Alabasta-Nanohana Port.
The midday sun hung overhead like a white-hot iron platter, baking the color out of the sky.
A large space had been cleared on the normally bustling docks. The sand-covered ground had been repeatedly watered and packed down, then covered with a red carpet brought out of the Royal Palace storerooms.
The carpet stretched from where the gangway met the shore to the far end of the square. Temporary awnings stood along both sides, their white canvas billowing in the hot wind with a dull, low rumble.
Crocodile stood on the left side of the port.
He had changed his outfit today.
His white shirt was buttoned tightly to the collar, its cuffs fastened with meticulous care. Over it, he wore an open black suit jacket, expertly tailored, its straight shoulder lines making his already broad shoulders look even more imposing.
His hair was slicked straight back, every strand held obediently in place by wax, gleaming oily in the sunlight.
The Golden Hook on his right hand had been removed, replaced by a black leather glove. Inside it, fine grains of sand flowed silently, filling every inch of empty space and shaping a complete hand.
He held that hand behind his back.
His fingertips rubbed lightly against his palm, the grains producing a faint rustle.
Two people stood behind him.
Bon Clay-or rather, Mr. 2-looked so different that anyone who knew him would have been stunned.
The exaggerated drag makeup had been washed clean from his face. His eyebrows had returned to a normal curve, and only a very faint layer of nude lipstick remained on his lips.
His signature swan outfit had also been forcibly replaced with a well-fitted dark gray suit, a plain silver pin fastened at the collar.
He stood there with his hands folded