(( This first chapter was Written by Peter Moorhead, edited by Alyssa Steele))

Chapter 1

Rhyson

There is a world apart from earth, a world sustained by dreams and by the thoughts and hopes of the humans who live there. This is the world of Pirates, who set sail with no money or partners, with only their dreams. They gain friends, gain riches during their travels, and evermore rise closer to their goals.

There is a place in the Earth called the Grand Line, where most of these dreamers end up. On this Line, there is an island named Alabastien.

Alabastien is the desert island, one of the only islands in this world with a king as ruler. The rest of the world is governed by an organization known as the World Government. These agents in the Government are pirate haters, and are hated by the pirates for being the destroyers of dreams.

There are, however, exceptions to this rule. Seven pirates of immense strength were granted freedom to plunder at will, with the exception that they give a share of their plunder back to the government. These individuals are known as the seven sea knights.

Together, they could bring the world to its knees. Pirates of such immense strength, speed, and cunning that even one in power could easily become Pirate king, and inherit gold rodgers vast and immense treasure, left behind after his death at the hands of the Navy.

However, not all of the sea knights are loyal to the government. Most of them never were, one in particular has plans of his own and his name is Sir Crocodile.

This is not a story specifically about him. Rather this is a story about what might have happened if he succeeded with his plans to become the one man in charge of the world. His dream for conquest destroyed a Nation, but saved it as well. It destroyed a marrowy, but strengthened it as well. It brought together enemies under one flag, and delimited the threat of the Government, forever allowing pirates flying any flag to share one thing in common--the completion of their dreams, with no one to stop them.

No matter how many weapons the world has, it is dreams that unite us all.

----

In the southernmost part of Alabaster lay a village, small by all accounts but still large enough to go on the map. Caravans across the desert had been halted, and for a very good reason. For over a year, there had been a terrible drought, and no one dared to cross the sands anymore. In this city lived a thirteen-year-old boy named Rhys on. He had no last name, because his parents were long dead and he had no living kin. He lived in the houses of those who would take him, but often disregarded and ignored.

One day, his fate changed dramatically. He had left town, to try and seek his fortune, but the desert proved stronger then he, and he found himself parched and nearly dead at the edge of the ocean. (His village was not more then a days trek across the sand to the southern peninsula)

He saw no water in sight, and no food to speak of. The sand blown by the wind landed in the sea, turning it a rust color. The rays of high noon fell across his shoulders, and his wrappings, for he wore no normal clothing like you or I. Instead, his clothes were rags, covered by a black cloth cape that came down to his ankles. Around his head there was wrapped a turban.

These wrappings might seem unusual for a desert land, but they kept his skin from getting frayed in the searing heat. But sunburned or not, the heat had taken its toll

He had long sense removed his cloak, and had thrown it over his shoulder. His turban was removed as well, and the sweat flowed freely from his brow. He didn't dare jump into the ocean, because the tides were too strong to swim against.

As he sat on the banks of the ocean, he distinguished a strange sound from among the surf. It was coming from a wall not too far off. A sea cliff, if you will.

It sounded Hollow, like water washing up inside an enclosed space and then drawing back out. He had heard the noise before--a cave. A cave, of all things! If he sheltered himself there until nightfall...

That was it for him. He jumped up, and carefully worked his way back up the sand dunes and along the top of the wall. There was a fifteen feet drop into the ocean here with no beach to wash up on, so he maneuvered carefully. When he was right on top of the noise, he lowered himself down, clutching the side of the cliff with all his might. He felt with his toe the rocky soil that made up the cliff, and was startled when his foot went into the cliff when he kicked it. He repeated the action several more times, and a section of wall about seven feet by six feet crumbled and fall backwards into the ocean, revealing a cave. He let go and dropped onto the 'landing' of the cave--there was still nine feet of drop into the ocean. He peered down into the space, and saw the water rise and fall with the surf. He was dejected at first--but then looked closer.

Something was floating on the waters surface, bobbing with the ebb and flow. It looked like a fruit, and a vine to the bottom attached it.

It looked as big as a pineapple (but of course, Rhyson had never seen a pineapple in his life) and so Rhyson decided it must be tasty. He dove into the cave, riding the ebb and flow without fear of the tides--this cave was enclosed, with only a small hole at the bottom through which the water came in.

With a quick twist of his wrist, he snapped the vine and brought the fruit back out onto the narrow landing. He dangled his feet in the caves water, and took a closer look at his prize.

What can be said about it? It was shaped like a pineapple, but was colored a deep, rosy red, like the color of the sunset. He took a great bite out of the fruit and found the texture good enough. His mouth was coated with saltwater, so he didn't taste the fruit much--it was in fact, a very foul tasting fruit, but felt ripe enough.

He had finished the fruit in mere minutes. He straightened up, balancing on the entrance. Working hand over hand, he climbed the wall back up, and climbed onto the top of the cliff. It was here he noticed something strange--he didn't feel hot. He didn't feel thirsty. In fact, he didn't feel tired.

Thinking it was the fruit; he set off back home, worrying that the effect of the fruit would wear off soon. He shouldn't have worried. As true as it is that Rhyson had never heard of a devil fruit before, someone like him should have remembered that night falls quickly in the desert, and that fleetness would not be needed to escape heat.

The ocean was soon long past him. Even running through the desert, his feet now didn't sink into the sand. He ran across it like a man runs across pavement.

He was beginning to think that something had happened when he ate that fruit. The desert was acting in his favor? The desert is not supposed to yield for anyone.

Night had fallen, and the desert wind scraped the landscape, throwing grains of sand into his eyes, but they didn't sting. He still rubbed his eyes though, and soon rubbed them raw out of habit. He was not wearing his turban, he had left it behind. His cape covered his body, and flapped in the wind behind him.

He reached a spot where the dunes had piled high. He felt a rumbling in the sand, and stepped back in time to avoid the pincher of a very large crab.

Anyone who has not lived in Alabastien will not know what I mean by large. It was the size of a small house, with beady, hungry eyes. Its pinchers snapped at Rhyson's feet, but he nimbly jumped away--something he never was able to do inn the desert before. It wasn't enough though. The crab shot out with its other hook, and in a panic, Rhyson put up his hands. He never felt the crab touch him. Instead, there was a horrid crashing noise. He opened his eyes to see that somehow a wall of rock had formed in front of him, protecting from the huge animal.

He snapped his fingers, this time concentrating on the claw itself. From under the sand, two spikes of earth shot out and speared the claw, making it fall off. The crab, in a flurry of anger, attacked with its remaining claw.

Rhyson braced himself, and took the blow. In fact, he didn't have to. When the claw hit him, his body crumbled into dry earth and fell apart. The confused crab retracted its claw, watching in astonishment as the dry earth reformed in Rhyson's shape.

Although not a real believer in supernatural powers, Rhyson knew enough to know that the fruit was what did this to him. It had granted him abilities over earth, and as such he intended to use them.

He placed his hand on the sand, and detecting movement under it, focused on the sound, the sound of running water. The crab sank into the ground, as Rhyson called on quicksand to form in a funnel shape right under the crabs' husk. Snapping in a fury, it sank below the desert sands, never to be seen again by the eyes of man. Over this funnel stood a bewildered Rhyson, wondering how he had done it, if he had done it. Never before had someone in his village survived an encounter with a hungry desert crab.

He climbed over the last dune, and his eyes met a shocking sight. His village was burning, like a beacon in the night sky. There were no screams, but he saw bodies lying in the street, even from this far away. As he walked into the town, the bodies were piled high, like they had been tossed aside. There were great trenches in the ground, when Rhyson looked into them he saw that they went deep--twenty feet or more. And these trenches littered the town. And almost always, a body lay at the bottom of them, sometimes charred; some of them sliced in half, as if a great blade rendered them. As he reached the center of town, he heard screams.

The center of town was mostly plaza--it wasn't burning. In the center was the biggest pile of bodies of all, which a man was standing besides. From the fire's glare, all Rhyson could make out was the shadow of a hook retracting from a body, and the body thrown aside. The man turned, and saw Rhyson. The golden hook on his left hand was shining red from blood. He was massive--seven feet tall at least, with a majestic fur coat hung on his shoulders. His pants were black; his shoes black and made of fine leather. His shirt was cotton, long-sleeved, and yellow with black lines. There was a scar that went right across his face in a straight line, right below his eyes.

The man was Sir Crocodile, and Rhyson knew it.

There was telling of this man being a protector of the people, that he was a hero. This, of course, had been a farce from the very beginning. Crocodile's grand scheme involved the nation of Alabasta itself, and one of the most important points of his plan was for the population to only exist in the major cities. This town had to go, and as the first step in his plan, he had slaughtered all within.

When he saw Rhyson, he simply saw him as an annoyance, just a small obstacle to remove. If he killed Rhyson, there would be no witness'. Regardless, no one would want to populate this town again.

Crocodile raised his hook, and ran forwards, intending to render Rhyson and kill him instantly. Rhyson, shocked as he was from the revelation that Crocodile had done this, didn't fight back. The hook pierced his heart, and Crocodile, satisfied, drew it out. But it didn't have Rhyson's blood one it. Confused, he looked back to see the hole reforming, the dry earth Rhyson's body was now made of coming back together.

Rhyson's eyes burned silently, and he glared at his opponent with anger and sadness. He clapped his hands together, and willed for his wish to come true--the ground shook, and rock spikes jutted out of the ground, and speared Crocodile through his heart--but just as Rhyson hadn't fallen, neither did crocodile. His body became sand on impact from the spikes, and reformed next to them.

"... It has been a long time since I met someone with potential like yours. Unfortunately boy, you need to die, devil fruit powers or not."

Rhyson looked around him, taking in the destruction one more time. He looked back. "Why did you do this? You're a hero, not a villain."

"...The fools who populate this island can call me what they like. My goal is something they can neither understand nor comprehend."

". What is your goal?"

"It's none of your concern, boy. A dying man need not know what poison he drank."

Crocodile solidified this statement by holding out his good hand, the right one, and palm up. A sandstorm formed in his palm, whirling around. Rhyson put out both hands and mimicked the action. Two whirlwinds appeared in his hands, and with a motion of his wrist, dispelled them. Crocodile, however, did not. His sandstorm grew larger and larger, until it leapt from his hand and began to whorl across the plaza, getting larger and more powerful with each passing second. The rocks began to fly inside; the cobblestone street began to buckle, but despite this incredible drag, Rhyson wasn't pulled inside. The vortex did not pull on him.

He clapped his hands again, and a tower of stone rose from the ground around the sandstorm, and in that instant, trapped it. The tower was sucked inward, like all the air had been drained from it, and crumbled. The storm was gone though.

"Eehh..." crocodile let out an exasperated sigh, and turned again to Rhyson.

"I could teach you, you know, how to use your powers the right way. It's clear that your devil fruit power is the earth, and is not limited to the desert. The world is your power, an that skill is rare indeed."

"If you come with me, and leave this life behind, I'll take you in, and teach you how to use that power."

Rhyson looked around, on the burning houses of his former life...what life? Nothing that had happened here had ever made him happy; he had never had companions in this town. What could he lose from this? It meant living, and a new life. He decided to ignore the fact that crocodile was no longer a hero, but a murderer. He was the only one that knew. He could be dangerous to Croc, and might be killed while he slept. He looked at his tormentor, and considered his proposition, and this risk.

Trust...trust was something that he had, that croc did not have. He decided to play a very risky gamble, based entirely on trust, and he said, "Yes."