Work Text:
“You don’t come here often,” says the woman behind the bar.
“Hina was just stopping by.”
Hina downs the espresso in her cup. It’s quite strong; Smoker might like this place—Spiders Cafe, she’ll remember the name.
“Pity.”
The woman winks and pushes up her glasses as she turns. As she walks to the other end of the bar to refill another customer’s coffee, her hips sway like a boat in gentle waves; she knows exactly what she’s doing but it’s not overly-affected, and she has the assets for it. Nice arms, too; they’re thin but well-toned, and her curly hair is, as it turns out, not the brown-black Hina had thought when she’d walked in wearing her sunglasses, but a dark blue. The woman is quite striking, and though Hina isn’t here for this purpose, she’s not here for business either.
“Hina didn’t catch your name,” Hina says, as the woman returns, sliding the coffee carafe back into place.
“Paula,” she says. “If you’re free in an hour, that’s when I close this place up.”
True to Paula’s word, when Hina returns, she’s tucking the key to the cafe door into her pocket, the brilliant Alabasta sunset shining off her polished nails. Paula is a bit taller than Hina, and she stands differently than she had behind the cafe the way the Marines teach people, like a thread is descending from the sky and holding her spine in place. Hina wants to ask her if she’s ex-Marine, or if her parents were, but then Paula relaxes into a semblance of her prior pose, hand on her hip, the silhouette of her figure emphasized. Hina has better things to think about now, to speak about if she is to speak and not grasp Paula’s face in her hands and kiss her in the water tower’s shadow, close her eyes and let Paula’s hands slide across her torso and attempt to enter the false pockets in her suit jacket.
“They aren’t real,” says Hina.
Paula laughs, a sharp sound cutting the air like fabric scissors.
They split the hotel fee and stay the night. Paula must live nearby, but people have their own reasons for hiding. She could have an apartment in the bar and wish to sever work and non-work activity; she could have a young child at home, a sick family member, a rodent problem. That’s not Hina’s business.
“Come find me later,” she says as she leaves in the morning, before she tucks her hair into her bandana.
An odd sense of deja vu pricks Hina like a pushpin hiding on the desk. Something is amiss. Paula buttons her pants, and the feeling dulls, a knife touched at the flat of the blade. Irrational. Hina pushes it down like garbage in the bin.
Paula offers out a burning match and Hina bends to meet it with the tip of her cigarette. When it lights, Paula places the head in her pipe, and Hina watches. She’s methodical about it, though the pipe is an odd accoutrement for a person so generally efficient. There is the way she walks, but that’s hardly purposeless; she always finishes her tea to the last drop. She closes her cafe on Thursdays to balance the books and deep-clean the kitchen. A person as conscientious as this, Hina would remember.
(She would remember Paula by her looks, too—Hina does not consider herself shallow, but their match in personalities is a coincidence; she is quite sure Paula’s interest had started from the physical as well. It’s as much human nature as any other reason for attraction, as far as that can be defined.)
They bathe together in the hotel, at sunset when the days are long and the light spills orange over the bubbles in the bath, the porcelain tub, the floor tiles. The blue of Paula’s hair is illuminated like the low moon’s corona. Hina does not think about her missions, about the promotion she has slowly become hungry for, the obstacles that remain ahead of her. What Paula is thinking about is unknown to Hina, but she is sure it isn’t flat whites and negronis and the seasonal food menu.
They don’t have all of the top Baroque Works agents. Miss All Sunday is presumed dead; Mr. 8 and Miss Wednesday have long since deserted and their partners had extracted themselves from the organization prior to the Alabasta plan (however, it would be useful to bring them in for questioning). Of the rest, not all have been captured, and this is a failure Hina will need to explain. To make up for. (Perhaps part of the blame rests on Smoker’s shoulders, but Hina will not shove it onto him. He has been dealt a hand he shouldn’t have, and he and Tashigi have made it to the other side of that.)
In the brig, the Baroque Works agents are prisoners like any other. Handcuffed with seastone, they sit and stand, not talking amongst themselves. Interesting. Hina’s eyes come to rest on one woman, standing with her hip cocked out as if to draw a pistol. The name Paula comes to Hina’s mouth, and she looks again; the resemblance is striking. Based on her report, this would be Miss Doublefinger, the Poison Spider—like the name of the cafe. The pose, the hair (no bandana, but the color is distinct), the clear eyes—Hina frowns. Impossible. She would know if it were Paula. She’d made no effort to hide her affiliation; surely if this were Paula—an agent of Miss Doublefinger’s caliber—she would have made a move. Or withdrawn herself. Or she would speak up now, cast shame upon Hina, reveal Hina’s lack of observational skills to the whole of Baroque Works and to Hina’s subordinates standing guard.
The resemblance doesn’t matter; this is only Hina’s preoccupation, not wanting to leave Alabasta and Paula behind. It’s better for her not to form this kind of attachment, better not to risk it. Hina’s next paramour could be a criminal in disguise, and then what?
Hina draws up a report of the incident on her own. Her crew hand in their depositions on time, even Jango, and she compiles them into a list of failures, spears by which to puncture her own reputation. She’d fought Mr. 2 Bon Clay alone after her subordinates were defeated. She’d left no one on guard. She’d taken too long in the fight. She’d taken vacation at the wrong time—had she not, she could have been at the prison. She would have been nowhere near the disruptors and not allowed them to gain access to the prison. It’s luck that Crocodile and Mr. 1 are still locked up; without them, Hina’s capture of Mr. 2 and Mr. 3 would be near-meaningless.
Hina has been cross-referencing her data with that from intelligence sources. Names and aliases, hastily gathered; spotty descriptions of fighting styles. Miss All-Sunday, Nico Robin; Mr. 0, Crocodile—Miss Doublefinger, Zara, also known as Paula. Hina picks up the photograph, inspecting it. Miss Doublefinger stands, face half in shadow, hand on one hip; Hina conjures the image of the pipe that’s not in her hand before she sees it’s not there. Paula’s hair is loose, as it had been in the brig, as Hina had rarely seen it—in bed, in the bath, through bleary eyes in the early morning when Paula had stayed the night—her expression like unsheathed claws, but the resemblance cannot be dismissed. Another photograph, stuck to the first, peels itself off the back. Paula has a teacup in one hand, hair tucked into her bandana; she’s laughing. A candid shot, then; Hina does not look away.
Hina had been correct, in part; her thinking had been wishful, in denial, but in denial about the wrong aspect of the situation. But why had Paula said nothing? Loyalty to Hina? Not having wanted to admit to her colleagues that she’d slept with a Marine?
Do the higher-up officers know about Hina and Paula’s meetings? If they had and they cared, they’d act even if they didn’t tell Hina in words, remove Hina from the case or from her position. It’s a conflict of interest, but—of course, after this, Hina is no longer seeing Paula. Does that not give her more motivation? A humiliating defeat—the loss of the quarry, yes, a lapse in attention, and the fact that Hina could not admit to herself who Paula was. She’d had no idea, this whole time, had blinded herself. Disgusting.
When she turns in the report, she keeps a copy of the intelligence, cleared by her superiors, of course. This is not a mistake she will repeat.
Hina’s temporary office at the base is in terrible condition, but Hina has no time to worry about it. At least she has an office; since the war with Whitebeard the rebuilding and reorganizing has come slower than pouring out oyster sauce from a bottle in the back of the refrigerator. As has everything from paperwork processing to backfilling positions to supplies. So Hina cannot think of complaining about the leaking window or the gash in the wall from years of the doorknob hitting the plaster.
Like a cup of coffee left all day on the bedside table, Hina’s investigation into the whereabouts of the escaped Baroque Works agents has cooled, leaving behind a ring around the side of the mug, nothing useful below. Better to brew a fresh pout and start anew, but that’s much easier with coffee than with investigation. Hina has never been recommended for an intelligence role, never offered the chance at trying for one, although of course that doesn’t rule out an officer having evaluated her for it without telling her that was what they were doing. She’s good at pursuing a fleeing criminal through an open sea, leveraging the speed of her ship, the faith of her crew, the accuracy of her aim and the range of her powers—this is not comparable.
It gives Hina a distraction, though, after the war and the schism at the top of the organization, the way her colleagues are promoted, shifted to the side, demoted, like a suitcase packed and repacked to slam the lid shut. It ought to be just another unfamiliarity, a reminder of Hina’s failures in a sea full of promotions that she’s not getting, but instead it’s a difficult puzzle, and Hina is beginning to understand the shape of the pieces she doesn’t yet have.
Hina sweeps her hair out of her face, staring at the piece of paper in front of her. Miss Wednesday, no, that was Nefertari Vivi—and Hina could go and ask her for information, but that would be frowned upon. She would perhaps cooperate—she has been instrumental to Alabasta’s recovery, and has disavowed Baroque Works without speaking of her own role—but perhaps she would be too ashamed to speak of it. And there is Mr. 8, Igaram, the captain of the guard—and yet. No. Would it not be better to go to Whisky Peak? Any unaffiliated civilians who had been there during Baroque Works’s rule would be sure to remember, as would former agents still present. (How many of their number had Roronoa killed? Hina does not know the official figure, nor does she know the truth; she’s heard a thousand from a very excitable recruit saying she would capture Roronoa, brandishing her mop like a sword and splattering dirty suds over the clean floor like sauce on a tablecloth, but that must be too high.)
“Hey!”
Hina raises her head as the office door slams open, the knob hitting the wall again. Hina supposes one hit cannot do much more damage than has been done already. She does not hear the sound of cracking or crumbling, despite the figure in the door being Garp’s. His arms are crossed over his chest, and his eyes are worn like the splintering floorboards in the room. He’s been back only a few weeks; Hina has no doubt that his feelings are not yet settled. (She cannot speak for Garp’s family situation, nor can she say with confidence what she would do if she were him—that is easy to do when the situation seems impossible.)
“Garp-kun,” says Hina.
“Working so late? You need your sleep.”
“Hina could say the same about you.”
“I’m retired; I can sleep all the time,” says Garp, and he laughs as if he hadn’t fallen asleep on the job at a consistent rate.
The laugh is tinged with something forced. He wants to talk. Hina’s investigation is going as well as the average fresh recruit’s first rainy obstacle course, so it’s not an excuse for telling him to leave (not that he would, under normal circumstances).
“Have you ever lost?” Hina says.
The phrase is ambiguous, perhaps too much so, perhaps raking her fingers over his open sores. Garp the Fist, Garp the Hero doesn’t lose, anyway.
“Yeah,” Garp says. “I have. I hate it. Still thinking about Alabasta?”
Hina shouldn’t be surprised that he mentions it, though her face remains in its fixed position. Of course, Garp would know all about an incident that big, particularly since it had involved his grandson—and he’s nowhere near as oblivious as he seems, or pretends to be.
“There was a pirate I used to know,” says Garp. “Long time ago, he’s dead now. Got my ass handed to me by him, and it lit a fire under me. I chased him around a lot, got Sengoku pretty mad at me back in the day. You probably shouldn’t do that.”
“Hina puts her orders first.”
“Yeah, I know. But, y’know, capturing pirates is our job. Winning, showing ordinary citizens they can count on us—that’s our job. Well, not mine now.”
Hina bites back a remark. The selective state of Garp’s retirement is irrelevant, a piece of paper blown by the wind and catching her attention when the slow-moving boulder should be her focus. A pirate who had beaten Garp—Hina is young, but she finds it difficult to imagine. Whitebeard? No, it must be—
“Oh, yeah, I came in here looking for the goat,” says Garp.
“Hina has not seen it.”
“Too bad. If you do, let me know, we’re going to prank Sengoku.”
Garp leaves the door open behind him, and Hina does not close it.
The report comes into the system as usual. Hina is not in the habit of going out of her assigned patrol area to assist with arrests; it’s the kind of task she performs if asked, or if the arrest takes place in the jurisdiction of an officer who cannot get the job done and Hina knows she will be able to. She always scans the reports for those opportunities, and not for any other detail, but of course, she sees the details. Tall woman, rogue bounty hunter, spikes as weapons, punctured a life raft and impaled a Marine. Accompanied by a shorter woman with dark braided hair. The descriptions must be none other than Miss Doublefinger and Miss Goldenweek.
It’s Captain Thairo’s report. He has not asked for Hina’s help, and he’s quite competent, but Hina sets her course regardless. He’ll likely have another incident or duty with which to be occupied. (Is Hina stealing the opportunity, the glory of capturing very wanted criminals? Should she, having failed before, bow out? Garp had not, but Hina is not Garp, and Miss Doublefinger and Miss Goldenweek would be small fry as they are now in the New World. But they are Hina’s responsibility, cunning enough to escape Marine hands once; a competent captain will need assistance.)
Thairo answers the snail call on the third ring.
“Captain Thairo.”
“This is Hina. Regarding the incident with the rogue bounty hunter.”
“Doesn’t look good, does it?”
“You are the judge of that,” says Hina. “Hina is offering her assistance.”
Thairo pauses, clears his throat. Hina smooths out the front of her jacket.
“Well, the shipyards at Port Parrot just caught on fire, so if you’ve got a lead, go for it. I’m not writing your report.”
“Noted,” says Hina.
Her lookouts scan the horizon for ships that match the description of the one in the report, stolen by the pair. Nothing. They pass Port Parrot and the smoke billowing up through the sky like a volcano in the bay, send out a call, and are told to continue on. They pass fishing boats, a pleasure yacht, a warship full of trainees.
“Turn,” Hina says, when they reach an island dense with shrubbery, its cove slight and missable, a flaw in a great blade to an untrained eye.
The ship turns, tight and smooth, gliding on. This is hunch; Hina scolds Smoker for operating on those as if they’re protocol, but perhaps it’s like Paula to slip into the cove. (Is it? Had Hina known her well enough to say that?) The shore provides no escape, no river inland; there is a sandy beach, a small strip that leads into the forest, Hina knows from the map. If the ship is present and deserted, they’ll have to search the forest or wait them out; neither option is attractive.
“Ready the cannons,” Hina barks.
“Yes, Captain Hina!” the gunners, already in position, chorus.
Hina’s ship rounds the bend, and a cascade of spines rains down on the deck, piercing skin and clothes and the floorboards of the deck. Hina raises her hands, drawing barred shields like a magician spreading out a deck of cards on the table. The cannons fire; the ship retreats; Hina squints through the smoke, the tint of her sunglasses, the gaps in the bars. On the deck are two silhouettes that look correct, and a cannon of some kind. With a flick of her wrist, Hina sprouts cages around the two figures, but she expects its effects to be minimal. Another rain of spikes does not come, though. Is she waiting out Hina? Does she need a recharge? Are they attempting to draw the crew in to activate Miss Goldenweek’s powers? The gunners reload and focus their cannons; Hina’s ship draws closer.
“Focus,” Hina says.
“Yes, Captain Hina!”
They draw up beside the stolen ship. The cannon smoke has faded, and Hina can see the two figures with accuracy now. They are not Paula and Miss Goldenweek. The taller one on the left has dark hair, a flat brown color. Her posture is slumped and her shoulders are scarred with what look to be stab wounds. She might not be a fruit user at all. The shorter one on the right looks to be at least twice as old as Hina; her hair is pulled into braids and she is wearing what looks to be a school uniform—not because she is young enough to still be in school.
“Damn,” says the one on the left, a strong South Blue accent running through her tongue. “How’d you get us?”
“Skill,” says Hina. “Jango, will you read them their rights?”
Jango begins (if he hypnotizes them, that will be easy enough to undo). Hina frowns. Who are they? Impostors? Traitors who happen to bear a superficial resemblance to Baroque Works officers?
“Whoa,” says one of Hina’s subordinates.
“I beg your pardon, Petty Officer?”
He flushes. “I never thought I’d see them turning on the Marines, Captain.”
“Hina is not familiar with these bounty hunters. Are they known for their loyalty?”
“The one on the left is Pilar the Cannon. I don’t know of anyone else who uses a spike cannon on the Grand Line. And the one on the right is Little Radish. They’re not known for their loyalty, but they’ve made a lot of money turning in criminals.”
“Ah,” says Hina. “Perhaps they hoped there would be more money in crime.”
“I don’t know, Captain.”
Hina does not respond to the statement. What she is feeling is not relief; that would be disgusting. How had she been wrong? How had she not asked Thairo for more information on the identities of the bounty hunters? She cannot say she had done anything incorrect here in helping a colleague, in apprehending criminals who had betrayed the Marines, but—perhaps Hina’s error was in thinking that she could expect someone as skilled at subterfuge to make a mistake like this that lands in Hina’s lap.
If Hina wants to capture Paula, she cannot wait for Paula to slip and stumble and stick to where Hina is. The avenues of her search ahead are narrow, a wide street split into several at the central square, but none of them appears from Hina’s vantage point to be very long. She might as well start somewhere.
Whisky Peak is not the haven of bounty hunters it once was, nor the pirates’ paradise it once pretended to be. The liquor distilleries that had once provided money laundering have become, to the best of Hina’s knowledge, legitimate businesses that provide a steady flow of tourism, but Hina is not here for pleasure. She is not here in an official capacity, either; this is her off day and the destination provides a reasonable cover for why she’d be this far back on this side of the Grand Line.
The bounty hunter professionally known as Miss Monday still lives here. She operates on her own now, and she’s good at what she does—when a pirate shows up and is too disruptive, a citizen will call her and she subdues them and turns them in. While the Marines could take a more proactive stance here (and Miss Monday and her partner ought to, for their own financial interest as well as general public safety) Hina will not overstep, not now when this visit may provide the lead she needs.
“I didn’t know most of the others,” says Miss Monday. “There was a lot of secrecy, particularly around Mr. 0.”
“Hina is aware of that. But…does this woman look familiar?”
Miss Monday takes the outstretched picture and holds it up to the light. In her long fingers it looks smaller than it is. Hina waits.
From the back room, Miss Monday’s partner, Mr. 9, emerges. Although Miss Monday has made an effort into rebranding herself after the fall of Baroque Works, Mr. 9 looks nearly the same as he had in its heyday. He’s scrubbed the numbers from his face, but he’s got the same gaudy crown on his head and the same flat bangs across his forehead.
“Do you know her?” Miss Monday says, handing the photo over her shoulder without looking. Mr. 9 takes them in one hand, the other squeezing Miss Monday’s shoulder.
“Never seen her before,” says Mr. 9. “Why? Is this a new job?”
“She was one of Baroque Works’s top agents,” says Hina. “Miss Doublefinger.”
“Oh, yeah, I know the name,” says Mr. 9. “Fruit user, right? Spike powers?”
“So I’ve heard,” says Miss Monday.
“Have you visited the Spiders Cafe in Alabasta?”
“No,” says Miss Monday. “I’ve never been to the country at all.”
“Actually,” says Mr. 9, “now that you mention it—I’ve never been there either, but I did get a postcard recently…I kept it because I liked the picture,”
He disappears again, presumably to find the postcard.
“Do you mind if Hina smokes?”
“Yes,” says Miss Monday.
Hina taps her finger on the leg of her pants. The postcard will turn out to be nothing, so after this she’ll go to a bar, perhaps find a local spirit to bring back to Smoker as a souvenir. He would not appreciate the reminder of Baroque Works, though—Hina will bring a bottle back for herself, then. A reminder for her would be redundant, a CO opening the door to tell her to do the task she’s already doing, and it’s no excuse to avoid good alcohol.
“I found it!” Mr. 9 declares, brandishing the postcard like an official notice.
The postcard looks hand-painted, a crisp rendering of a saloon with a cactus outside. Hina flips it over; it reads Announcing the New Spiders Cafe . Details on where to find it, an island out near Water 7, are printed below. There is no mention of Baroque Works, nor of any person by name, but—it had been delivered to two former agents who have made no secret of their location. It could be coincidence, or a prank, or a trap.
Miss Goldenweek, the real one, is a painter. It would be ridiculous for Paula to reopen her cafe in a new place—but would it? She’d been good at what she did, and if it’s a front for assassination or not, if it is her—Hina is making more assumptions than are safe. She pulls out a sheet of paper and pen and copies down the address, turns it over and looks at the front once more. It is a lovely picture.
“Thank you,” Hina says. “This is very helpful.”
“What are you going to do if she’s there?” Mr. 9 asks, blunt, behind the play. “I mean, I know we work with the Marines and all…and they kicked us out, and I’m on Miss Wednesday’s side.”
“Hina is only investigating.”
They don’t know her—but they have the address; they can go or send a message and warn her. That is the risk Hina has accepted by asking direct questions; the method has been effective.
Hina does not hesitate to open the envelope. She had asked for the evidence; it could be the confirmation she’s been searching for—or it could send her search right back to the start, like one of Jango’s so-called shortcuts that makes the ship move in circles instead of going anywhere. She pulls out the papers, setting them on her desk; the newspaper clips flutter in the air, their lengths uneven, the effect like the fringe on a scarf.
At the top is an article clipped from a local publication about the reopening of an old bar, now known as the New Spiders Cafe. It covers the drink specialties, but that’s worth narrowing in on. Espresso drinks, mate tea, sweet cocktails—all served at the Spiders Cafe. Specialty chocolate, that’s new. But would Paula hide so openly, at a cafe with such a similar menu? Hina pushes the clipping aside. The second piece of paper is older, yellowed and crumbling at the edges like a stale cracker. It deals with the closing of the first bar, not relevant. And then—a local business owner profile. A picture, four women, all of who have very familiar faces. Miss Valentine, Miss Merry Christmas, Miss Goldenweek, and next to them, Paula, familiar glasses and bandana, smile sharp but not venomous. There is Hina’s answer.
The proprietors of the New Spiders Cafe arrived from a summer island a few months ago; the manager, Paula, lost her prior enterprise due to political upheaval in the area…
That is one way of putting it. Hina rubs the furrow in her brow. They’re so blatant, yet if they haven’t been caught yet, a year later—if it hadn’t been for Hina’s grudge, the wound to her pride that still aches, the foolish desire to see Paula again—and what? Fight her? Yell at her like a spoiled child? Stow her in Impel Down now that the rest of Baroque Works have broken out or gone missing?
Hina hadn’t known Paula very well. That is as plain as the ocean outside the window. She hadn’t hidden who she was from Paula, but would Paula have known her well enough to lay bait for her? To know that Hina would be angry and humiliated—but wouldn’t anyone? And if this is the bait, then what is the trap?
Does this matter? Hina’s feelings, Paula’s feelings—whatever they may be. If Hina were Smoker, she’d plunge ahead in pursuit, the way he goes after the Straw Hats. Is this different? Hina does not have orders she’ll be disobeying with this; she will not bring her subordinates into this. But it is the simple matter of apprehending a fugitive with evidence she has collected. Yes, what Hina ought to do is clear.
Hina’s first visit to the New Spiders Cafe is a stakeout. Just as the original cafe had, the new one closes early on Thursdays. Paula has help running the business this time, though; if she is spending her Thursday afternoons on accounting and cleaning, she may not be here alone. Across the street from the cafe is a small park, rather new-looking. Its swing sets are shiny; the benches look well-kept. The shrubbery still looks as if it’s not rooted tightly to the ground, but it is dense enough to shield Hina as she watches. Hina waits for an hour to see nothing but a prospective customer walk up, notice the “Closed for Business” sign, and leave, but she is patient.
When the doors swing open, Paula is the one who emerges, a trash bag in each hand. She looks as she had when Hina had first seen her, sashaying through the door and down the path, a lock of hair escaping from the front of her bandana. Her shoulders are toned; she looks healthy. That is not the point of this visit; Hina turns her eyes back to the door, waiting for Miss Merry Christmas to pop out behind Paula. She doesn’t; no one does; Paula sets the trash bags out and goes back inside for a moment.
Once more, she brings out two trash bags, but this time she glances in Hina’s direction. Their eyes don’t meet; that would be impossible. Hina is hidden from view, and Paula shouldn’t be expecting a person to be watching her from the park. (Had she seen Hina arrive?) Paula again returns inside, and again comes out. She lifts her face, glasses reflecting the sun, and then, fast as Hina sinks below water, Paula is beside her, a spike at Hina’s throat, blocked by the bar Hina wills into existence out of instinct more than conscious defense.
This near to her, Hina can smell the coffee and tea and cleaning product clinging to Paula’s skin, the pipe tobacco.
“Hina was not expecting this hostile of a welcome.”
“If I recall correctly, the last time we met, you were my jailer,” says Paula.
“The last time we met, you had just participated in treason,” says Hina. “Hina was carrying out justice.”
“Were you?”
“Yes,” says Hina; the question does not need to be asked. “You knew Hina was a Marine.”
“You didn’t know who I was.”
The words unfurl as if Paula is revealing the truth to herself, revolving it on a platform and shaving off the last possibility of anything else. Hina refuses to avert her eyes. She had not known. She does now. Paula is a fugitive. She may well be running a legitimate business—or, like her first cafe, it could be a front, an excuse. It is Hina’s duty to bring her to justice.
Those words are easier to say when justice is an abstract concept, when Paula is not right in front of her.
“I don’t want to fight,” says Paula.
She does not want to lose, but she does not want to win either. Hina ought to tell her that if she does not want to fight, she ought to come quietly, to acquiesce. She ought to say that she is prepared to fight. That she will bring all of Baroque Works in. She ought to; she ought to.
She thinks of Garp and his grandsons on the platform. This cannot compare. She has accepted no agreement she cannot honor, no treachery herself. But on one measure Hina cannot lie: she had not come here to subdue Paula, no matter how much she had wanted to want that. Her feelings have already betrayed the Marines, all of the resources and research she has done.
Paula could be lowering her guard, swaying her like a wind turning the sail that places the boat on course for a crash on the rocks.
So be it. Hina lowers her arm.
“Hina does not want to fight either.”
She waits for Paula’s mouth to meet hers, for the taste of blood on her lips and beneath that, mint and citrus peel. They’ve both gotten what they needed.
Paula’s bathroom above the cafe is spacious, with a bath that’s large enough for both of them to wash in together. The window faces away from the setting sun, though its pattern on the sand and the leaning shadows of the cacti can be seen across the empty desert landscape.
“You’re less angry than I thought you’d be,” says Paula.
“Hina is angry,” says Hina.
“But not with me.”
“No. Hina should have figured it out from your body language.”
Paula drags the washcloth over Hina’s ankle, her touch lighter where it’s tender from hitting into the side of one of the spikes. Hina curls her toes into the bubbles atop the bath’s surface. She is angry with herself, still; she’s angry with Paula for having worked toward the failed coup in Alabasta, for having aided Crocodile’s long deception, for escaping justice—or is she? Has that dried up and crumbled, leaving behind only an impression of what had once been there, that Hina assumes at a quick glance must remain? Most of it has been consumed by Hina’s frustration with herself, and the rest has been stomped out and squashed by this. A chemical reaction, sublimation into having Paula across from her, from the contact.
The adrenaline of the moment, Paula’s weapon at her throat, has receded, and new questions rise like rocks from the low tide. Is this the right decision? Does it matter? Hina has made it, and must live with it. It is wrong, but if she has to keep telling herself—the Marines would frown on it. Would it kill her ambitions? Should she have asked that before? Can she back out now? But again, the answer shows itself; she doesn’t want to. Perhaps this is how it feels to be Smoker, breaking the rules based on a black box of internal logic, but he approaches situations from a different angle. Usually.
“Cigarette?” says Paula.
“Yes,” says Hina.
Her hair drags in the foam as she leans forward, allowing Paula to place the cigarette in her mouth, pruned fingertips pressing to Hina’s lip. She strikes the match; it burns into the air. Hina thinks of asking if Paula still works as a bounty hunter. How she’d gotten in touch with Miss Monday and Mr. 9 if they never knew her. But she knows she won’t get an answer, and silence has its own value.
If Hina’s day and a half of shore leave drops her off at an island two over from the location of the New Spiders Cafe, what of it? Hina has been meaning to stop by a particular club for a while, see what the music is like, drop a hint to Jango and Fullbody if it’s good and she needs a break from the two of them. She pushes her sunglasses up on her nose, heels of her boots snapping against the boards of the dock as her purse slaps her thigh. (Hina hadn’t wanted to bring it, but the dress is too tight and the boots too short to fit both her cigarettes and her lipstick, and perhaps she can stick a drink in it and free up her hands.)
The bassline of the club reverberates through the cobblestoned street outside, and Hina pities those living or working in the immediate area. The cover charge is reasonable, though, and she slips into the crowd, breathing in the smell of sweat and cigarettes and floor wax. She catches a flash of blue in the corner of her field of vision, like a slice of the ocean through cannon smoke. She’s seeing what she wants to, what’s on her mind; this phenomenon has a name. Hina ought to be able to think of it, but then she sees the flash again, and the face, the neck like that of a delicate decanter.
“Visiting an establishment that’s not your own?” Hina says, spinning up to Paula.
“Mine’s not a club,” says Paula. “I do like to check out the competition for drinks.”
“Hina hasn’t had one yet.”
Paula presses a disposable cup into Hina’s hand and kisses her, tasting of tequila and salt, undercut by an artificial sweetener. Hina pulls back, lifting the cup to her lips; the drink in it is sweet and fizzy and not much else. Paula’s eyes are trained on Hina’s mouth, following her throat, sharp as dress pins. In these shoes, Hina’s taller; Paula must be wearing flats. She kisses Paula, embracing the different angle, fingers of her free hand tangling in the back of Paula’s hair, soft between her fingers.
“Come find me later,” Paula says, sound lost in the music as the bass drops, freeing herself from Hina like a hair clip pinched between thumb and forefinger.
Hina reads the words on her mouth, follows her form as it disappears into the mass of bodies.