The dust of Alubarna tasted like ancient stone and desperation. Sanji spat blood onto the cracked cobblestones, his ribs screaming with every breath. Across the ruined plaza, Mr. 2 Bon Kurei rose from the shattered wall, his flamboyant feathers now coated in powdered masonry.
"How?" Mr. 2's voice trembled with genuine confusion. "How can a mere man stand against my Okama Kenpo? This dance is meant to shatter mountains!"
Sanji straightened, the cigarette between his lips miraculously still lit. "Because you're standing between me and my nakama." His voice dropped to a lethal whisper. "And I don't let anything come between me and what I've sworn to protect."
"Such conviction!" Mr. 2 struck a dramatic pose. "But conviction shatters against technique! Okama Kenpo: Swan Ballet!"
He moved like liquid silk, a whirlwind of kicks that blurred the air between them. Sanji didn't retreat. He met each strike with a block that sent shockwaves through his bones.
One strike, Sanji thought, his mind calculating angles and weaknesses. I need to end this with one perfect strike.
"Mouton Shot!" Sanji's leg became a blur.
"Hakucho Arabesque!" Mr. 2 countered.
The impact sounded like thunder. Both men flew backward, crashing through opposite buildings in explosions of stone and timber.
Sanji clawed his way from the rubble, his suit torn, blood trickling from his temple. Across the plaza, Mr. 2 emerged similarly battered but grinning.
"You're strong, cook-san!" Mr. 2 called out. "But have you considered my true power?" His features began to melt and reform. "The Mane Mane no Mi allows me to become anyone I've touched! Behold—the Mane Mane Montage!"
Sanji watched as Mr. 2's face flickered through a dozen transformations—guards, citizens, even a Baroque Works agent. But something was off.
"You're still using your own face," Sanji observed coolly. "Just with Usopp's nose slapped on. Pathetic."
Mr. 2's smile faltered. "Fine! Let's try this!"
In a blink, Usopp stood before him—every freckle, every wild hair, the trembling lips perfectly replicated.
"Sanji! It's me!" the false Usopp cried. "Help me!"
Sanji's foot connected with the imposter's face before the sentence finished.
Mr. 2 crashed to the ground, reverting to his true form, tears of genuine hurt in his eyes. "Why? How could you attack your friend's face?"
Sanji lit a fresh cigarette, the flame steady despite his trembling hands. "Because you're still you." He exhaled smoke like a sigh. "People aren't just faces, Bon-chan. They're made of heart. Their spirit. The way they move, breathe, live. You can copy a face, but you can't copy a soul."
For a moment, Mr. 2 looked genuinely moved. Then his expression shifted to cunning. "I see... so even this wouldn't work..."
His body shimmered, reformed.
Nami stood before him.
Sanji's cigarette fell from his lips.
"Sanji-kun?" the false Nami said, voice a perfect replica of that melodic tone that haunted Sanji's dreams. "I'm scared."
Sanji's face went through a transformation of its own—the hardened warrior melting into lovesick fool, hearts practically visible in his eyes.
Mr. 2's real face flickered briefly over Nami's, a triumphant grin spreading. "Fool," he whispered, the word barely audible.
He settled into Nami's form completely, and Sanji stood frozen, conflict warring across his face.
---
In the palace throne room, dust motes danced in shafts of sunlight. Vivi stood before Chaka, her hands clenched so tight her nails drew blood from her palms.
"Destroy it," she said, her voice echoing in the vast chamber.
Chaka's lion-like features twisted in horror. "Princess... the palace has stood for four thousand years. The history—"
"Is written in the hearts of our people, not in these stones!" Vivi's composure cracked, tears streaking through the dust on her cheeks. "Look outside, Chaka! Our people are killing each other! Believing lies! If this palace must fall to make them stop, then let it fall!"
The royal guards exchanged stunned glances. Destroy the palace? The very symbol of Alabasta?
Chaka's shoulders slumped. "The king..."
"My father would understand," Vivi whispered. "He taught me that a ruler serves the people, not monuments."
For a long moment, silence hung between them, broken only by the distant sounds of battle drifting through the marble halls.
Then Chaka straightened, his eyes hardening with resolve. "Guards! To the support pillars! We bring down the east wing!"
"Chaka-sama!" a guard protested. "The historical archives alone—"
"Are less precious than a single Alabastan life today!" Chaka roared. "The princess has spoken! Now move!"
As guards scrambled to obey, Vivi turned to the balcony, watching the two armies clash in the streets below. Please, she prayed to any god who might be listening. Let this work. Let them stop long enough to hear the truth.
---
Back in the ruined plaza, Mr. 2-as-Nami advanced, each step a perfect imitation of the navigator's graceful stride.
"Sanji-kun," he purred, "you wouldn't hurt me, would you?"
Sanji's hands trembled. His fighting stance wavered.
"That's it," Mr. 2 whispered through Nami's lips. "Just lower your guard..."
He launched forward—Okama Kenpo disguised as feminine grace, a lethal kick aimed at Sanji's unguarded chest.
At the last possible moment, Sanji's eyes cleared.
His hand shot up, catching the ankle.
"I said," Sanji growled, his voice thick with emotion, "people are made of heart."
He twisted, and Mr. 2 cried out in his own voice as he was slammed into the ground.
"Nami-san," Sanji said, releasing the ankle and stepping back, "would never call me 'fool' with that much hatred in her eyes."
Mr. 2 reverted, staring up in shock. "But your reaction... the hearts in your eyes..."
"A performance." Sanji lit another cigarette, his hands now steady. "I needed you to believe I was vulnerable. To get close enough."
He took a deep drag. "Now, let's finish this. My friends are waiting."
Mr. 2 began to rise, then froze. His eyes went wide, not with fear of Sanji, but with something else—a distant rumbling that grew to a thunder.
They both turned.
From the direction of the palace, a cloud of dust billowed into the sky. Then the sound reached them—a deep, groaning crunch of ancient stone giving way.
"What..." Mr. 2 breathed.
Sanji's blood ran cold. "The palace..."
A section of the royal palace—the eastern wing with its four-thousand-year-old towers—was collapsing in on itself, a slow-motion avalanche of history and memory.
And from the streets below, the sounds of battle faltered, then ceased entirely.
In the sudden silence, Mr. 2 began to laugh—a high, desperate sound. "You see? Even your princess destroys her own heritage! What kind of kingdom does that?"
But Sanji wasn't listening. His eyes were fixed on the dust cloud, his mind racing. Vivi... what have you done?
Then a new sound cut through the settling dust—not the roar of collapse, but something worse.
The unmistakable click-clack of hundreds of rifle bolts being chambered.
And a voice, amplified by a Den Den Mushi, echoing across the suddenly silent city:
"REBEL SCUM! YOU DARE DESTROY THE ROYAL PALACE? OPEN FIRE! KILL THEM ALL!"
Sanji's cigarette fell, forgotten, as the first volley of gunfire erupted—not from the rebels, but from the royal army itself, firing into the confused crowd below.
Mr. 2's laughter died. "That's... not part of the plan."
And from the settling dust of the collapsed palace wing, a figure emerged on a crumbling balcony—Crocodile, smiling as he held a struggling Vivi by the throat, her feet dangling above the broken stones.
"PRINCESS VIVI HAS BETRAYED ALABASTA!" Crocodile's voice boomed across the city. "SHE DESTROYED YOUR HISTORY! AND NOW... SHE PAYS THE PRICE!"
Sanji took a step forward, but Mr. 2 blocked his path, his face uncharacteristically serious.
"That's not our script," Mr. 2 whispered. "He wasn't supposed to..."
Crocodile raised his hook, the polished metal glinting in the desert sun, poised above Vivi's heart.
And Sanji was too far away to reach her in time.
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