Chapter Text
Volume 7: Entry Sixty-three of the ship’s log of the Red Force, as written by Yasopp
The news just reached us now, an ocean away. No matter how great Atlantis is was you can’t feel those kinds of ripples from such a distance. It’s hard to believe- a chunk’s been taken out of the world but here there isn’t a cloud in the sky, isn’t a fierce wave in sight. Captain’s a mess just now, I don’t know what we’re going to do.
Back there… that wasn’t just a country to us, not just the jewel of the Mediterranean in these times, not just another trading port. It was a home. To hear of this implausible string of tragedies that have befallen it- to hear of that final collapse as the land itself gave up on itself… It’s impossible to believe.
We’ll be going to see it ourselves, I’m sure, and how strange it will be to come to that familiar stretch of sea and find such a swath of the land missing. How strange to not have Anchor laughing at the port, to not have the king offering rooms for the night if we need to get off the ship.
How strange to know that they are all at the bottom of the sea.
1914, Washington D.C.
With a sure hand, Nami re-traces the coastline of Iceland onto the chalkboard. It is far more detailed and exact than it needs to be for the mock presentations she and Robin have been using it for but her education was to become a cartographer and she’ll use that skill set however she can. It’s not the most coveted job in this day and age, but that’s one reason why this presentation is so important to her- it’s an opportunity to move one step closer to one of those last undiscovered places. On the opposite side of the board, Robin is re-reading the lines of text written there- runes from the nordic shield they were basing this new claim on, as well as a few passages from Plato about the technological prowess of a city whose existence no one had been able to find proof of.
They intended to change that.
“Atlantis is a city far more advanced than even our modern steam power,” She recites, starting at roughly the halfway point of the speech she’s rehearsed a thousand times. She knows the beginning by heart, all exposition, it’s this second part that she’s proud of. A reminder of what she and Robin had been able to pull together into a cohesive history supported by facts. “And while it is for that exact reason that so many believe it never existed at all, the esteemed linguist- Robin Nico- has found countless ancient texts, formerly overlooked, which mention a people that match descriptions of Atlanteans in appearance and mannerisms.”
“Why thank you,” Robin hums from the other side. “But without the rendering of the ancient sea currents and trade routes of the Mediterranean- mapped by our own Nami Sörenson- my translations would have had thin supporting evidence.” She steps out from behind the board and smiles at the line of chairs they have had standing in for the board members. After practicing for two weeks she’s ready to go upstairs and do it for real. For now, she pretends the chairs have the power to grant them the funds they need to continue their research. “As it is, we can now say with reasonable certainty that the enlightened text which we are hoping to mount an expedition to retrieve could have traveled, without much difficulty, to the monasteries of Ireland. Here it was transcribed from its scroll form, known historically as the Scrolls of Aziz, into what we now know as the Shepherd's Journal- an ancient text written in Atlantean and bound by the monks of Ireland.”
“Through our research and a new, more accurate translation of this Nordic shield which describes the journal’s location,” Nami sweeps her hand over the engraving in question, the shield propped on the table for their audience to see. “We’ve determined that the text was brought from Ireland to Iceland by marauding Vikings, sometime in the 700s.”
“From there it moves around a little more, but we have reason to believe that it was brought back to that location, Iceland, for safekeeping,” Robin adds. “So- with the reminders of the advancements we could make if given the archaeological remains of Atlantis, or even just the text which describes the city- we are proposing an expedition to locations most likely to house the journal.”
“You can find itineraries, budgeting plans, and recommended names for recruitment on page six of your programs.” Nami says.
The two of them glance at each other and then back at the row of empty chairs which they’ve flawlessly recited their speech for, once again. The map and lines of text from the board are already prepared on papers they can give to the board, the folders of information sit in a stack besides several rolls of paper they’ll be using to illustrate parts of the presentation. Everything is set. They’re finally ready to make this case for the museum board, finally ready to take the next step towards their mutual dream.
“Saul would be so proud of you,” Nami assures her partner. “I know that he and your mother worked for years to find the next step on the path to Atlantis, a benefit to society and archaeology alike.”
“And your mother is undoubtedly proud to see you working to expand the world map.” Robin adds.
“She taught me that there’s always a place where your talents are needed and that it’s worth pursuing even when that place seems far away.” Nami smiles at the map she’s drawn on the board. “Adding the first underwater continent to the map? Now that’s a place that really needs a modern cartographer’s touch.”
“I just hope our technology is advanced enough to get down there at all.” Robin smiles. “If it’s too deep the submarines will be crushed like tin cans, squeezing the life out of any and all passengers before we can even begin to survey the ruins.”
“I maintain my faith that things aren’t going to go quite so morbidly.” Nami giggles, long accustomed to her friend’s unique sense of humor. “One way or another we have to get you to the ruins. No one else can read the language! You’ve cracked every literary code set before you so far, and Atlantean, that’s the crème de la crème, hmm?”
“A true universal tongue.” Robin agrees. “It’s built grammatically from Latin, Sumerian, and Thessalonian, which are some of the most essential building blocks of the languages we use today. It will be a true privilege to read it in its original form rather than from haphazard inscriptions and prints which are simply presumed to be written in Atlantean.”
Nami shakes her head. Robin is a composed individual who rarely enthuses about anything. Even now, where Nami can detect obvious anticipation and passion, to most the older woman sounds about as excited as if she were reading from a textbook. Which, Robin is the kind of person that gets excited about a textbook, but not visibly .
Across the somewhat cluttered basement office that they share, the phone rings and Robin moves towards it automatically, always the one to take phone calls whereas Nami is always the one to make them. They have a comfortable rhythm that most colleagues lack, but… they’re kindred spirits. Both passionate in the pursuit of knowledge and discovery, and both females fighting for their rightful place in the male-dominated intellectual society. They’ve found comfort and support in each other, and realized that Atlantis, besides being a main goal of Robin’s (inherited from her mother’s archaeological pursuits and her Godfather Saul’s self aspiration of bettering the world with knowledge of its own history), was also a perfect place for Nami to prove that the world had not been fully discovered or mapped. It also showed that the oceans, her other passion aside from cartography, were not only useful to marine biologists. It would open a field for marine archaeology and welcome more explorers to the mostly untouched depths.
It was an uphill battle for them both, but their entire lives had been lived in some form of struggle, and so it was a comfortable thing to pick up the mantle of this impossible goal and pull it into the realm of possibility.
A sudden pop pulls Nami from her thoughts and she glances at the mail delivery tube they’d set up after one too many calls from the boys in the mailroom without there actually being anything to pick up. She pulls the paper out with deft fingers and skims the message (ignoring the note at the top mentioning how much the mailroom employees miss seeing the museum’s two most beautiful employees), not entirely registering the first few sentences until she realizes that it’s about their meeting and then skipping back to read more thoroughly.
Miss Nico and Miss Sörenson, due to scheduling conflicts, your meeting with the board of trustees has been moved to three (3) o’clock-
She snaps her head up to look at the clock- it’s 3:15 now , they need to go . Another pop interrupts her before she can call to Robin and Nami rips the message out of the tube and scans it frantically.
Ms. Nico and Ms. Sörenson, because of your tardiness to today’s meeting we have elected to reject your current proposal. If you wish to present your findings officially please contact each of our secretaries to arrange an audience with us at the next best available time slot-
“ Robin ,” she seethes, fingers crumpling the edges of the paper. “We’re being shut down before we can even start!” She flings the papers onto the desk in front of the older woman who picks one up to inspect it with a frown, still cradling the phone beside her ear and assuring the person on the other end that she will make sure the problem with the heating is attended to- “Is that Dr. Accino again?” Nami snaps, sweeping scrolls of maps and an armload of presentation folders into her arms. “Tell him that if he has such a problem with the heating of this building he should take it up with the janitors, not the cartographer and linguist who happen to share an office with the boiler!” Before Robin can answer Nami is out the door and flying up the stairs, tendrils of hair coming loose of the constraints of her bun. She knows exactly where to find the trustees, those cowards, and she intends to have them sit through her proposal whether they like it or not.
“Those two,” She hears a voice saying. “Beautiful, but hardly pursuing proper academic paths. Chasing fairytales.”
“I still think we should have heard them out- if only to see them for a few minutes. They rarely come out of the basement but they’re so nice to look at.”
Disgusting! She thinks, venomous, but just clenches her jaw and pushes her anger into making her feet mount the stairs faster.
“Sirs!” She yells, bursting out of the stairwell and thundering down the hall towards them. “I must insist that you listen to my presentation!”
They scatter like cockroaches, splitting away from each other and searching for shelter in offices or just plain running for the door. Nami runs after a particularly round one who almost gets stuck in the door in his rush to reach the street. He has a car waiting for him but she forces herself in the window and drops a folder with the presentation summary into his lap.
“Mr. Wapol,” She hisses, piling as many maps into the car as she can. “Based on our research, scientific research, sir, the book which holds the key to finding the biggest archaeological discovery of the century is-”
“It’s not science, Miss Sörenson, you and I both know that!” He snaps and tosses her maps back into her hands. “It’s grasping at straws, and not even credible straws! Your lost city is lost because it never existed! Stop chasing mirages!”
“I’ve been researching this for my entire time at this museum!” She argues, “Robin has been searching for longer than that! If it wasn’t real there wouldn’t even be a trail to follow-”
“A trail to what? To this journal you go on and on about? And that will lead you to another clue, or some kind of treasure map, and at the end of that will be your precious city, or else another clue!” He glared at her for a moment before his expression softened. “You’re both beautiful young women, but you’ve studied cartography all your life, when the world has already been discovered in its entirety! You cling to the hope of Atlantis because it proves there’s somewhere left to go. As for linguistics, hmph!” He shrugged his shoulders, imperious. “A trade similarly impertinent to modern-day society. If you would both pull your dreams out of the past and look to the future! Think about where you belong in this grand scheme. You’re useless as you are, cooped up in that basement chasing shadows.” He pushes her out of the window with a pudgy hand on her shoulder, sending her stumbling as her heels twist wrong on the sidewalk. “Driver! Get moving!” As soon as she’s out of the way, and the car is gone. It sputters down the street and splashes through puddles before she can make a proper rebuttal.
Nami stands for a moment, glances down at the rolls of maps and charts lying abandoned and wet on the damp sidewalk, and turns back to the marble staircase that lead back into the museum. Robin is standing by the door, holding Nami’s coat and bag. Her expression tells Nami that she already knows how that exchange went.
She trudges to the top of the steps and stuffs the scrolls into her bag, Robin helping her get the bag clipped shut and then draping her coat over her shoulders.
“Let’s go out for dinner.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
Robin leaves Nami in the lobby of their apartment building to watch the thunderstorm and works her way up the stairs alone, mind shifting through the happenings of the day and categorizing the options for the future.
The most obvious solution, abandoning the ambition of finding Atlantis, is the one that she simply can’t allow herself to do.
The others won’t work. Nothing will come of scheduling a new presentation, they couldn’t find the journal on their own, they couldn’t finance their own expedition team, and she can’t think of any grant program that would take them any more seriously than the trustee board.
She slides her key into the lock and jiggles it a few times, already knowing that the lock is temperamental. It clicks and she pushes her way into the entry hall, sliding her hand along the wall until she finds the pull chain- but no lights come on when she gives it a sharp tug.
Thunder rumbles outside and something in the room shifts; Robin lets her bag drop to the floor and takes a step back, closer to the kitchen where she knows without looking the exact placement of the knife block on the counter.
“Robin Nico.” The shadow says and steps a little more into the light. The man standing there is tall and wearing a thick fur coat, something by his left hand gleams but Robin directs her attention to trying to make out his face in the dark, listening as he continues to speak. “And Miss Nami Sörenson is downstairs yet, I presume.”
“Who are you?” Robin demands into the dark and the man’s smile glints sharp in the dark.
“Sir Khufu Crocodille.”
“How did you get in here?”
“For a woman who isn’t hiding, you’re not the easiest person to get a hold of. I find myself here as a more... direct approach to your attention.” He lifts his hands to adjust the collar of his coat and she realizes that the glint she’d seen at his hand is not something he is holding, but a golden hook that is his prosthetic for the missing appendage. “I represent my employer, who has interest in you and your colleague’s expertise. I’m sure you’d be interested in hearing more.”
“Somehow, I don’t imagine that you’re willing to divulge the details in the comforts of my own home.”
“Hardly. You’ve been invited to his manor, a rare privilege, I assure you. These matters are for him to discuss, not I. ”
“If I decline his invitation will I be receiving some sort of grotesque punishment?” She inquires, keeping her voice steady. Indeed, she feels oddly calm in this situation, minding the danger but not scared of it. “That’s often what happens when powerful people get rejected.”
“I’m not sure about grotesque.” Crocodille says, “It depends on how you would describe missing the best opportunity that ever knocked on your door.”
The ding of the elevator arriving at their floor sounds down the hallway and Robin knows it’s best that she defuse this situation before Nami steps in and complicates it. She tilts her head at the man who seems to think he has something worth bargaining for and says,
“I’m listening.”
Standing in the entry hall of the manor with her feet sinking into a persian rug, heat emanating from a grand fireplace flanked by two elephant tusks, and art with all-too-familiar signatures decorating the walls, Nami is a little overwhelmed. She wracks her brain, considering the financial reports (which she follows to keep up with the times) and the names of the men who could conceivably afford this kind of luxury. Not only that, but who can afford it this close to Washington without people in the city knowing about the location. And yet, none of the names she comes up with begin with ‘M’, as the prevalence of the decorative cursive emblem would indicate the owner of the mansion has.
Rockefeller, Carnegie, Guggenheim, Ford, all of them could but who with M? She glances at Robin and shrugs her shoulders to show she’s no closer to figuring this out. Robin doesn’t seem surprised.
“I am aware that this all seems very strange to you,” Sir Crocodille says from the elevator door halfway across the room, “But the head of the household isn’t the sort of man to wait patiently.”
Robin takes a long stride into the room and Nami hurries to follow her example.
The three box themselves into the elevator and while Sir Crocodille doesn’t waste a second in beginning to explain exactly how they are expected to act in the vicinity of his mysterious employer. Nami corrals herself in the corner and tries again to gather her wits. Robin has taken everything in stride so far, always composed, but Nami is the type to panic until she has a situation figured out- and so far she doesn’t have a clue, so panic she does.
“Don’t let him intimidate you,” Crocodille says, his lip curling in apparent disgust. “He’ll gloat about it later. And I’m the one that will have to listen to it.”
“Should we be intimidated?” Robin tilts her head at him in a disarming kind of way that Nami has learned is an attempt at regaining dominance without anyone realizing. “Is he the kind of man that would summon two women to his mansion on a stormy night and commit unnameable atrocities?”
“Hardly.” Crocodille grunts with nothing more than a roll of his shoulders that could be interpreted as uncomfortable but probably shouldn’t be. “But he is the kind that takes pleasure in convincing people he could be.”
The elevator gate opens onto a new floor, a room very similar to the entry hall with decadent art and stuffed hunting prizes. The fireplace burns merrily and a large armchair faces the flames, creating an imposing shadow.
“Do try not to give me too much work for later. He’s insufferable when he’s excited.” Crocodille sneers and shuts the gate with a clang, the elevator already moving upwards, leaving the two women in unknown territory.
Robin moves forward first, posture straight and eyes calm as Nami skirts along behind her, sweeping her gaze around the room as though their summoner is hiding somewhere in the dark corners. The more she looks the more aware she is of this man’s riches, his influence, and capability. A man who puts his house together like this has multiple houses furnished in the same manner, probably in every exotic corner of the globe. He takes absurd risks and trips for fun, has virtually nothing to lose, and should have absolutely no vested interest in a cartographer and linguist on the verge of losing their jobs for one too many outlandish expedition propositions.
Yet here they are.
“Sir?” Robin calls and without waiting for an answer rounds the chair with a wide berth and comes to stand just of in front of and to the left of the fireplace. Nami hesitates for half a second and then follows because she can’t leave her best friend to handle all of the hard parts alone-
She draws up short.
The man in the chair is exactly as scary as he should be given the circumstances. Huge, broad chested and a military coat draped over his shoulders, badges glinting in the firelight. He’s older, with a flash of white hair and a map of wrinkles tracing their way across his face, but also it doesn’t look like age has deprived him of anything. He’s obviously fit and well enough in the head to be managing whatever finances have gotten him this estate.
He’s also asleep, with a box of crackers cradled in his arm.
Nami’s fear flees like a mist caught in sudden sunshine. Whether it’s her coming to terms with the situation’s absurdity or finding herself no longer with anything worth fearing, she’s overcome with relief and assurance that whatever happens next, she and Robin are the more intelligent people in the room. It will never stop amazing her that men have established such a superiority complex for themselves when they are so often the inferior of the genders.
“Sir?” Robin repeats and Nami folds her hands behind her back and clears her throat a little more loudly than necessary, incurring a rough snort from the man in the armchair who blinks his eyes open and peers at them for half a second before his jaw cracks open in a deep yawn.
Nami is officially annoyed.
The man shifts straighter in the chair, flexing his back a little as though it’s sore from sitting slouched, and then rubs at his eyes with one, huge fist.
“Who are you two?” He asks, voice low and rough, intimidating if it weren’t for the fact that he’d stuck his finger up his nose before he was even awake enough to recognize them as people. “You don’t have any food…” He says it like it’s a grievous crime for people to disturb him without an offering of a snack. Before Nami can think to defend their lack of refreshments he notices the box of crackers still in his hand and shakes a few into his mouth, crunching down without further complaint.
“Sho,” He speaks with his mouth full, “Who’re bou dwo?”
“My name is Nico Robin and this is my colleague, Nami Sörenson. One of your employees-”
“Oh, you two!” he guffaws and glances at his wristwatch. “I asked Crocodile to get you almost two hours ago! That man is slacking.” he shakes his head and pushes himself to his feet with a grunt.
“Uhm, do you mean Sir Crocodille? As in, Croco- di-yeh ?” Nami asks, wondering suddenly if they’d been dropped off in the right room.
“That’s what he calls himself but I’ve always called him Crocodile. Like the animal.” He clarifies before Nami can ask to be sure. “You can too, I don’t like confusion so I ask all my staff to use my pronunciation.”
In a bout of clarity, Nami realizes that she never wants to hear this man try to pronounce her last name.
“We’re here now, and apologize for the wait, Sir. Now, while you are clearly familiar with the both of us, we know almost nothing about you. Who are you?”
“Me?” The man asks, as though there was anyone else around that Robin could feasibly be talking to. When she nods he laughs and juts out his free hand, scratching the back of his neck with the cracker box. “My name is Garp D. Monkey, Vice Admiral in the U.S. Navy and a very successful investor.” Robin ignores his extended hand and Nami grabs his wrist but avoids his fingers which had been shoved up his nose minutes before. “Also, financier of many humanitarian projects around the world. I’ve come into a great deal of riches in one way or another and I prefer to put it back into this world rather than keeping it all to myself. I’d like you ladies to be a part of my next expedition!”
“What expedition is that?” Robin asks. “You see, Nami and I have very specific scholastic interests and goals at this moment-”
“No no, you don’t understand.” Garp grins at them, the expression wide and a little unnerving. “Your specific goals are why I need you two, not any other cartographer and linguist. You see, my next project is to find the city of Atlantis.”
Nami chokes on nothing, gasping at his shameless, confident assertion that the lost city is his to locate. Robin, of course, doesn’t lose composure for even a second, though her shoulders tense up a little tighter. Garp doesn’t seem to notice their shock and turns to a cluttered table, shifting through stacks of paper,s, muffin wrappers and various tomes, finally coming up with one wrapped carefully in brown paper and twine. He holds it out for Robin to take and the woman accepts it carefully, pulling the string loose and unwrapping the book before freezing as it becomes clear what she holds in her hands. Nami inches a step closer and gasps out loud.
“That book right there, the Shepherd's Journal, right?” Garp asks, still grinning a little maniacally. “That’s the only way to the lost city, and I want you to take me there!”
1914, the city of Atlantis
“I’m not discussing this again.”
Ace leans against the window, staring out over the blue and white and green of the city. It’s beautiful, always has been, and it always will be. He wishes he could enjoy it fully, as he tries to most mornings, but instead he has to do this again.
“You have to face it at some point, yoi.” Marco reminds him, not at all swayed by the steel in his voice. “You are the prince in line for the throne, and you’re going to have to take on the title along with the remaining responsibilities sooner or later.”
“Why?” He asks, asks not whines, no matter what Marco’s snort says about his thoughts on the tone. “Really!” He turns around, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. “I’ve been the prince of Atlantis for eight thousand years, longer if you want to count before… before we came down here. I’ve taken on the extra duties, you’ve covered the rest, I’m still a prince, you’re still an advisor, the city is still standing. If we’ve been fine without a king for that long, why does it need changing?”
“Nations need change, Ace.” Marco says, his voice dipping into that tone he gets whenever he’s advising on a more serious matter. He’d been Ace’s father’s head advisor and almost a regent, so when it had been Ace left, it had been Marco who kept others from the throne without actually taking it himself. He’d held it for Ace while he figured out his life, while he made his peace with what had happened.
If that was what Marco was waiting for it was going to be another eight thousand years before Ace was ready.
“Ours doesn’t.” Ace murmurs, but it sounds weak even to his own ears.
They’ve survived, even thrived, but it’s been a long time. Things aren’t like they were, and they do need change. Ace knows that. But he… he’s one reason that they haven’t changed, and he doesn’t yet want to be the reason that they do.
“I can still advise you, yoi. Thatch will still help with all of the event planning, but we need a king in name and action. You already have a partial court, beyond just us. Edward never intended for us to run this country in your stead, nor in Roger’s. You know that.”
“I know that.” Ace agrees. “But I like it when you run the country. You’re good at it.”
“You will be too, Ace.”
Ace snorts and turns back to the window, glowering over the expanse of crumbling architecture and triumphing wilderness. They live a balanced existence, not one like above the surface but one which he almost likes better.
“Alright. I’m not doing it yet, but I’ll think about it.”
“That’s what you say every time, yoi.”
“And I do.” Ace smirks. “It takes a while to make that big a decision. Do I want to be a king? I don’t know yet. In the meantime there’s a country to run. As a prince. Any advice, oh wise advisor?”
“Let that hellion brother of yours out of the city walls.” Marco says in deadpan.
“My sweet baby brother?” Ace gasps, jokingly affronted. “But he could get hurt in the caves! That’s what he did last time anyway…” He grimaces but continues. “Within the city limits he’s safe.”
“Within the city limits he’s a menace.”
“He’s a menace out of them too and you know it.”
“Ace, you have to let him out eventually. It’s been years, yoi. He’s breaking things.”
“I know, I know.” Ace waves a hand at him, biting his lip as he thinks. “I’ll send him with that scouting party we have surveying the caves next week, that’s better than just setting him loose. He won’t stay with them so I’ll give him a crystal too. Just to be safe. Sound good?”
“Sounds great, yoi.” Marco nods. “See? You can think rationally. I told Thatch as much but he didn’t believe me.”
“Ha. Ha.” Ace pushes away from the window and knocks his elbow into Marco on his way past. “I don’t know about king, but I do like being prince.”
“There’s not a big difference.”
“Sure there is!” Ace sweeps his hands out, turning the corner and starting down the steps toward the atrium where he’s supposed to be meeting with Thatch to discuss the scouting team. The lineup will need tweaking with Luffy added in. “Kings wage wars, they get power hungry, and they’re defined by their crown.”
“And what is a prince’s job, instead of all that?” Marco calls down
“For one it’s all the regent’s fault if stuff goes wrong.” He calls back up. Marco snorts and doesn’t dignify that with an answer. “But more than that… there’s not as much politics involved. I just do what I can, what I like doing. Take care of my brother, take care of my people- take care of Atlantis…” He smiles but it doesn’t hold for long as Marco’s footsteps start to move away. Softer, to himself he says. “I just hope I’m doing a good job.”