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Heavy pants fall from her lips as she runs, swerving around every corner she could find to shake her pursuers off. She had gotten used to that: running, hiding, disappearing the second she heard the words 'Demon' leave someone’s lips. She doesn't turn her head to look, to see if she had lost the mob yet, because she didn’t have to. Ears and eyes follow her, precede her, scan every possible angle they can to help her get away. She had gotten better at managing more of them. She had to.
It had been a weekly, sometimes daily, routine for her the last several years after all.
Ahead, her eyes find an alley free from life, and she quickly dives into it. She was not free from them yet, but her legs were so weak from running she had little other choice.
Robin slumps against the wall, knowing she had lost them long enough for at least a couple minutes of rest. Still, she keep her ability active despite its drain on her. She can't afford not to.
Years of stress, running, betrayal and mourning crash down on her.
She’d never properly got to mourn them, no graves, no funeral. There had been no time, as she had rowed away from the inferno that had once been Ohara. She doubts there is even anything left to mourn, the island and everything on it destroyed.
“Derishi-shi-shi, Derishi-shi-shi.”
She laughs as she clutches her knees in the cold and dirty alley. It had been years since she'd last laughed like that, or even at all.
The story changes every time she hears it. A demon capable of sinking many ships, and the Oharian cultists that aided her. An evil child that wanted to destroy the world, followed by an entire island. Never a lone girl on the run from the world, a civilisation seeking nothing more than the truth smoldering behind her. Lies. Freak, unnatural, unwanted, monster. All of it lies. She clenches her hands. Deep inside her historian heart, that is somehow worse than the constant running. Truth buried and erased, a perfect case of history being written by the victors. The world will never know what truly happened, will constantly slander her and the other Archeologists, and something inside her burns fiercely at the thought.
“Dereishi-shi-shi, Derishi-shi-shi.”
Loud footsteps in one of the streets near her alert Robin of the approaching mob. She stands up, legs shaking slightly.
And then she keeps on running.
—
"My Name is Nico Robin," she says, the Radio Type B Den Den Mushi flinching beneath her tightening hands. She winces, loosening her grip on the poor thing. She had been too tough on it, just like the world had been to her. She'd stolen it a week ago from the Radio station on the island, but had yet to use it. "I am the last survivor of Ohara. I am not a monster. I'm not." It was dumb. No one would hear her, the signal as weak as it was, and why would anyone who heard it believe her? No one ever did, too blinded too by their greed or fear.
But she had to try anyway. What else does she have left but the clothes on her back and this one stolen Den Den Mushi to her name?
"I didn't kill anyone. No marine ships sunk, only the one ship full of survivors. It wasn't me."
The ship that wouldn't let her on, full of people who rejected her. If they had let her on, she would be dead too. She didn't hate them, there was no point when they had been burned by the same force that had burned away everything else in her life.
"All because we tried to learn a language they didn't want us to know, why? Why are they so frightened of the poneglyphs that they would wipe out an entire civilisation?"
She doesn't cry. The years have taught her there's no point, no one will hear her anyways. Tears do nothing but give her enemies what they want.
"What is it about the poneglyphs that scare them? What is it about that civilization?"
It's not much longer until one of her ears picks up on running and shouting. Her grip loosens on the Den Den Mushi as she turns to run.
It slips, she doesn't have time to look back.
-
It's not for another two years that she touches another Radio Den Den Mushi. By now the hatred has begun to fester in her heart, all aimed at one source. The ones who had ruined her life, forced her to live a life constantly on the run.
She has not given up. One poneglyph at a time she will learn what scares them so. She will discover the true history.
For now she gets back to them in the ways they can. They hunt her because she is the only remaining person who can read poneglyphs, but what if everyone knew? What lengths would they go to then?
She's sixteen and full of spite for the world when she first drops a poneglyph translation. It's hard to describe over the stolen radio Den Den, her second one, but she does it anyways. She has no way to know if anyone even hears, but it's enough. She's toying with the government now, just as they've toyed with her life for years.
It's not just poneglyph translations, not even just the Void Century. She hears rumours about a country in the North Blue that was wiped out just like hers for the sake of greed and spreads the story as far as she can. She hears of the many slaves the so called Gods keep, of marines turning blind eyes to those in need for their next pay check and a tip.
Once a month for the next four years in the safety of the alley of the day she tells a new story each time. Sometimes it is not even to spite the govemerent. There are so many civilisations in this world that have rich histories that have been buried and deserve to be heard.
It's not the until the fourth year that she discovers she's not nearly so unheard as she thought.
-
The man's been following her for over an hour. He's cloaked, but it's no use. It's hard to hide from eyes at every angle afterall.
It's only the fact he hasn't yet made a move yet that stops her from snapping his neck as her arms pull him roughly against the alley wall and the package he was holding clatters to the ground.
Wary of explosives, she stands back as a pair of her arms unwrap the package. She raises an eyebrow, amused.
"A Radio Den Den Mushi, how quaint. Not a regular one either, black and white stripes running like this typically mean a fairly expensive one, no?"
"Yes. Its range is much larger than the one in your possession, and can also function as an interceptor. It's yours if you want, on the condition you continue on as you have been," the man chokes out. Oh, that's right, she probably should lose her grip on his neck. He had brought her a lovely gift afterall.
Her limbs loosen enough for him to breathe properly, ignoring his greedy gasps of air as she processes this information. It could be a trap, but the situation is intriguing enough that she plays along. No one would risk such a thing falling into her hands if there wasn't a serious pay-off.
She puts off the second fact for now, the confirmation that somewhere out there, someone had heard her. She doesn't know how to feel about that. Obviously some cared enough to approach her about it, but too late. No one cares when she is just a helpless child reaching out for a saviour, but only after she begins to stir the waters do they care.
She hears him out anyway. The revolutionary army. She has no way to confirm if he is lying or not, but she sees it as he speaks. That burning hatred of the government flaring in his eyes, the rage that coats his voice as he speaks. She sees it every time she looks in the mirror afterall, hears it every time she speaks.
The gift is, as he says, for her. Apparently the RA had been keeping track of her for a time now, but had yet to be able to track her down until now. Her voice had reached many more then she had thought, he says. More than one island had woken up and switched sides at her tales. She doesn't care. That was never her goal.
Apparently though, the RA does care. She can see why. The more people that turn on the government, the more soldiers to fight for their cause. She is not a soldier.
"Come with us," the man offers anyway. She wants to believe him, she really does. Despite her misgivings, the Revolutionary Army was perhaps her best bet at both surviving and getting revenge on the government.
"I can't," she says instead, "But thank you for the gift." Which she will check multiple times for bugs. She has many reasons for her answers, years of mistrust of humanity drilled into her.
The main reason is this. They have different priorities, and she can't stay in one spot. The poneglyphs won't come to her themselves after all. She knows this will be her only chance for many years, they will not risk reaching out again for both of their sakes. Her answer stays the same anyways.
Many years later they make the same offer. She respectfully declines. Her reasons have changed. She does not need protection, does not need a voice to hear her. She does not need to stay with them for revenge either, now it will come anyway. She remembers who the only ones who ever looked past everything else to truly hear her cries, and it wasn't them.
-
"There's no going back after this," she says. They all know it. Accepted it long ago.
It was already many years too late. Enies Lobby was the match, marineford the spark, and this is the inferno. There is a familiar flag above their heads. She's not afraid of it anymore. The flag is just a symbol.
Symbols can converge, give eachother new meaning. Flames too are a symbol; burning away something to its core and leaving something new to rise from its embers.
For all that it is the same, it's different now. No cuffs weigh down her hands, the ship on which she resides is not an awaiting hell but a haven.
The main difference is this; this time she is not watching. Her nakama stand behind her. Robin is not facing them this time, she has no need to when she is with them. When she knows they have her back, those who were there and those who weren't but understand regardless.
There are no masks in sight.
They are not alone. This is her fight, but also this is the fight of everyone single being who was made to dance at the whims of these so called gods. She is not their leader, she is not one of their ranks.
They stand behind her nonetheless.
The 'Super' Radio Den Den Mushi flickers to life. There is no interceptor in the world that can block this signal, not with backing of an entire army and the combined mind of two of the greatest inventors she has ever known. This is different now too. This is not a broadcast that will reach patches of West Blue, patches of Paradise, any soul she could reach on a budget radio snail in tiny pockets of relative safety, even with the more expensive one she was gifted years later. Every man, woman, child and otherwise in the vicinity of a receiver snail will hear this.
"You know my name," Robin says. She's dressed differently to her signature look, because this too is symbolic. Green jeans, blue shirt. Circle belt, white coat. Her hair is not white, but it doesn't need to be. She is not her mother, barely even knows her more than a hurried hug and whispered rumours. She is her legacy, his legacy. She is Ohara's legacy. She is the last page that the government failed to burn away. "You know why I am here. You know who we are. You know what happened over twenty years ago. I do not need to tell you again, but I will."
The angle changes. She is not looking at the screen now, but the very flag that hangs above their heads. Her Nakama are shadowed behind her, hundreds of silhouettes behind them.
"My name is Nico Robin. Over twenty years ago you tried to burn away every remnant of the void century. You did not start with Ohara, did not end with Ohara. Ohara was just one of many sacrifices that you made to keep your lies."
She lists them then. One by one, every single island burned, every single civilization that was wiped out. All except one.
"For many years I wondered why you would go to such lengths to hide that kingdom, that name, that island. I know now." And just like those before them, they too had laughed.
"But I know you wonder too," she states, staring directly at the Den Den again, "What truth is so horrible they would burn multiple kingdoms to the ground? That they would hide an entire civilisation, centuries worth of history. Erase an island from history, hunt and rename those who had the will to change the world."
"We are not the first to know. They were not ready. You were not ready. Nearly eight hundred years too late, twenty years too early."
Her nakama step forward. Without them, none of this would have been possible. This is not her tale alone, this incredible tale spanning over eight hundred years, all starting and ending with the man named Joy Boy. Her captain stands level with her as the words drop.
This is not her tale, but she is a historian. She is an archeologist. Her job is not to rebuild kingdoms long lost, to unshackle chains and bring a tide of change, but she has her own role to play.
And so do her nakama. A slingshot raises, and seconds later she sees fire shoot past her and above her head. She does not flinch.
The flag burns as she breathes the last word, and with it, the very structure of the world.