RISE FROM YOUR GRAVE; NEVER GIVE UP
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Chapter 13: Terror At Whiskey Peak! Is This A New Adversary?!
You are now someone else, at a slightly later time, and it's about fucking time! You get the feeling that someone has a lot to answer for. You don't know who that someone could be, nor what they've done, but they barely feel worth wasting your very valuable time on.
Still, you do feel like your boat ride lasted longer than it should've. You've no idea why. It's not that big of a deal anyway, though the constant gnawing that you're missing out something is just slightly infuriating. But hey, at least you're not that absolute red-spandex basketcase who's just mad for being irrelevant.
But that's unimportant. You've got a job to do, after all. Hence why you now, finally, find yourself at your target for the time, Whiskey Peak. A vile hive of scum and villainy. At least you think so. This bunch of bounty hunters may have some infamy around these parts of Paradise, but they most certainly don't have even a fraction of the class you hold yourself to. A certain breed of occupational pride.
Maybe that sounds entitled, but you'd rather see it as knowing your strong suits. Because the one you're wearing is impeccable. Though, in a dump like this, it just makes you feel overdressed. Not that you care, mind.
Still, this recon job was supposed to be simple as can be. Something to add to your laundry list of successes, of which there were many. You never failed an assignment. That would make you look bad to your bosses. Besides, you're a professional. Failure just doesn't sit well with you.
It was a simple gig. Just check on what Baroque Works was up to in one of their forefront locales. An amateur job, really, but that's what you do when you climb the ranks. You start at the bottom, though you'd like to think you've made a good impression at this point. You can practically taste the promotion in your future.
So to most, it would be a shock to find Whiskey Peak as a desolate ruin. Not you though. Not thanks to your "gift". You already knew what had happened before you set foot on land. Knowing things is your bread and butter, so it was a mighty coincidence that you gained such a useful ability upon coming to this world. But you don't believe in coincidences. No, this was more than that.
That particular crew had made landfall, not long ago either. You'd arrived just in time to see them off, in hiding, of course. No use revealing yourself unnecessarily. You knew that a few of them were responsible for why Whiskey Peak was so quiet. Especially that one. The one in the same boat as you, as it happens.
Still, the picture you saw is, as these things are, incomplete. You only know one side of the story, a certain line of the plot as it progressed that very night. Even you have blind spots, and that just won't do. Hence why it's now on your agenda to find and question some survivors. And who knows, maybe even dig up what irons a certain crocodile has in the fire.
As you search the mostly empty streets, you take a moment to appreciate the quiet, and the soft blow of wind on your carapace. You enjoy the small things in life, and not even stepping over a corpse or a few on the way negates that. Maybe on a man with a weaker stomach, but you don't deal in this business unless you can handle the gruesome parts. Handy, as you keep finding more bodies as you go. Not looking good so far, but you are not the quitting type. One of these corpses has to be more lively than the rest.
Eventually, your perseverance pays off. You find a breather trapped under a larger cadaver. Unconscious, injured, but quite alive. Enough for your purposes. You don't bother lifting the big lug. A waste of your efforts. Instead, you allow the corpse to serve a purpose as a restraint, whilst you slap the living bloke awake. Doesn't take but two firm taps to get him to come to. The guy looks, dizzy, confused, and once he spots you, a tad of fright enters his face.
Makes sense. You don't look like you're from around here. Though to be fair, from what you know of Grand Line so far, you may not fall that far out of the ballpark.
"W-who- what the hell are ya?!" The guy growls, though to you it sounds more like a meow of a kitten. You're used to things much more intimidating than this veritable waste of breath trying to act tough.
You tell him that's not important. What is important, is him telling you whatever it is you want to know, if he knows what's good for him. Starting at what exactly happened here.
You're an intimidating fellow, in a cool and mysterious way, so it doesn't take a lot for the guy to realize his circumstance, and start singing. You didn't even need to break a limb. Good start for the day.
And so you listen to the man's tale.
The story of how the Straw Hat Pirates arrived at Whiskey Peak.
Unfortunately, the bloke has little new to add that you either didn't already know. The Baroque Works had a plan to lull the Straw Hats in with a false sense of security, get them drunk with their booze and restrain them without much of a fight while they slept.
Yes. That went quite splendidly, you remark.
You're sarcastic, obviously. Their plan was painfully see-through, and some of the Straw Hats took precautions. The navigator took advantage of her natural tolerance. The swordsman was simply too disciplined to fall for such weak attempts. And the Fishman was simply too durable, not to mention paranoid, to be felled so easily.
And then there was him. The man who preferred the garments of a lady. You won't act like you understand what that is about, but when it came to the chronicler, Baroque Works had screwed up. Big time.
To be honest, you were surprised as well. It's that story you recall quite clearly, even if the man himself did not. Yes, the one calling himself Abel Cain had seen through the ruse instantly, knowing a thing or two about being fake as all hell.
However, due to the man still sulking over a damn rifle of all things, he remained silent. You knew some pretty petty people in your numerable lives, but this man was really competing for that cup. You've never seen someone knowing about an obvious trap, and then walking straight into that trap and drinking themselves unconscious, on purpose. It was fairly impressive, in a really asinine way.
From there on, the one known as Abel Cain lost comprehension of time and self. Blacked out, everyone assumed, including the Baroque Works agents surrounding the Straw Hats.
But you knew better. And honestly, if not for your 'gift', you seriously doubt you'd have realized. You're enough of a man to admit that.
But let's not get it twisted. Abel Cain was most definitely out of the picture that night, just as planned.
Unfortunately for Baroque Works, that was exactly the problem.
Because when no one was paying attention, even if it seemed absolutely insane under how much activity there was at the time, the body of the one called Abel Cain had stood up and walked outside into the lowering sunlight.
Not a single soul had as much as blinked in reaction.
In the now, knowing what you know, you realize how absolutely terrifying that technique of his, 'Faint', can be. Even with your 'gift', you had to really strain to follow the proceedings. It was like he'd vanished from reality.
From that moment, as darkness and moonlight were cast over Whiskey Peak, an absolute massacre began. And most terrifyingly, almost no one noticed. The sadsack at your feet corroborates your accounts. One moment he was just shooting the shit with his mates, the next the guy next to him had a hole in his neck, then another, and soon enough everyone in the vicinity started resembling swiss-cheese more and more.
The sheer efficiency was a beautiful sight, and that's coming from you, "Mr. Efficiency-Is-My-Middle-Name". What these so-called "bounty hunters" saw was their friends and colleagues falling by the second, as if stabbed by the wind.
What you saw, was a man wearing a blue dress with matching artificial locks, drunkenly dancing an elegant tango, a true tornado of death. All while wearing a constant grin so dead and hollow, not even showing a hint of bloodlust or joy, you were certain it couldn't belong to any man.
To be frank, you never were one to judge a book by its cover. But in case of Abel Cain, you feel like you were gravely mistaken. The man might be the most dangerous 'weakling' you've ever known about.
The navigator had skulked about and stolen whatever valuables Baroque Works had stashed in Whiskey Peak. Roronoa Zoro and Arlong the Saw had torn Baroque Works apart in the night, beaten, yet mostly alive. But It had slaughtered Baroque Works agents wholesale.
Eventually, Roronoa happened upon a group just as they were being torn asunder by a seemingly invisible force, dropping like flies, one after another. Even the infamous "Pirate Hunter" almost got a hole in him, if not for his impressive instincts. Maybe instinctually, maybe by luck, he'd struck It on the head with his sheathed blade, the cursed one.
It was truly knocked out for the rest of that ghastly night. But a lot of damage was done, and the dead men littered around you told a grizzly tale. At the end of it, Abel Cain had woken up in the morning with zero recollection of the events(or so it seemed, to you). Strangely Roronoa didn't bring it up, merely keeping a closer eye on the crossdresser.
The whimpering sod you were interrogating seems to be busy reliving that time. He'd been lucky Roronoa Zoro stepped him, or else he'd be as dead as the rest of his sorry lot. You conclude there's nothing more to be gained from this excuse of a man, but you try anyway. Nothing ventured, and all that.
You inquire him about his boss' plans.
"W-what?" the man whimpers, reeling from the memories of almost facing the grim reaper. "I-I'm just a Billion, man. I don't k-" You don't let him finish his useless sentence. Your heel silences him. He's not dead, you think, not that you care particularly.
You take a moment to check if he stained your shoes. No blood. Wonderful.
That was a bust. Still, you didn't truly expect much from one of the Billions. They were fodder, absolutely worthless for Intel. You had to find someone higher in the food chain.
And as luck would have it, two Officer Agents had been here that night. Still were. How were you so sure of that?
Because they had a run in with It and hadn't gotten away unscathed. Recollecting what you know, you deduce their most likely location and set off. You will not leave here empty-handed, and you will make one of these two talk.
It doesn't take you long. Your deduction was pretty much right on the money. You spot whom your intel reveals to you are Mr. 5 and Miss Valentine, two of Baroque Works' high brass. Mr. 5's (admittedly nice) coat is covered in small cuts, and he's bleeding. It is nothing major, however.
The same cannot be said about the woman in yellow. Ms. Valentine's left thigh is wrapped in gauze, the white wrappings tinted red. A lot of it. You recall back to their "fight". If it can be called that. The two had been completely blindsided by Its assault but had enough experience to not die instantly. A lot of good that did them in the end.
Through Mr. 5's explosive Devil Fruit power, they'd located Its location by the smoke caused by his explosion. Ms. Valentine had tried to squash It with her own Devil Fruit power. Shame, that she forgot that falling while weighing 10,000 kilograms didn't make you immune to piercing damage.
It had simply propped Abel Cain's rapier on the ground and let Ms. Valentine impale her own thigh. Afterward, the blade was swiftly collected, and It vanished as if bored of the company, leaving the female agent bleeding heavily. You know enough about stabbing by proxy that you're pretty sure it nicked a major artery, hence why they haven't left yet.
But enough of the past. As you clear your throat to announce yourself, you put on your business face. Time for work.
"Shit!" Mr. 5 curses(damn these code names a droll), and pivots to face you, instantly alert and prepping for a fight. Smart.
You raise a hand in a placating gesture. You're in no mood for a fight with beaten dogs.
The remark isn't taken kindly, not that you care. "And just who the hell are you?! You with the Straw Hats too?" Mr. 5 questions as Miss Valentine slowly takes a stand. You spot her injured leg wobbling under her own weight, but it soon passes and she straightens her posture to seem better than she is. Devil Fruit Bullshit, no doubt.
You don't scoff. That's not you. But still, the assertion is laughable, and you say as much. No, who you're with is of little merit. But as for you, and you make it a point to hold out your finger exactly at the duo, your company matters quite a lot. So why not answer some questions, like the well-trained dogs you are.
"Tch," Mr. 5 scoffs, picking his nose, and just like that you lose all professional respect for this man. But you recognize the gesture for what it truly is. A preparation to attack. "You've got some nerve, condescending us like that. Do you even know who we are."
Condescending? A statement of fact, you think. Still, you inform them that you know quite well that they are Mr. 5 and Miss Valentine, Officer Agents of Baroque Works, and direct underlings to Mr. Zero. And you have inquiries as of the plans of their boss.
"Tch, you've got some balls, you freak."
Crude, but not factually untrue, you remark dryly, as you magic a playing card, a six of diamonds, from your sleeve. Of course, it's not real magic, because magic is bullshit. You were kind of hoping for this response, really. It's been quite a dull day.
"What, you going to give me a papercut?" the man mocks cockily.
"MR. 5!" Miss Valentine screams, but it's too little too late. It happens quite fast.
In an instant, the Six of Diamonds in your hand is an AK-47 that's unloading piping hot lead into the explosive fellow in front of you. Miss Valentine barely manages to jump high into the air to avoid the volley of death. Mr. 5's body jitters with the rhythm of your rapid fire for a hot second before you cease.
"Ugh..." The bastard is still breathing and standing. Tough son of a bitch. He shakily aims a hand your way, prepped to flick one of those exploding boogies at you. "Why yo-"
A crash silences him. When you stopped firing you flung your deck of cards in the air, and your item repository came crashing down on his already weakened frame. You're absolutely certain he won't be getting up from that. The red leaking from under your Brawlsoleum gives you a sense of satisfaction. An efficient takedown is the best takedown.
"MR. 5!" The yellow nag yells in fury, and you quickly jump out of the way as a crater forms from where you once stood. You slip your Six of Diamonds in your sleeve and pull out the Ace of Diamonds instead. Then you swing and whack the broad in the face with your trusty cuestick. The hit doesn't knock her back but offers you a chance to plant the thin end of your cue stick right on her thigh wound. "AAAAAH!"
Ignoring her agonized screams, you very politely ask her what Mr. Zero has in the works, and maybe, if she sings like a good little canary, you won't make a second meat pancake today.
"Y-You monster!" She says shakily, trying so hard to hide the pain.
Quite. You twist the slightly abrasive end of your cue stick, causing a spike of pain. Careful now, you say. One good turn and that wound will open right good. Bleeding to death is ever so unpleasant, you remark conversationally. The least you can do is be civil.
What are Baroque Works working on, you ask again firmly, making sure the blond broad understands you're not fucking around. What is Mr. Zero's goal?
"I-I don- GAAA!" A twist. This is getting quite old, real fast. "Okay! Okay! B-Baroque Works, w-we're t-trying to-to force a c-coup in A-Alabasta. T-To make a p-paradise for p-people like us!"
A takeover of an ancient, royal country that's part of the World government? That's what that leathery-name-sake bastard was up to? By the Medium, your boss was going to have a field day with this. The try-hard wasn't even being original!
You lift the tip of your cue stick, allowing Miss Valentine to regain some calm and composure, for what good that is for.
Now, was that so hard, you question. It's a simple question, not a condescending one. Honestly, some people just want it the hard way. But you got what you came here for. It's time to make a call. You go collect and pocket your deck of cards, only briefly glancing at the very much dead human pancake you made.
"H-hey, w-where are you g-going?!" Miss Valentine yells after you. "I-I'll be killed if the boss finds out!"
Shame, you say. Better not be discovered then.
"You can't just leave me here! You did this! Take responsibility!" Ah, now that her life is no longer in danger she's trying to act tough. You stop, and she goes quiet. You glance over your shoulder. She flinches, you note. So much for that spirit.
You give her a measured gaze. To be frank, that is not my problem, you say coolly. You start walking away, giving one final piece of your mind.
You want out of here alive? Crawl.
No more yelling follows, and soon you're out of hearing range. This was a bit messier than you'd expected, but at least it made you slightly less bored. At least it hadn't been a wasted trip. Your boss should be pleased enough with this.
You've worked for some crazy individuals before(or some variation of you, at least) who could stab or atomize you to death for being lacking, and somehow the trend seems to stick to you like gum on a bottom of a shoe. After a murder-stabby psychopath and a genocidal monarch, somehow your current source of employment seems like an improvement.
Marginally.
"Well, you're a mean one." For a moment you half expect a tacked-on, non-sensical reference to a furry green thing, before you realize how asinine the idea is. At least as long as that certain crazy isn't around, which he isn't. You'd get a headache just by proximity if he was.
You still, turning to your new company. Not really unexpected, though you had thought she'd left after confronting the Straw Hats. This is an encounter you had wanted to avoid if at all possible.
She stood a small distance away, standing tall and sure of herself. Arms crossed under her chest, she was smiling, as if she knew she was not in any danger. You knew who this dame was.
Miss All-Sunday.
"My, my. My fame precedes me," the woman says as if flattered.
To yourself, you despair on how much easier this could have been. As a purveyor of information on those in similar straits as you, you should already know more on Baroque Works, seeing as one Outsider like yourself is in Crocodile's employ. Unfortunately, it had to be the one who you just can't get anything on.
Following numerous plotlines all across the world at once is a task enough by itself, but this one fucker makes your brain try to self-destruct whenever you even try to glean anything from them. Goddamn crazies.
But you do know something about this dangerous dame. And you, in your ever-present preparedness, took measures for this possibility.
Yes, it quite does. And as you say that, you reach into your inner suit pocket and pull out a clearly aged piece of paper. It's a bit old, but it's hard to miss the similarities, you say as you hold it out(it being a wanted poster), revealing to the dame that you know her true identity.
Nico Robin.
Her smile instantly becomes less sincere but remains mostly in place. Classy. You can appreciate keeping appearances.
"And just who might you be, Mr. Black?" she asks, keeping that polite facade. "It's rude to not to introduce yourself, and now you've gone and robbed me of that courtesy. Not to mention how you've been snooping about affairs that do not concern you. Quite rude indeed."
... She's not wrong. You've been quite impolite, and as a professional, you do not miss how her arms raise to a strange stance. You can read subtext well enough to know that this is what you wanted to avoid in the first place. It seems like a battle to escape is in your future.
You 'magic' a hand of cards in one hand and an Ace of Diamonds in your other. Soon enough you hold your Ultra-Violence Cuestick and give it a theatrical twirl. Your violence-prone tools of the trade in hand, you think the least you could do was give the dame your name. It's only proper, and not likely to matter in the long run as long as you don't give too much away. So you introduce yourself.
For a moment you consider giving the classy dame your code name, instead of your real one, but soon thought better of it. You'll just give her both.
You're the Draconian Dignitary, Diamonds Droog. A stone-cold professional who will be taking his leave now.
The dame gives you a wicked smile. "We'll see about that."
And so begins an absolutely epic showdo-
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"-swear to GOD, if- OH SHIT! I DID IT! Interception, you lazy motherfucker! How dare you leave an awesome guy like me hanging?! It's been over half a year! Have you no professional pride?! So get your depressed brain out of your ass-"
Mr. Zero, or Sir Crocodile as some knew him as, forced a deep, frustrated sigh. Just one day, one God-forsaken day, he wished Mr. Bloody Sunday would shut his infernal mouth.
"HEY, I take offense to that! I got a reputation to live up to! I'm the- HEY WAIT NO STOP-"
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*ahem*
...
So... Someone has some explaining to do.
First of all, apologies that this took... uhh... *Nervously glances at the calendar* ... Yeah. This took WAY too long to make. At first, I just got stuck and didn't know how to proceed, then writer's block hit, and then I forgot about this for a while because I'm a pro at pushing the deadline...
But now I decided: Okay, fuck this. I'm starting this chapter over and will skip over most of the Whiskey Peak Arc, and introduce some new characters while I'm at it. Is it cheap? Maybe.
But honestly, most of the chapter would be gone anyway due to Abel being a petty jerkwad and getting blackout drunk, so instead, you get someone else's second-hand notes on the night that was Terror At Whiskey Peak.
New updates will come. I just can no longer promise the frequency of them. And for that, I will take all the blame, alongside my mental problems.
Also, confirmation before I leave you be, for now. Abel is not the only individual prancing about in the Grand Line. Not by a longshot.
- A Member of The Midnight Crew, C-Hablerie