Work Text:
Crocodile, sprawling comfortably in his luxurious armchair, was scrutinizing the files regarding his newest asset. As a warlord, he had access to the Marine archives: even though he may not be allowed to examine the papers himself, he nonetheless knew who would do him a favor and who would be the most pliable. Thus, Sir Crocodile laid his hand on the reports concerning Nico Robin, the woman who managed to hoax both the Marine and the World Government for the last twenty years.
The man pulled a cigar cutter closer by his hook, put his cheroot between the blades and chopped off the tip. Then, seizing a gold, quaint lighter with his good hand, he pensively twisted it in his fingers before pressing the button. The pirate was in no haste, so he admired the quietude and tranquility of his office, meditatively staring at a little girl’s photo, attached to the personal file of his associate.
The child in the poster looked like a cornered animal, accustomed to hatred and betrayal. In reality, Crocodile dealt with a collected, confident woman who lacked neither fervor nor intelligence to work with him: she complied with his commands without asking questions, executed orders in full obedience, and brilliantly accomplished his tasks, no matter how complicated and delicate. She had nothing in common with the kid in the photo, and Robin shouldn’t bother to encounter a random Marin in the street. However, she always preferred to err on the side of caution and never trust to chance. Normally apathetic and languorous, Crocodile tended to grin at her attitude but promptly realized that many of his projects could carry out completely noiselessly, without alarming the World Government, silently sanctioning his wrongdoings or his fellow warlords. Even though he would never admit it aloud, this cold unaffected woman taught him to find innovative solutions to hackneyed problems in trivial situations. No doubt they wanted her dead: she could beguile Devil himself and finagle the information she needed and patiently gleaned by any means possible. How the hell did a bunch of bulky goons having connections and resources at hand fail to snatch a kid? The Marine didn’t even issue a newer photo of the escapee; they kept consulting the old poster. This hopeless organization couldn't even pinpoint the whereabouts of an eight-year-old! Were they good for anything at all?..
Pitiful morons.
Crocodile inserted the cigar into his mouth, lit it, and took a long, satisfying drag on the cheroot. The hand, embellished with rings, opened the manila folder. As expected, it contained only the general information he’d already accumulated by bits. Nico Robin, born on the island of Ohara (destroyed by the Buster Call). Mother, Nico Olvia, an archaeologist, conducted research, regarding [classified], tortured, and killed while attempting to flee. Father unknown. Knows [classified] (anc. lang.). Extremely resourceful. Was part of [classified] (pirate gang). Purported to be engaged in the Frontier Riot as an instigator. Present location unknown. Most recent update [date].
Extremely resourceful, Crocodile hummed, can’t argue with that. Robin, who had sicced the whole world on herself, succeeded in covering up her tracks and mastered her double back skill. The last mention of her activity referred to the events from fifteen years ago, and the Marine seemed to have completely lost any sight of her, struggling to save face and pretend to keep their finger on the pulse. Crocodile couldn’t care less about said face or said fingers – while they were not meddling with him and his affairs.
He did acknowledge her outstanding abilities: Robin had already proved to have a card up her sleeve, often even more than one. However, he couldn’t stop wondering why she had come to him in the first place – why did she choose him among other warlords? Did she have her own data on him? Did she compile her own archive, learn his secrets, peruse his interests, and dissect his enigmatic persona just to discover what made him tick? Or was it a trivial coincidence that he settled down significantly closer to her current haven than any other warlord? And, most perplexing of all: how did she make it? Undoubtedly, she ran amok from the pandemonium Ohara was turned into; she certainly played by ear, but–
How did she do that?
How did she manage to skedaddle, providing the most powerful people of the Marine were in charge?.. He had been racking his brains for a while now. In the long run, Robin rapidly became essential to his plans but if her agility and aptitude practically outfoxed Fate, then she could easily turn the tables, thus compelling his plans to backfire.
On the other hand, Crocodile reluctantly admitted that he was tormented by idle curiosity: the Buster Call was an ultimate measure that did not have anything to do with the concept of punishment or the notion of comeuppance. The decision could only be made by the senior figures exclusively, which immediately confirmed his speculations: Ohara became a burden to the Five Elders, the archaeologists had unearthed something that happened to be a huge incubus to the World Government, so the ramifications of the discoveries had to be quickly eliminated, if possible, razed to the ground. It was virtually not feasible to vamoose the destructive power of the fleet, but Robin somehow made it. But how? Sakazuki governed the cleansing, and even pirates labeled him as a bloodthirsty beast, so he would hardly feel a surge of sympathy for the frightened, lacerated girl. Therefore, she was saved. By whom? And why?..
Crocodile hummed under his breath and swiveled his eyes in the direction of a thicker folder that contained voluminous reports on the Buster Call. Mulling over the subject, the pirate sent it to his elephant-leg-shaped urn. Whatever the case, he hadn’t found an answer to any of his questions.
All of a sudden, a quiet knock resonated in the hollow office bedecked with outré relics and bizarre antiquities.
Robin.
“Come in.”
The door opened, and a tall, erect woman entered. She was wearing white flare pants and a plain dark tank-top. Crocodile eyed her from head to toe, automatically observing the elegant cut that exceedingly suited her. Simple lines harmonized with the angular features of her refined visage as if bringing them to the fore. Her neck was decorated with a sapphire necklace he had once given her: when he first put it on her, the bobbed hair barely covered her ears – now it grew long enough to conceal several gems peacefully resting on her collar bones. He suddenly recollected a pristine carving with an image of an unidentified empress he’d bumped into in his youth – the occasion would’ve never come to mind if not for the poise and posture of his accomplice.
Closing the door by the hand materializing from the nearby wall, Robin approached his desk and laid out a number of folders in front of the man, topping the pile with a hierarchical scheme supplied with unfamiliar names and remarks.
“Oh. I see you aren’t wasting time,” the woman commented with a faint grin. Crocodile thought he’d just traced a feeble echo of derision in her voice when her eyes got a glimpse of her photo. If she was puzzled, she made no sign.
“I must know who I am dealing with,” he snapped.
“Sure.”
As usual, four arms appeared out of nowhere and unfolded the scheme, attaching it by the angles. Although Crocodile had long got accustomed to the ability, he couldn’t quite push aside the thought that Robin might want to use it to her advantage and strangle him if she could. On top of that, it looked abominable. Truly disgusting.
Trying to divert his attention, the man averted his lackluster orbs to the title. In Robin’s hand, a calligraphic Baroque Works was written in the center.
“Of course, the decision is always up to you,” she reminded in a soft voice, “But in my book, this name perfectly describes the crux of the operation – and the organization itself.”
Crocodile glumly nodded and propped his chin with the hook, intently inspecting the photos and the brief notes in the blanks underneath. He had been devising the system that would let him remain unseen and play a double game but to no avail: the impediments in his way seemed insurmountable, he had to deal with a variety of problems at a time, but Robin, using her private means, managed to square things away in a couple of days. Now, her primary focus was shifted to the agents’ recruitment.
“Officers?” he drawled, turning to her in his armchair. “You aim for redundancy, don’t you?”
“I do,” Robin responded, her eyes fixed on his. He needed quite a while to grow accustomed to this habit of hers – all his employees, both current and erstwhile, avoided to look him in the face, but she wasn’t intimidated by his rough blemish or his blasé stare. “We will create two redundant groups of people: millions and billions. Those are the people who will not be properly trained – they are expected to work under the stronger agents. However, those stronger agents themselves will be separated into two clusters: those who have to team with a partner and those who are supposed to raise funds," she paused for a moment. "To sponsor the activities of Baroque Works. The latter will be spread all over the first few islands of the Grand Line, so–
“How are you planning to monitor them?” he interrupted.
Robin quirked her eyebrows for a second and smirked.
“I’m not going to, Sir. These responsibilities will be allocated to the agents with said millions and billions under command.”
Crocodile took another long drag, and brushing away the associate’s warm fingers off the scheme, pored over the multiple notes. Robin was patiently waiting for his verdict: she did not get on his nerves by bombarding him with questions, nor did she seem to fret if he brooded over something for too long. She knew how to remain inconspicuous: every now and then, when they worked together, he could totally forget about her presence. Only an inaudible clack of the door made him snap out of his trance: when she left the room, her feeble redolence of sand and flowers wafted away.
“There must be someone who could supervise their accomplishments,” the pirate drawled thoughtfully, taking a quill in his hand and drawing a line between the millions and the officer agents.
“Do you have someone in mind?”
He didn’t reply, but he jotted a word on the draft. In comparison to Robin’s copperplate handwriting, Crocodile’s letters looked uneven and clumsy.
“I’ll take care of the details,” he finally concluded. “Anything else?”
“Yes.”
The woman pulled out a folder with a picture of an impassive, dark-skinned man.
“Daz Bones, bounty hunter. I thought you may need a robust fruit-eater… with violent inclinations and skills.”
She was right, as usual. Actually, it disgruntled him from time to time; Robin had certainly developed a peculiar gut feeling, which led her to people that fit the description of a good agent. Besides, she always sought the alternative, knowing that her opinion on the person may not converge with Crocodile’s.
Flicking ashes from his cigar directly into a glass ashtray, he reached his ragged digits for her sapphire necklace. He glided his calloused fingertips across the indigo gems while her listless glare was fixed to a stone elephant figurine. Then, her azure optics slid across his arm up to his pallid face. Undaunted and invincible, Nico Robin, on the lam for the last twenty years, was now standing in mere inches from him, helping him improve the project he’d been plotting for so long. Inconceivable.
Moving away from her, Crocodile turned back to the draft and rectified several remarks, namely, he loathed her idea of codenames. Anyways, he’ll figure it out later on, when the basics will be finally brought into action.
“I expect you for dinner tonight,” he finally intoned, not distracting from his work.
“Certainly,” she replied with a small smile, heading over to the door.
So terse and yet so straightforward. Crocodile never really knew what to expect from this woman, but he sure as hell believed that she would eventually help him reach his cherished goal… if she didn’t unravel his conundrums right before it.