Rating: K+
Timeframe: Baroque Works, pre Straw Hat
Spoilers: None that I can think of
The Alabastian air was bone dry as Miss All Sunday walked down a back alley in a rather unsavory part of Alburna. Whispers abounded, not directed at her for once. Alabasta was currently in the middle of its supposed rainy season, but once again rain was nowhere to be found. Frustration and dissent abounded, and Miss All Sunday (ever present of her surroundings) heard rumors of conspiracy and civil unrest.
Business as usual.
But it was not today's business. Miss All Sunday had finished her paper work ahead of schedule, made sure all the frontier agents were staying on task with their missions, and taken the afternoon off. Today she was running an errand that was much more important than the downfall of a country.
She had found another lead. Possibly, maybe, hopefully.
Miss All Sunday turned the final corner before reaching her destination. She paused, taking time to scout the vender with her power. After all, being caught browsing the black market would have been problematic, especially since Crocodile did not know of this little side trip. Finding nothing suspicious she strode forward with all the confidence of a hardened criminal. She would not tolerate being taken advantage of, not with something this important.
At the sight of her arrival the body guards in charge of protecting the stall reached for their weapons. Miss All Sunday smirked behind her headdress at their charming, yet useless effort. She recognized one of the toughs as the Baroque Work agent who had inadvertently informed her of his employer's less than legal business operation. He obviously didn't recognize her in the traditional Alabastian garb that she had for special occasions like this. The man and his fellow coworkers grabbed their cheaply made swords and did their best to look intimidating with varying levels of success. Another man, pale and almost unnaturally thin with wild hair, came out from behind his stall.
"Peace brothers, I believe she has an appointment," he said in a thick accent that was as impossible to place as it was fake. Slowly his guards lowered their weapons, but remained ill at ease at the stranger in their presence.
"Thank you, Mister…?" Miss All Sunday said in a low flattering voice.
"Please, no names. Everyone is much happier with no names," he replied, flapping his hands in dismissal. Little did the man know that she already knew his name, the full nature of his business, as well as the family he had left behind in the North Blue. Sometimes being the head of an international crime syndicate had its perks.
"Very well, I believe you have a package for me?" The man nodded and led Miss All Sunday into a little building with poor lighting. She carefully sent her eyes and ears ahead of her, scouring the area. A small family of five was eating their dinner in a shack next door, but other than that the pair were alone.
The skinny man gestured Miss All Sunday to sit in an uncomfortable looking chair by a worn desk while he rummaged through his little shop. He returned with a small package and a triumphant grin. He sat down opposite of Miss All Sunday and slid the package across the desk in an overly dramatic fashion.
"The goods, I believe, that you inquired about. Satisfactory, yes?" he said as he sat back and crossed his arms in content.
Miss All Sunday didn't bother to dignify the smug little man with a response. Instead, she slowly opened the nondescript packaging to reveal the text inside. Carefully she flipped open to a random page, and then another. The book had some wear too it, but nothing too distressing. The publishing date and company, author, and editor were all correct. Without doing a thorough test, this was the real deal.
"How much?" she asked in a bored tone.
"One million, I think should suffice," he answered, still wearing a confident smirk.
"I think not," Miss All Sunday replied as she snapped the book shut. "This is rare, but not that rare."
"Miss, I do not believe you are understanding the situation fully. That book has been out of print for seven years, after a limited run. The government has declared its words heresy, and the man who wrote it is now dead. My offer stands, one million bellies."
"This text's author is known for his poor research and logical fallacy. He makes grandiose claims without having the facts to back them up, and has been largely disregarded from the scientific community as a fraud. I do not care how difficult it was to obtain, it is not worth one million berries, and we both know it," Miss All Sunday said coldly.
After a short staring contest, the man sighed and uncrossed his arms, "Fine, seventy five thousand, and not a berry less. I do have a business to run."
"Make it sixty five and you have yourself a deal, Mr. Bookkeep."
"Seventy."
"Done."
The man gave her an enthusiastic handshake, knowing full and well that he had over priced her despite the bartering that had taken place. Not that it mattered to Miss All Sunday. Crocodile would be footing the bill.
After the transaction took place, the man led her out of his store and back to the street. He gave her a slight bow, and told her it had been a pleasure doing business. He had no way of knowing that Miss All Sunday had already arranged for his untimely demise in an unfortunate accident later this week. As it was, she ignored him, eager to go back to Rain Dinners before she was missed.
She hadn't got far before she noticed a small shadow tailing her. Miss All Sunday frowned before going down a secluded alleyway, away from suspicious eyes. She turned to face whoever was following her. To her surprise, she caught a glimpse of a little girl before she ducked behind a trash heap. It was difficult to be sure, but the girl looked like she belonged to the family she had seen eating. Miss All Sunday's frown deepened. She would have liked to get through this business without any hiccups.
"I know you're there. There's no use in hiding," Miss All Sunday called in a carefully neutral tone.
The girl popped out from her hiding place. She eyed Miss All Sunday with a look of supreme distrust. She was wearing shabby Alabastian robes and no shoes. The air of a street wise urchin surrounded her, and she looked like she would bolt at the slightest provocation.
The child had also seen her with the book seller and, presumably, had been attempting to rob her of her wares.
There could be no loose ends, not with the stakes as high as they were. Miss All Sunday crossed her arms in a distinctive X shape, willing to keep her secret no matter the cost.
Back at Rain Dinners, Miss All Sunday examined her new purchase with trembling hands. Here was her final glimmer of hope, slight as it was. It was rumored that this text held the secret of an indestructible stone, carved in strange characters that no one could decipher.
Everything rode on this book. Crocodile's plan was running smoothly and was reaching its endgame; war would most certainly break out within the year. Miss All Sunday had no plans of actually giving the Warlord what he was looking for, but she desperately needed her next lead. After twenty years of searching, she had run out of places to look. If Alabasta's poneglyph wasn't the Rio Poneglyph, she would be at a loss at what to do next.
The thought terrified her.
So she painstakingly scoured the book for the slightest hint or the most hidden clue. As expected, the author's research was poor. He wrote of rumors and myths from second hand sources, with no evidence or verification. And while Miss All Sunday had witnessed firsthand how corrupt the World Government could be, the wild claims this man made were…unlikely to say the least.
Nothing useful. Nothing about poneglyphs. Miss All Sunday closed her eyes in frustration and suddenly felt very old. Like a stone constantly beaten by the waves, she was worn and tired. Is this what Saul meant when he told her to live? Would Professor Clover be proud of her efforts in Alabasta?
What would her mother have thought about the temptation Miss All Sunday had to murder a little girl, simply for having seen her?
"Following strangers is a very dangerous hobby," Miss All Sunday commented, as if she were talking about the weather.
The girl scuffed her feet in the sand, unsure what to do now that she had been caught. Her eyes darted back and forth, looking for an out. After a long pause, Miss All Sunday continued, "Especially when you don't know who you're following," the child's eyes widened in fear.
"I didn' mean nuthin' of it, Miss! I jus' heard Tufts talking about a big customer, and I thought I'd check it out!"
"Tufts?" Miss All Sunday asked in amusement.
"The seller-man, 'cause of his hair," she said.
"I see. So you thought robbing me would be a good idea then?"
"No! Of course not, I-I was just-" the girl's blabbering stopped when a disembodied arm grew out of her chest and pinched her lips closed. In public Miss All Sunday made sure not to show off her power, but right now she wasn't Miss All Sunday, and right now they were alone. The girl's eyes grew even larger, and tears began to leak from the corners of her eyes. Miss All Sunday sauntered over towards her, towering over the terrified child.
Miss All Sunday knew, intellectually speaking, that she should just kill her and be done with it. The longer they stayed in this little back street the bigger chance they had of getting found. It might even be a kindness. Bad things were coming to Alabasta, and there was a high chance that this girl, and others like her, would suffer horribly. At least Miss All Sunday could promise a quick and painless death.
More arms sprouted from the girl's chest and pinned her arms to her side. The girl began to struggle, but hands grew from the ground to hold her ankles fast. She squirmed like a wet fish, momentarily breaking Miss All Sunday's hold on her mouth. There was a wild, desperate look in her eyes. It was if Miss All Sunday was seeing a reflection of her eight year old self.
"Please miss," the girl managed to whisper, "I just want to go home."
In that instant, the girl broke something in Miss All Sunday. In a moment of weakness, the hands dissipated, and the girl ran for her life, not giving her the chance to change her mind. After standing awhile dumbstruck, Miss All Sunday hurried back to Rain Dinners. She had already wasted too much time in this place.
Yes, Miss All Sunday was very, very tired.
How long had it been since she had been called by her real name? How long had it been since she referred to herself by her real name?
With a small sigh, Miss All Sunday closed the useless book and placed it in her collection. A proper hiding place would be found for it tomorrow. Right now she needed to go to sleep.
But, like for the last twenty years, rest would not come.
AN: And there's chapter two. I pretty sure Robin wouldn't kill a kid, but I suppose when pressed you never know for sure. Depressing thought . And no matter how poorly written, I don't think she would ever harm a book on purpose.
Reviews make Sarcasticles a happy camper, let me know what you thought.