-Real World-
Without reinforcements, without the full crew, the Straw Hat Pirates were losing.
Baroque Works had done its homework. Every absence had been noted — the helmsman Marlin, still somewhere at sea; Franky, not yet arrived from Water 7; Brook, taken to Onigashima. Seven people instead of ten, and of those seven, two were already unconscious and one was a doctor being kept busy by third-tier agents with nothing to lose. That left three fighters and Robin, and Robin was being held in place by numbers rather than power.
It was a professional operation. Crocodile had not survived this long by repeating mistakes.
Luffy was doing everything he could against the Shichibukai, which meant he was doing nothing effective. Every punch he threw passed through sand or hit a surface that reconstituted itself before the impact could register. He had not yet learned Armament Haki. Against a Logia user in full control of their environment, that was simply a wall he could not climb — not yet, not here.
"Gomu Gomu no Gatling!"
His fists blurred into a rapid-fire barrage, dozens of strikes per second, the rubber snapping and releasing in quick succession. Against most opponents, at this range, it would have been overwhelming.
Crocodile finished his cigar.
He looked at the rubber boy expending all that energy against his sand body and felt, , a little bored. He dropped the cigar end and let the hand at his side reshape.
"Sables."
The arm became a blade the length of a building — golden-bright under the desert sun, compacted sand sharp enough to split stone. It moved forward and the ground split with it, the cut running through four buildings in sequence as they came apart like paper along the line of the blade. Rubble lifted, dust replaced architecture, and a trench marked where the ground had been.
Luffy twisted sideways on instinct, rubber joints bending in ways joints shouldn't, and the blade passed close enough that he felt the edge of the displaced air.
He landed and looked back at what the technique had done to the street behind him.
If that hits me, it's over. No rubber body absorbed a sand blade moving at that velocity. He could dodge it. He could not tank it.
"Sables: Pesado."
Four blades this time. Crocodile's hands reshaped into heavy cutting arcs, driving toward the corners of Luffy's position, closing the angles. The Straw Hat Boy moved, and moved again, and found himself backed into the remains of a wall with nowhere left to go.
Crocodile watched him running and felt satisfied in the way a craftsman feels when a plan comes together. "Let's see how much longer you last."
Across the street, Zoro had drawn two of his three swords and was learning something he had already begun to suspect on Drum Island.
Mr. 1 — Daz Bonez, the Supa Supa no Mi (Dice-Dice Fruit) — was a blade man in the most complete sense of the term. Any part of his body could become a cutting edge. His forearms, his shins, the edge of his hand — all of it, any of it, at any moment. And Zoro had not yet reached the level where steel was something he could cut through.
His swords hit Mr. 1's body and the sound was metal on metal. No damage. Nothing. He might as well have been swinging at a wall.
Mr. 1 was taking it calmly. He had fought Zoro once before, had a baseline for his level, and had adjusted his expectation accordingly.
"You're not quite there yet," he said, with something that might have been genuine regret. "You'll be something, eventually. It's a shame." He straightened. "But orders are orders."
He brought his hands together, fingers reshaping into narrow blades, and crossed them at his chest. A beat of stillness — then he moved, the crossing arc of both arms leaving an X of light in the air between them.
Bullet Slash.
Zoro got his swords up in time to cover his neck and his heart. The rest of him was not covered. The cut opened across his chest and arms in several places — not fatal, but deep enough to bleed freely, deep enough to slow him down. He hit the ground on one knee and stayed there, breathing hard, blood on the stone beneath him.
Mr. 1 watched him not fall over and recalibrated slightly upward.
Bentham was winning, and he was having an excellent time.
The problem with fighting Sanji was not the power behind the kicks — the power was real and substantial, and in a straight exchange of leg techniques Bentham could not be certain of the outcome. The problem, from Sanji's perspective, was that the Mane Mane no Mi (Clone-Clone Fruit) had no restrictions on which face it could wear, and Bentham had identified the variable that turned Sanji's IQ off.
He let the fight run for a moment, traded a few genuine exchanges, and then brought his hand up to his own face.
When the hand came down, Nami was looking at Sanji. Nami's face, Nami's eyes, Nami's voice — every detail calibrated, every nuance of the expression tuned to maximum effect.
"Sanji," Bentham said, in a voice indistinguishable from the navigator's, "please—"
The foot that had been aimed at Bentham's jaw stopped in the air. Sanji's entire combat process locked up completely.
"Nami-chan—?"
The gap was all of a half-second, but Bentham had learned to work with less. He stepped inside the frozen kick, dropped his hand, and struck Sanji squarely in the groin with the focused force of someone who fights professionally and holds nothing back.
Sanji went down like a structure with its supports removed. He hit the cobblestones in a fetal curl, both hands occupied, face the color of old paper. Whatever sound he made was not something words could adequately describe.
Bentham straightened, smoothed his outfit, and looked at the crumpled cook with genuine sympathy.
"That's going to bruise," he said. "I am sorry about that ally. But you really must stop giving me the opening."
Three fights. Three losses in progress.
The Straw Hat Pirates' futures were real — the Sky Screen had shown what they would become, and those futures were formidable. But future strength and present strength were different quantities. Baroque Works had studied the gap precisely, had measured the distance between who these people were now and who they were going to be, and had built their plan around that gap.
Crocodile moved toward the cornered Luffy without hurrying.
"You have dreams," he said. "The Pirate King. It's a fine ambition for someone who isn't going to be around to pursue it."
Luffy looked up at him. His arms were still stretched, still ready, still looking for the angle that hadn't appeared yet.
He had not found it. Not yet.