Rating: K
Spoilers: Time skip stuff
Timeframe: Time skip
"What is your status?"
Robin ignored the question as she donned a pair of sunglasses and looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair—longer now than ever before in her life—was pulled into a braid. Her usual dark, revealing clothing had been replaced with nondescript khakis and a t-shirt. She looked like a tourist and, more importantly, nothing like her bounty picture.
Even so, she turned to every side looking for some damning feature that would give her away. Caution was a virtue in these situations, especially since she was diving into enemy territory.
"Answer the snail, Agent. I know you're there."
Would her face give her away? Robin rubbed her long nose and briefly considered wearing a scarf, before discarding the idea. The covering would only draw more attention…
"Robin!"
Unable to ignore the den-den mushi any longer, Robin picked up the receiver. "Yes, Mr. Revolutionary?" she asked sweetly.
"Look, I know you're technically not a part of the Revolution, but there are regulations to follow. You need to pick up when I call."
"And you need to trust me," Robin said patiently. "I've done this sort of work before."
"I know, but that was before, and…"
"Sabo, please. I realize this is my first solo mission, but I don't need babysitting."
"I know, but…"
"But nothing, Mr. Revolutionary," Robin interrupted, a hint of steel in her voice. "I will get the information you need, one way or another."
"This isn't an assassination attempt, Agent" Sabo exclaimed loudly enough to make Robin pull the receiver away from her ear. "We need to make friends here, not enemies. The boss has tried pulling this off three times already, and has been unsuccessful each time."
Robin laughed quietly at his distress. "Perhaps all that's needed is a woman's touch. I'll call as soon as I have news."
Without waiting for a response Robin hung up the den-den mushi. It was sweet of him to worry, but she wasn't concerned. If the Revolution had unsuccessfully attempted to bring this particular individual to their side three times without the marines getting involved, then she doubted they would be alerted this time around.
After one last glance in the mirror, Robin went above deck. Despite its historical significance, she had never before stepped on Letum Island, and she wanted to do some sightseeing before her rendezvous with the Archivist.
Letum Island was a fall island located on a little-known, out of the way section of the Grand Line. It had the reputation for being perpetually dreary, but Robin was glad to see that today was a pleasant exception, and the sun managed to shine despite a stiff wind.
The marine base at Letum was one of the first casualties of the Great Pirate Era. Caught unawares by the effect of Roger's death, it was completely razed in the first surge of pirates that flooded the Grand Line in search of One Piece. There were no survivors, and no building could be salvaged. Rumor spread that the grounds were haunted by the deceased sailors, pervasive enough to spook the contractors hired to rebuild. No one would step foot on the island, and it seemed like Letum was fated to fade into obscurity.
Newly promoted Fleet Admiral Sengoku would have nothing of it. Refusing to allow pirates to have the last word, Sengoku declared Letum hallowed ground and began plans for constructing a memorial. The result was what Robin saw as she stepped onto dry ground.
A large black wall circled around nearly the entire island. Sun glinted off gabbro stone, forcing Robin to pull her sunglasses over her eyes. The wall was not terribly tall, but it carried a presence that demanded respect.
"You here t' see the Sea of Grass?" a dockhand asked as Robin stepped off the ship. The Revolutionaries she had sailed with glared with distrust, but Robin shook her head slightly, and they backed down.
"In a manner of speaking," she answered politely. "I'm looking for a name."
She could not see it from the pier, but engraved on the Wall was the name of every marine killed in action since the execution of Gold Roger. A small town was settled around the harbor, the only sign of civilization to be found. Letum was first and foremost a historical site, and with the memorial taking up so much room there was very little space leftover to build. With travel on the Grand Line as dangerous as it was, very few dared to brave the seas towards a gloomy island for no reason but to remember the past.
More the pity, Robin thought. She detested the World Government and all it stood for, but in this instance she could see that the effort was well worth the cost.
"Ah," the man said with a knowing nod. "In that case, I'd suggest findin' a hotel for the night. Dark comes early 'round these parts, 'n dark's not a good time for a lady t' be wanderin' about."
"Oh?"
"I'm not a superstitious man, but there're stories, ya know?" He smiled sheepishly. "I'd hate t' hear about a ghost snatchin' away a pretty lady like yourself."
"And I do not particularly want to be snatched," Robin agreed. She turned to her traveling companions. "Why don't you find us a place to board for the night? I'll be in before dark. I'd like to at least start looking today."
"But…" one young Revolutionary began to argue. Robin cut him off with a cold glare. They were only here as her protection duty, Robin knew, but she did not need protecting. She would not have agreed to their presence at all, except it would be impractical for her to sail the ship by herself.
"Yes, ma'am," he said meekly, shrugging a bag higher on his shoulder before addressing the dockhand. "Is there a place you'd recommend?"
The helpful islander began to give directions, and Robin took her leave. Ever since Dragon had offered her this opportunity, she burned with curiosity. Mission aside, there was something she hoped to find, and this might be her only chance to seek it out.
The Wall made up half of the memorial. At the end of each year some poor soul had the morbid task of complying the name of all the marines who had been killed in action. Those names were then divided into five sections, one for each of the blues and the Grand Line. Within each section, names were listed alphabetically. There were no ranks or accolades, just names. Whoever these men and women had been in life, they were now connected by death for a common cause.
Most of the memorial was empty, shiny black stone that waited patiently for the year it, too, would be engraved. Robin wondered how many decades it would take until the names came full circle.
She walked slowly to the first panel, marked the year of Roger's death. Twenty…no, twenty-one years had passed since then. The beginning of the Golden Age of Piracy overshadowed the tragedy of the Buster Call, though they occurred in the same year. While Robin alone remembered the names and faces of the massacred innocents, at least there was a place on the memorial for the marines who fell that day.
Too many through friendly fire, Robin thought sadly. There had been marines on the civilian ship destroyed by Admiral Akainu's senseless attack. Robin quickly scanned the names listed under the West Blue. Jadd, Matthew; Jael, Trex; Jaffman, Ross; Jahde, Lynn…
"Hmm, such a melancholy face for one so young."
Robin turned, the hairs on her neck prickling. She had not sensed a presence behind her. An extraordinarily old man stood, clenching a walking stick for support. Years had added a stoop to his back. That, along with the tired look in his eye, gave him the appearance of one burdened with an immense weight.
"There are some things that should be reflected on seriously," she answered.
"And unusual wisdom, to boot," the man said, nodding in approval. His voice came out in a dry croak, as if he spent too much time in a dusty room. "Have you visited the Sea of Grass?"
"Not as of yet, no."
"Ah. Then allow this old man the pleasure of showing it to you. The view at sunset is magnificent."
"I was warned not to stay out after dark for fear of ghosts," Robin said, but she took the offered arm regardless.
"There are some ghosts who shouldn't be forgotten, Miss Nico," he said quietly.
"I don't recall giving you my name, Mr. Archivist," Robin said as he guided her along a pathway.
"Nor you mine, and yet it seems we are already introduced. Life is curious that way sometimes."
They came to a gate in the Wall—one of five, representing each sea—protected by two marines in full dress. They were the sentinels of the monument, an honor guard for their deceased brothers in arms.
The Archivist paid them no heed and walked through the opening into the Sea of Grass.
If the Wall of Names was a tribute to those killed in action, the Sea of Grass was a memorial to those lost at sea. Each of the five gates in the Wall was the beginning of a different path. The shortest was only a few miles; the longest was a two-day trek across the entire island. Other than the trails, there was only grass. It grew to about waist height, and the wind rippled through it in a way that was reminiscent of the ocean.
Robin paused, taking in the sight. The only noise was the soft rustle of grass and the chirp of crickets. The tourists had left for the day, leaving only Robin, the Archivist, and the guards at the gate.
"There is a bench a little farther in," the Archivist said. "We can rest there in peace."
"We won't be asked to leave for staying past visiting hours?" Robin asked, giving a significant look to the marines standing at attention.
"They will not leave their post unless they have a reason to believe someone is causing a disturbance."
It did not take them long to reach the bench. The Archivist sat first, his knees making an arthritic popping noise that made Robin wince. He patted the empty space beside him, and Robin sat.
"It truly does remind me of the ocean," Robin said, with a nod to the grass that surrounded them. "The designers did their job well."
"That they did. They say each blade of grass represents a man lost at sea," the Archivist said. "Although I doubt you came to pay respect to the dead."
"I doubt I'm welcome here. Not when I'm personally responsible for so many engravings on the Wall."
"And yet here you are." The playfulness had left his voice, and he sighed. "I am an old man, Miss Nico. I can't imagine what you want from me."
Robin paused a moment, thinking about how she wanted to answer. "I want nothing at all. I find your current venture completely satisfactory. The one who sent me, he's the one who's interested in your ability."
"Ability," the Archivist scoffed. "Don't make me laugh."
"There are precious few historians left," Robin said quietly. "Information is a powerful thing."
"And as I've told those who came before you, my work is here. These are the ones who need my skills." He gestured to the wall. "Good men and women have died because of politics. I refuse to get involved."
"And how much of those politics have been set forth by a corrupt government?"
The Archivist laughed, a harsh, barking sound that was surprisingly bitter. "Don't try and take the high road, girl. The coups the Revolution cause are far bloodier than anything the Government has done."
Robin stiffened. "Ohara begs to differ. You should know that better than anybody. You knew the Professor Clover, did you not?"
"That was a long time ago."
"Every credible historian of your generation has spent at least some time at the Tree of Knowledge, whether they were officially aligned with the archeologists there or not. It held the single largest repository of knowledge outside of the Archives of Mariejois. Do you believe they deserved to die as they did?" Robin asked.
The Archivist was silent.
"The fact that you haven't alerted the marines of Dragon's previous attempts to recruit you is very telling," Robin continued. "It makes one wonder if perhaps there is an argument that will persuade you."
"You mistake sympathy for desire," the Archivist said. "The Revolution's ideal is noble, but I have no wish to take part. I have seen no proof that Dragon's new world will be any different than the one we live in today."
"So you would rather continue with the status quo?"
"Versus an unknown future? Absolutely." The Archivist leaned back and stared at the darkening sky. "We are students of history, Miss Nico. You should know that rebellions do not end well, and oftentimes the new regime becomes worse than the last."
Robin raised an eyebrow. "Have you studied Dragon's model?"
"Yes, and it's very well thought-out. However, I also see how it's not always put into practice. Have you heard of Arkham Island?"
"It does sound familiar," Robin said.
"It's a small island in the East, one of the first countries Dragon 'liberated'." The Archivist shook his head in disgust. "It's become a pit. Anarchy, mass killings…it's been fifteen years, and there is no sign of order."
"Dragon would be the first to admit that he has not always been successful, especially at the beginning," Robin said, stomach churning at the Arkham's fate. "However, that is but one extreme example. There are dozens of success stories. You would never know it, because the Government has a monopoly on the news outlets."
"Perhaps, but at least with the World Government the power is spread amongst several individuals. Who's to say that Dragon won't attempt to become some sort of dictator? I won't risk it."
"I can see that your mind's set," Robin said, raising to her feet. "I would ask you to take some things under consideration."
"Anything for a fellow historian," the Archivist said.
"Slavery has been illegal for centuries, and yet it continues to be practiced. Even the World Government uses slave labor to fund projects they would prefer stay secret."
The Archivist's brows furrowed together. "I've not heard of this."
"Then I suggest you look into your documents on Tequila Wolf," Robin said. "And while you do, ponder this: What sort of government is scared enough of the past that they're willing to destroy whole islands to ensure their secrets never see the light of day?"
"You've given me much to think about," the Archivist said gravely.
"One final thing," Robin said. "Your Wall is missing a name."
"What?"
"There was a marine who died twenty-one years ago saving a little girl from certain death," Robin said quietly as she looked out to the Sea of Grass. A blade for every marine lost at sea. It was almost impossible to imagine so many lives wasted, the incalculable grief experienced by their friends and families. At least they were remembered in some small way.
"And his name?" the Archivist asked.
"Jaguar D. Saul." Robin took a deep breath and offered the elderly man a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Now, if you'll excuse me, there will be people waiting for my return."
"What is your status?"
"We only talked once, but I wouldn't be surprised if Dragon heard from the Archivist soon."
"And why do you say that?" It was impossible to miss the excitement in Sabo's voice.
Robin smiled and recalled the most recent addition to the Wall of Names, carefully carved into the first panel with all the others who died twenty-one years ago. She had almost missed it while taking a final look at the monument before departure. It was obviously engraved by an amateur, but lovingly placed nonetheless by someone who genuinely desired to make the marine's sacrifice known to the next generation.
"Call it a woman's intuition."
AN: The Wall of Names is quite shamelessly based on the Vietnam Veteran's Memorial Wall and the idea of a sentinel guard inspired by the Tomb Guard sentinels at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Arlington (those guys remained at their post during a hurricane. Mad props). As far as I know, there isn't anything like the Sea of Grass in real life, but I'm not exactly an expert on memorials.
Thanks for reading.