The heart of Rain Dinners pulsed with quiet menace.
Beneath the golden dome, the casino's secret chamber gleamed in the half-light of oil lamps and cigar smoke.
A long oval table filled the center, surrounded by the sharpest blades and cruelest smiles this side of Paradise, the Officer Agents of Baroque Works.
At the head sat Sir Crocodile, king of deserts and sand, one gloved hand resting beside a tumbler of whiskey. His cigar burned low, its red tip glowing like an ember of war.
Beside him sat Miss All Sunday, composed as ever, fingers interlaced atop a spread of parchment maps. Even in this pit of killers, she looked perfectly calm, the only one who could share a table with a warlord and not flinch.
The others were less subtle.
Mr. 1 sat in silent, steel-cold vigilance.Mr. 2 hummed to himself, kicking his feet beneath the table.Mr. 3 tried, and failed, not to sweat.Miss Valentine lazily twirled a parasol while Mr. 5 flicked his lighter, bored but ready.
All waited for Crocodile to speak. The tension was thick enough to choke on.
Crocodile exhaled a stream of smoke, letting it curl into lazy shapes before he finally spoke.
"Operation Utopia," he said, the words landing like bullets. "We are close. The kingdom teeters. All that's left is to… nudge it."
The agents stirred.
"Mr. 3," Crocodile said without looking up, "your blunder in Little Garden has been accounted for, but it cost us time. Give me a reason I shouldn't turn you into a sand sculpture."
Mr. 3 stiffened, sweat pooling beneath his wax-slick collar.
"S-Sir! I assure you, all remaining agents are in position! The rebellion moves according to plan! The time loss is minimal!"
"Minimal?" Crocodile's eyes narrowed.
Miss Doublefinger cut in smoothly.
"We've handled the defectors, Mr. 0. None will threaten the operation again."
Across the table, Bon Kurei puffed up dramatically.
"Ooooh~! Such tension! I can hardly stand it, my crocodile darling!"
Collective groans followed.
"But seriously," Bon Kurei continued, "our agents in Nanohana say the people are restless. Very restless~"
"That's the idea," Crocodile replied evenly. "By the time the king realizes what's happening, his people will already be calling for his head."
He tapped the table once, sending a soft ripple of sand dancing across its surface.
"And that's when we move."
Miss Valentine swung her legs lazily.
"And the princess? The blue-haired one… what was her name again?"
"Vivi," Miss Merry Christmas grunted. "Probably dead in the desert by now. Or eaten by one of those dumb banana gators."
Robin's voice, low, calm, and silken, cut through the noise.
"She isn't dead."
All eyes turned toward her.
Crocodile's gaze hardened, the cigar glow reflecting in his gold-rimmed irises.
"You sound certain, Miss All Sunday."
"I met her recently," Robin said simply.
The temperature in the room dropped.
"You met her," Crocodile repeated slowly, "and yet you didn't eliminate her."
She met his stare without blinking.
"Killing her would've drawn attention before the rebellion peaks. Better to let her exhaust herself chasing ghosts."
A low rumble escaped Crocodile's throat, something between a laugh and a growl.
"You always did enjoy your little games."
"And you always did prefer blunt instruments," Robin replied.
Even Bon Kurei stopped humming. Very few people could talk to Crocodile like that and live.
Crocodile took a long drag, the cigar's end burning bright.
"Be careful, Miss All Sunday. I tolerate insolence only as long as it amuses me."
"Then I'll strive to keep you entertained," she said lightly.
Before Crocodile could respond-
CRASH!
The ceiling exploded.
Sand and marble rained down. The chandelier snapped loose. A storm of dust filled the chamber as the table shook beneath their feet.
Mr. 1 was already on guard, arms gleaming like blades.
"What the hell-?!" shouted Mr. 5.
Something bright and red, and laughing, dropped through the dust in a perfect crouch.
Then came the laugh.
"BAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Now that's what I call losing with style! Who knew blackjack tables blow up so well, huh?!"
When the dust cleared, a figure stood grinning amid the wreckage, half showman, half lunatic.
A crimson coat flared around his bare chest, lined in gold. Blue hair slicked back. Red nose shining under the lamplight.
Buggy the Clown had arrived.
Every agent froze.
"Bloody Jester Buggy…" Robin murmured, recognition flickering.
Crocodile's gaze sharpened.
"You've got nerve, clown, crashing my meeting."
Buggy put his hands on his hips.
"Your meeting? Could've fooled me. Feels more like a funeral. No drinks, no snacks, no juggling? You people really need a mood."
Mr. 1's blade-arm gleamed.
"Identify yourself."
Buggy snorted.
"What, you don't recognize a celebrity? Tsk. Too serious for your own good."
Miss Valentine pointed her parasol.
"You think a big bounty makes you scary?"
Buggy grinned wider.
"Not scary, sweetheart, fabulous. I'm a guest! Came to talk business with the pretty lady."
All heads turned to Robin.
"Me?" she asked, voice calm but eyes curious.
"Of course! Who else here looks like they've actually read a book?" Buggy said, brushing plaster off his coat. "I heard you've got an eye for old stones, Miss All Sunday."
Robin's smile thinned; she had no clue how someone like Buggy would come to know of her past.
It wasn't a secret by any means, though the government had still tried to bury her past after a while. Those days, few people actually knew what Ohara had attempted to do, and how their attempt ended...
Still, there was a glint of amusement in her eyes. "And you… have something to offer me?"
"Let's just say," Buggy wagged a finger, "I found something shiny on an island that doesn't like staying put. Big, blocky, unreadable. You're the only one who can make sense of that nonsense."
Her eyes sharpened.
"You mean…"
"A Poneglyph," Buggy said casually. "That's right, sweetheart. Maybe we could work something out. Strictly business, though I won't say no to a drink after, if-you-know-what-I-mean~"
The table went still.
Crocodile rose slowly, smoke curling around his scarred face.
"You've got gall, clown."
Buggy waved him off.
"Yeah, yeah, I'll get to you in a minute, Sandman."
That did it.
The air shimmered, then erupted.
Crocodile's sand tore across the table in a golden storm, swallowing everything in its path. Mr. 3 dove aside as the wave consumed Buggy's form.
The room filled with dust and fury until laughter echoed through it.
"BAHAHAHAHA! That's your big move? Sand in the face? Used to pull this trick in the playground when I was four!"
Buggy's head floated above the cloud, grinning like a disembodied balloon. His arms zipped around, slapping Mr. 5 and Miss Merry Christmas across the face. His torso spun like a top, knocking Mr. 3's wig clean off.
Then, whap! -a detached leg shot sideways and nailed Bon square in the gut, sending him spinning into the wrecked table.
"Hey!" Bon coughed, staggering up. "How dare you attack a performer! I was just starting to like you!"
"You can join my act once you earn your stripes, darling~!" Buggy cackled.
"Enough games," Crocodile growled.
His hook slammed down, unleashing another tidal wave of sand. It sliced through empty air. Buggy's parts danced around him, spinning like confetti caught in a storm.
Then, silence.
Crocodile turned.
Buggy stood behind him, fully reassembled, grinning wide enough to show teeth.
"You ought to watch whose pants you're getting sand in, Croco-boy~"
The nickname cracked through the room like a whip. Crocodile's entire body went rigid.
Even Robin looked up sharply, realizing something deeply off, not just the name, but the tone. The sing-song mockery… identical to someone Crocodile hadn't heard in years.
Emporio Ivankov.
"…You," Crocodile said slowly, voice cold as desert night. "What did you just call me?"
Buggy tilted his head, still smiling.
"Didn't clean your ears for a while? Not like you haven't been called that before."
The sand at Crocodile's feet began to swirl.
"What are your ties to the Revolutionary Army?"
The laughter died.
Even the Officer Agents froze. The Revolutionary Army, that name alone silenced rooms.
Buggy's grin stayed bright, but for just a flicker, something sharper flashed in his eyes.
"Now that's a story, Croco-boy…" he said softly, grin returning full force. "But you couldn't afford the ticket to that show."
The wind rose again. Tension hung in the room like a blade about to fall.