Soft laughter filling in gaps between the clink of teeth and crystal stemware. Decorative lights hanging between the blades of still fans. Little flames dancing on soft-waxed candles in round fat jars. Cool jazz fluted through speakers hidden among lush plants.

Spider's Café, a soulless place.

She likes it here.

She lays the glossy photos out in front of her. Mr. 0 gave her no names; he expects her to be capable of producing at least that much—and how? It isn't like there's some huge pirate database where she can just plug in pictures, punch a few buttons, and get a ticker tape of results. She doesn't frustrate easily, though; for now she merely arranges and rearranges the photos, as though touching and moving them might reveal some tactile insight into the people pictured.

A blond man is the new Mr. 2. She inspects one curled eyebrow and the glowing end of his cigarette for some sort of hint. He requested a specific partner, and although approval is still pending, she places the picture of a sly-looking redhead next to him. Finding no real clues in their youthful faces, she turns to the new Mr. 3, a tanned boy with a rather prominent nose that he proudly displays. In the picture, for whatever reason, his pet reindeer is looking into the camera with murderous rage in its eyes, an expression not normally associated with herbivores. Though it's normal policy to reassign the Misses when their male partners have been replaced, she places Miss Goldenweek's picture next to the boy and the reindeer, because Mr. 0 seems to operate on whim sometimes, and there have yet to be complaints, at least ones that can't be silenced. The list continues, but the other Officer Agents are the same. She glosses over Mr. 4, Mr. 5, and their respective partners, only pausing to recall that Mr. 4 has a pet as well. She wonders if that's a new thing.

Ah, and then, of course, there's the new Mr. 14. The picture shows a scrawny black-haired boy, grinning radiantly despite having placed only one provisionary spot above the Millions and Billions. Unless the straw hat covers an impressive set of horns, she really can't imagine what Mr. 0 was thinking when he made this assignment. She puts Miss Doublefinger's picture down beside Mr. 14's, and wonders if this is Mr. 0's idea of a joke. Even without the height difference, the two of them make a terrible pair.

As the café's door swings open to admit one swaggering body, she slides the photos back into their envelope and returns to the one she's studied and memorized. As he walks by her table, she checks discreetly for pets, and is relieved not to find any. She clears her throat.

"Congratulations on your promotion, Mr. 1. I hear that you and your friends left a rather impressive swath of destruction in your wakes?"

His steps slow as he turns. He is unhurried and unsurprised.

"Miss All-Sunday," he acknowledges, with a nod. She notes how he limits his check of their surroundings to a cursory sweep around the room, a split-second flickering of the eyes. Wariness without discretion is called paranoia, after all, while discreet paranoia is known as being cautious. He seems a cautious person.

He sits, takes a moment to get comfortable before looking her over.

"Mr. 1, huh? Is that what they're calling me now?" There's a slow grin coming over his face, like an avalanche, like the first stirrings of a tornado. "I hope you guys aren't making the nameplate yet, because you know I'm after spot zero."

Not so cautious after all, perhaps.

"Should you be telling me this?" she asks, finding her drink and taking a careful sip. Minty, with a hint of chocolate. Maybe a little too sweet, but she watched its preparation herself, from the bottle to the pan to the glass. Just in case.

"You're here to spy me out for the boss, right?" He rests his elbows on the polished table surface. "You might as let him know I'm out for his head. Sorry for the demotion, by the way."

"Demotion?"

"From partner of the boss to partner of the bossed? I'd count that as a demotion."

"Not at all. I was paired with Mr. 0 so he could always keep an eye on me. Now I'm to keep an eye on you. I'd count that an improvement."

"Should you be telling me that?" He raises a strangely pale hand to flag down a waiter, then pauses. "By the way, you said something earlier about my friends? Who exactly are you talking about?"

"Don't tell me you weren't a part of it? That would too much of a coincidence."

"Part of what?" he asks.

"If you don't know, I really shouldn't tell you." She hands him a menu. "Why don't you order a drink instead?"

"I'll take rum," he says, handing the menu over to the waiter without looking. "Listen, I'm not interested in the politics or whatever of Baroque Works. I'm a pretty straightforward guy. The only reason I want to take out the boss is because I don't like answering to anyone else."

"And me?" She wants to dismiss her first impression of him as watchful and cautious, except she's seen how his eyes track everything that moves, like a predator.

"You?"

"Apparently you rejected every partner who was suggested to you. And here you have me."

"How do you know I wasn't aiming for you in the first place?"

For a moment she's startled, and there's the white flash of his victory grin.

"That's a point for me," he says. He leans back and lazily takes a swig of his rum. She's pretty sure he hasn't checked it at all for doctoring; she could've bribed the busboy for all he knows. What a confident, foolish man.

"I hadn't realized we were playing," she says carefully, ghosting a question mark onto the end of her sentence.

"Oh, everyone's playing, Miss All-Sunday," he assures her, as he takes another drink. "The only ones who don't play anymore are the ones who've lost."

"Why do you think Baroque Works does this? Pairs up every guy with a girl, I mean." He takes a swill of his drink. He has rum again, she has coffee. Depressant versus stimulant: she's amused by the idea that his drink will slow him down, while hers will pick her up. It hasn't worked yet, unfortunately.

"Why, it's to make babies, of course," she responds, straight faced, and enjoys his sudden sputters. "We need to think of the next generation of Baroque Works employees, the ones who will take over after we're gone. I believe I get a point, by the way."

"Got me there," he concedes, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He's gotten a slight lead over the past two weeks, thanks to the discovery that a well-delivered pick-up line can make her blush every time. She's catching up quickly though, now that she understands the game and how it works, when it can and can't be called into play.

"Though I have to wonder," she says, picking up in the middle of her train of thought. "Isn't this game too easy a cover for something else?" After only scant weeks, she enjoys not having to explain where she's coming from, because it's likely he's already thought it too.

"Got me there too," he grins. "But what you haven't got is what I'm covering up. Looks like I still win."

She rewinds to their first conversation, tries to remember the first mention of points. She smiles. "To the contrary: I've 'got' that as well. Why were you aiming for me, Mr. 1? Why were you hoping to be paired with me?"

The mark of a true competitor is being happy to take a loss. Mr. 1 leans in, looking pleased that she's proved herself a fair match, at least in his eyes. In hers he's nowhere near her level, but she won't tell him that. "You're looking for it too, aren't you?"

"Looking for what?"

"Don't know," he laughs. "But it's important. I want it so bad I can taste it. And you're the key."

"Is it a book?" she suggests. "I have a lot of books."

"Nah, it's not a book. It's not something you have, or you wouldn't want it like I do. I've never seen anyone else who was after it too. As long as I stick with you, I know I'm going to get it." He takes a long, considering drink, then amends, "That or die trying."

"So you're saying you want something, but you don't know what it is. You think I want it too, so you're just going to keep me in your sight, hoping to get it."

"Yeah, that's about it."

She stops to think about this. Then she extends a hand and a smile. "I never formally invited you to Baroque Works, partner. Let's get started on our assignment."

The city of water fortunately keeps its sidewalks dry. Trying to run without slipping would have been a nightmare otherwise.

"By the way, I like how everyone and his pigeon here is after you," Mr. 1 comments, as they take to the rooftops.

"I find your one devotee quite touching as well," she replies, taking his offered hand up though she could just as easily have given herself one.

"Uh huh," he says. "And whose pursuers are slicing apart buildings, and whose one pursuer is stumbling around without her glasses?"

"True, but it's only a matter of time before she calls in cigar-wielding reinforcements. Not that way." She taps his shoulder with a hand grown from his back. "Over here."

He shrugs and turns, used to following her directions by now. Behind him, there is a cry of, "Feeling SUPA! Aoow!"

"One of yours?" he suggests, as he catches up to her.

"He doesn't look much like a carpenter," she points out. "Maybe your friend has more friends?"

"Not outside of the Marines, she doesn't. Where are the other Agents waiting again?"

"At the dock. Mr. 2 called me earlier to relay our new instructions. We're going to be investigating a certain boat Mr. 0 is interested in."

"What, all of us?"

"Apparently it's haunted."

"So he needs ten Officer Agents to take care of some ghosts?"

"Twelve, actually. And a dog and a reindeer."

"Oh good. I was hoping for a full circus."

"There's the boat. Let's go."

"Which one? The green one?"

"No, the one with the Marine flag."

"Figures," he laughs. "They've pulled the ladder up. Are we going to jump?"

"At the edge," she agrees.

"Goodbye, Water 7," he calls with a jaunty wave. "Sorry to have wasted your time, but apparently the boss doesn't care about you anymore. See you around."

"I sincerely doubt that."

They both leap onto the boat, automatically positioning their backs to each other as they make sure nothing's out of place. She notes the 2, 3, 4 and 5 pairs, the aforementioned pets, as well as—

"Who's the kid in red?" Mr. 1 asks.

"Mr. 14. My partner," Miss Doublefinger dismisses, stepping forward. "How do you do, Mr. 1."

He shrugs at her. "Still hurting a little, if it makes you feel any better. Took me a hell of a long time to learn how to cut steel. He nearly got me with the blender attack."

"Blender attack," she murmurs, as the boat leaves harbor. "Charming."

Miss All-Sunday knows her partner. She knows that he is the epitome of arrogance. He leans now against the railing, and the way his hands aren't even close to his swords is a studied insult.

"Where's Vivi," Mr. 14 suddenly whines. "I wanted her to see when we beat up the bad guys."

Miss All-Sunday looks up.

"Vivi-chan already saw the most important part," Mr. 2 cuts in. "This is just clean-up."

Highly suspicious. Miss All-Sunday exchanges a look with Mr. 1, who nods back at her grimly. They inch towards each other, and she puts a hand her to his head, as though smoothing out his hair. Before he can bite her hand off, which she can tell he has half a mind to do, she grows a mouth on her palm and cups it over his ear.

"Three new Officer Agents were promoted on the same day as you, as well as Mr. 14. They're all here now. Miss Doublefinger isn't one of them. Neither are the 4 and 5 pairs, nor Miss Goldenweek."

He shakes off her hand, but she knows he heard, and hazards a guess at his thoughts: '2-to-1 odds, what are they going to try?' She watches his hand inch closer to his swords, though. Cautious, after all.

She remembers their first conversation, and suddenly realizes what she just said. Mr. 1 was promoted on the same day as the others. Shouldn't that make him a prime suspect for involvement in whatever plot this is?

Idly, she wonders why it's taken her this long to make that connection. She watches his left hand settle on the omnipresent swords—to defend his partner, or to betray? She should be more worried than she is, but instead she feels strangely calm. Not for the first time, she notices that his left hand is a few shades lighter than the rest of him. If it weren't for the lack of stitches around his wrist, she'd suspect him of being a transplantee, but the skin is too smooth for it to be someone else's hand. The two hands, mismatched though they are, go up to remove his bandana, which he ties over his head with slow, deliberate motions.

"Butterflies?" she asks. Mr. 2 and 3 are both watching, as is Mr. 3's pet.

"Point for you," he grins. "Are we doing this?"

She turns her back to him. "I probably should point out that we won't have an excuse if it turns out we guessed wrong. We can't exactly say we wanted their positions."

"We can say they wanted ours." Mr. 1 backs up until his shoulder blades touch hers. If they were as sharp as the blades at his side, she muses, she'd be dead for trusting him.

"What exactly is going on?" Miss Doublefinger asks.

Mr. 2 drops down to a crouch. Miss All-Sunday has heard that his kicks are terrifying. What she didn't expect were the hearts in his eyes.

"Watch me, Nami-swaaaan!" he proclaims. "Your noble partner will now fight with love!"

"Really?" says Mr. 14. "Is it time to fight already?" He bounces over eagerly, though it's hard to picture him doing any damage.

Mr. 2's partner, who is apparently called Nami-swaan, pulls out three tubes, which she joins together with practiced motions. Even Mr. 3's pet reindeer clip-clops over to join the others. Only Mr. 3 doesn't stand with his comrades. He's looking out over the sea, adjusting the funny lenses he pulled over his eyes earlier.

"H-h-hold on, don't fight!" he stammers. "It's… It's Merry!"

"Merry?" The reindeer speaks, starting a yell from Mr. 1.

"Already?" asks Nami-swan. The would-be betrayers of one of the Grand Line's biggest secret organizations suddenly seem to lose interest. They join Mr. 3 at the railing, where they look eagerly towards a growing speck on the horizon.

"I thought we were going to take care of these guys before we got to Merry?" Mr. 2 asks.

"We shouldn't be there yet," Nami-swan says. Watching their dialogue is like watching a play. They fire off their parts in rapid succession, as easily as though rehearsed. "I don't understand—"

"It's Merry." Mr. 3.

"We get that, thank you." Nami-swan.

"Don't say such obvious things to Nami-swan!" Mr. 2.

"No, I mean, Merry is the reason." Mr. 3.

"Of course Merry's the reason. That's why we're going back, right?" Mr. 14.

"No! I mean, Merry is the reason we're already there! Merry's moving! Merry's coming for us!" Mr. 3.

"Merry is…?" The reindeer. (Mr. 1 jumps again at hearing an animal talk.

"Can I get a point for that?" Miss All-Sunday asks.

"NO.")

"I thought we were fighting?" Mr. 1 sounds disappointed. The reason he enjoys losing once in a while is for the challenge. Having his opponents just walk away is no challenge at all.

"Oh yeah. What should we do about them?" Mr. 14 jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

"We should probably beat them, but it's Merry…"

They're pulling up alongside a small caravel with a goat's head. As they watch, the smaller boat begins quaking in the water.

"Haunted, huh?" Mr. 1 glances quickly over his shoulder at her. "Interested?"

"What about the people betraying our organization?" she puts in.

"Not too loyal to this organization myself," says Mr. 1. She can tell he's already sizing up the jump. "From the sounds of it, boss-man's already dead."

Mr. 1 and Miss All-Sunday make their second wild leap over the ocean. They land safely on the small boat just as Mr. 14 stretches out an arm to ridiculous lengths, wraps it around all the other occupants of the Marine vessel, loyal Baroque Works employees or not, and sweeps them all aboard.

"Yup!" Mr. 14 says happily. "We beat him up. Wanna come see our ship?"

"Luffy," Nami-swan says irritably. "They're already on our ship."

"This is your ship?" Miss All-Sunday studies the sun-bleached railings, the water-warped planks composing the deck. "It looks a little… out of use."

"We had to leave Merry because of the scary octopus. And because we had to beat up Crocodile. But now we're back!"

"Octopus?" Miss All-Sunday repeats. When she looks carefully over the railing, she realizes that there are tentacles snaking up the bottom of the boat, and that these tentacles are causing the boat to rock.

"Octopus?" Mr. 1 says as well. When he looks at Miss All-Sunday, his face seems unnaturally pale, but then she realizes that hers probably is too.

"Hey, everyone, wanna help us beat up the octopus?" Mr. 14 asks. Disgruntled Baroque Works agents are slowly picking themselves up off the deck. They don't look particularly happy with Mr. 14's method of transportation.

She's not sure what would have happened, if things were allowed to run their course. Instead, the octopus sweeps up onto deck. It is enormous and disgusting, and the vessel's tiny width can barely contain the octopus's bulk within its railings.

"Wasn't she supposed to be an octopus?" Mr. 1 asks, and Miss All-Sunday wonders what he's seeing.

"Wasn't it supposed to be a woman?" she returns, and they look at each other again.

Mr. 14 stretches both arms all the way back, in a move that looks like the beginning of an attack. Mr. 2 takes a running head start and leaps into the air. Nami-swan is spinning two of her blue tubes, to no obvious effect, but when Miss All-Sunday looks up, she sees a suspicious storm cloud forming in an otherwise clear sky. Mr. 3 is holding a slingshot with slightly trembling fingers. His pet reindeer has transformed into a gorilla.

For some reason, Miss Goldenweek is mixing her paints, though she must know that her partner was previously planning to betray her. But as Miss All-Sunday looks around the deck, she realizes that everyone is joining in. Miss Merrychristmas has turned into a mole, and Miss Doublefinger into a blue porcupine. Mr. 4 is taking his time hefting his bat, whilst Mr. 5 picks his nose. At first she doesn't see Miss Valentine, but then Mr. 1 nudges her shoulder and jerks his chin upward. She can just see a yellow figure floating by the newly formed cloud, laughing as she clings to her umbrella.

"Why are they all fighting too?" Miss All-Sunday asks, as she and Mr. 1 back off to the side.

"Maybe they all just want to fight something," he suggests, like he knows that feeling well.

"Or maybe it just feels like what they have to do," she says, and she knows that feeling well. The eleven of them are all spread out around the giant octopus. Then, at an unknown signal, they all come together, like an explosion in reverse.

She can hardly pick out a single distinct attack name as they all hit at once. For a moment, she's seeing a different boat. The same people are all in the same places, using the exact same attacks, but though they look no different, she suddenly knows them. The boat under her feet is the Going Merry, and it is no longer the dilapidated ghost ship they boarded, but the brave vessel that has carried them to the sky and back.

And then she is standing next to Mr. 1 again. There's no need to ask if he's seen; she simply crosses her arms over her chest, closes her eyes, and listens for the metallic ring of katana being drawn from their sheaths. A hundred flowers burst from the deck to grasp at the octopus from beneath. She can feel the wind on her fingers as three blades cut dangerously close.

"Miss All-Sunday?" he asks, standing.

"Mr. 1?"

Pause.

"Robin."

"Swordsman-san," she agrees.

"You should see this." He waves her over.

She walks to where he stands over the corpse of the octopus. As she looks into the clean cut, she can hear the buzzing of voices all around her, but they seem to grow more and more distant as she peers down, as though in looking she is falling, and once she falls back in there will be no need to get out again.

In the slit belly of the octopus, she can see herself, hair fanned out around her head, arms still crossed over her chest. Next to her is Zoro, lying awkwardly on his left hand, probably crushing it under his own weight. His right hand is still clenched triumphantly around his precious white katana, though, and the two of them are wearing identical expressions of victory.