping open the canteen at her hip and taking a short sip of warm water.
Raven didn't turn her head.
"You talk enough for both of us."
"Convenient, very convenient," Rogue muttered, rolling her eyes. "Fine then."
The rest of the walk was more of the same. Sand, heat, wind, awkward silence. But when Alubarna finally started to take shape in the distance — with its tall towers, fluttering red flags, and patchwork walls held together with thick cloth — Rogue stopped, took a breath, and fixed her hair.
"Alright. Time to change the vibe."
She pulled on her fingerless gloves, tucked her bangs behind her ear, and breathed again.
"If we run into any of those Baroque idiots, I'm going in. I need to test this. Aidan thinks I can do it."
Raven raised her face just enough to reveal her eyes — dark, calculating.
"You trust him?"
Rogue shrugged, but it was honest.
"I do. It's weird, but… he's the only one who's never been scared of me. Never flinched at my touch", she paused, then chuckled quietly. "Actually, he was the first person who wanted to touch me. And didn't die trying."
"Then hold tight", Raven said. "And don't hesitate."
"I never do, girl."
They walked through the city gates like two alt tourists with questionable fashion sense and zero stealth skills. The heat inside the walls was worse — stuffy, dirty, thick with tension. People moved fast, spoke low, kept their eyes on the ground. That kind of energy Rogue knew well. A place right on the edge of breaking.
They passed through a plain-looking marketplace. Nothing too special — until she saw them.
Three people huddled near one of the stalls. Clothes too flashy, accessories way too much, the wrong kind of vibe. One of them was wearing a coat with black feathers — seriously, feathers. He was whispering something to the vendor, who looked ready to agree to anything just to make it stop.
Rogue froze on the spot.
"Baroque Works?" she muttered.
Raven closed her eyes like she was hearing a song only she could hear. Then nodded.
"One of them's called Mr. Mellow. That's not a joke."
Rogue let out a dramatic sigh.
"These code names are gonna kill me before the fight even starts."
She pulled her gloves off slowly, like she was shedding more than just fabric. Her bare palms met the hot air, and the temperature around her seemed to spike. It wasn't just sunlight anymore.
It was anticipation.
"Time to test it."
And just like that — no clever plan, no waiting for the perfect moment. Just the sound of her boots hitting the ground, her body moving naturally, like this was any normal day.
Aidan believed in her — and maybe, for the first time, so did she.
If she was gonna master this damn power, it'd be here— where the enemy could take the hit.
Because Rogue could take it too.
And today, she was going to prove it.
… Nico Robin
Robin had always liked to observe.
It was an art the world had forgotten in its frantic rush. People talked too much, ran too fast, and died way too soon. They didn't know how to listen to the sound of what wasn't said. They didn't see the movements that came before chaos.
But Robin did.
She moved in the space between words and gestures, where silence wasn't absence — it was a warning. She liked watching discomfort slide down stiff shoulders, the subtle twitch of a finger tapping against a thigh, the way teeth clenched behind a well-practiced smile.
And here, in a room far too large for any kind of warmth, where Persian rugs covered the cold stone floor like useless camouflage, there was a lot to observe.
This was the heart of Rain Dinners — wide, decorated like a ceremonial chamber, and silent as a tomb waiting to be sealed. At the center, a table carved from dark wood stood like an altar, surrounded by neatly folded maps, an untouched bottle of wine, and the soft sound of wind failing to slip through sealed windows.
On one side, Sir Crocodile — a Shichibukai, a king without a crown, a desert disguised as a man. Fur coat, half-lidded eyes, and the gleaming hook of a patient executioner.
On the other… the most insufferable tourist in Alabasta.
Aidan Quinn.
Robin stood nearby, hands clasped in front of her, posture flawless. She didn't look interested — but she was.
Intensely.
Crocodile was speaking in that slow, deliberate tone he used when he wanted to sound imperial, but Robin knew the rhythm of his speeches. She could tell when he was bluffing — and even better, when he was getting pissed off.
"I don't usually entertain such well-informed tourists", Crocodile murmured, his eyes narrowing like cracks in stone. "People who show up out of nowhere usually don't even know the name of the sand they're standing on."
Aidan was lounging absurdly casually against the arm of the chair. One leg crossed, arms draped like he was on some random porch waiting for afternoon tea.
He looked bored.
Which was an insult to Crocodile.
"Most tourists also don't get personal invitations from a Warlord of the Sea", he replied. "I suppose that makes me a special case."
Robin didn't turn her head, but her eyes smiled. Provocation was an art — and Aidan painted with a very thick brush.
Crocodile inhaled like a man who'd killed for less.
"And what exactly do you expect to find here, Mr. Quinn?"
Aidan glanced at the ceiling like he was thinking — not really, just to annoy — and then looked back at Crocodile with that half-smile he wore like a knife.
"Sunshine, ancient history… and people with awful code names."
Robin let out a breath so soft it barely counted. He was doing it on purpose. Tossing salt on raw meat and waiting for the reaction.
"You're interrupting something important", Crocodile said, tapping his golden hook against the armrest in a slow, steady rhythm. "I don't like distractions. Especially ones that don't know their place."
"And where's my place, exactly?" Aidan leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "On my knees? Face down? Buried up to my neck in sand, like you do to people who disagree with you?"
Robin felt the tension shift. Not rise — shift. Like the wind changing direction before a storm.
Crocodile leaned in, fingers drumming harder. The cigar, forgotten until now, was crushed into the ashtray with sudden violence.
"You don't understand what you've stepped into", he growled, voice low and dangerous.
"You'd be wrong", Aidan answered, light and easy. "I just pretend not to. Makes things more fun."
Robin knew then, knew for sure.
Aidan wasn't just an inconvenience.
He was a threat.
And Crocodile knew it too.
Because his face — once so carefully composed — was cracking. The predator mask was peeling away, revealing something raw underneath. Desperation, dressed up as rage.
"I've had enough fun."
The Warlord rose in silence, his long coat flaring like the wings of a vulture. His right arm stretched forward, and the sand obeyed — like it was part of his own flesh. A swirling vortex formed midair, spinning faster and faster, the sound sharp and hissing, like a miniaturized desert storm.
"Sables."
The name of the technique was spoken like a verdict.
The sand launched forward like a living spear, spinning with the kind of force that could turn bones to powder.
Robin took a half-step to the side — just in case — but didn't intervene. She knew she wouldn't have time, even if she wanted to. And deep down… she wanted to see what came next. Whether Aidan would shatter like glass or smile again.
The answer came fast.
The sand stopped inches from Aidan.
The attack froze midair like it had hit something invisible. Like space itself had refused to yield. The pressure of the move swirled wildly, trapped in a space that didn't exist — a caged beast.
Robin's eyes widened. A rare flash of surprise crossed her face.
"My turn."
Aidan raised his hand, pointing two fingers at Crocodile like a pistol — casual, unhurried. A red sphere formed at his fingertips, glowing with dense, silent power. The air seemed to shrink around it. Even the light in the room pulled back.
Then he spoke — softly, almost playfully.
"Red."
And then… the world broke. The shot wasn't just light. It was raw force, compressed until it couldn't be contained, then released with a violence that shoved the air like a silent scream. The explosion that followed wasn't fire — it was space collapsing. Everything shifted.
Just a repelling force that shattered the space around Crocodile, tearing wood, warping the floor, yanking tapestries off the walls.
Robin didn't move. Her hair whipped around her face in the blast.
In that moment, she wondered if she was witnessing the birth of something even the desert wouldn't be able to bury.