Chapter Text
Buggy woke up to a wooden, beaten ceiling and for once wasn’t annoyed in the slightest. Being free of those ropes was a relief.
He spent the rest of his time awake plotting. He didn’t go to the circus, even when Mohji came by in the late afternoon to prompt him. Instead he took out a marker and got to work on his previously somewhat-pristine walls. Why use paper when casual mayhem was available? It wasn't like he had paper lying around.
Anyway.
He went straight into problem solving.
Sanji had been killed by Mihawk, which reset the loop. He killed Mohji, and it reset the loop. That meant that deaths themselves triggered the resets, which was… odd. Not a lot of the time did magical objects have deaths as a trigger point. Unless sacrifices were involved, in which case, a lot of death was used. But he didn’t necessarily ‘sacrifice’ Mohji. More like killed him for sport.
There was also another problem. He’d killed people before, even if it was indirect, and that hadn’t reset the loops. Perhaps it was a fulfilment kind of magic. If someone died, how could time travel as it was in the original loop? Did the magic want to make him behave like in the original loop? Because Buggy didn’t want to be put in a bag again.
What he needed, was to research, and wasn’t that a shit thing. But with Sanji revealing the watch came with a sudden burst of hope. Buggy didn’t want to stay here forever. He’d chosen to stay on land, over the previous years, but he was still a pirate. Adventure was in his blood.
But he didn’t have any books here. He didn’t happen to be stuck in a loop in fucking Ohara! He didn’t have a library here. He’d burned it when he took over the damn place. He didn’t even have a lot of traffic, so he couldn’t exactly ask merchants for books.
He could always outsource his crew, but his crew was useless. Maybe he’d kill Mohji again just to fuck with Sanji a bit.
That was it — Sanji! That blond show-pony could certainly research in his place! All he needed to do was strike a truce, and leave everything to him! He looked intelligent enough, even if he wasn’t as intelligent as Buggy.
But the Baratie was in the middle of the East Blue. Pirates far and wide came to visit. Surely one of them had a chance of knowing anything about the watch, even just via rumours? “That’s it,” Buggy cackled into the night air. The door to his tiny house opened, and Mohji nervously stuck his head through. The air soured.
“Uh, Cap'n... I’m really concerned for you, you haven’ come by to make fun of us yet.”
A knife sailed through the air and struck his chest, knocking him to the ground. If he had any regrets, really, it was that he couldn’t do it again and again. Or well, he could, but couldn’t make it a habit. Blondie would kill him.
Sanji was mutinous.
Really, really, mutinous.
What went wrong?
After opening eyes to his cutting board, going through the day, falling asleep and waking to see his fucking cutting board again, he was done. It was in the lull of annoyance and slight hysteria that he decided that it was time to get Zeff. He hadn't tried since those first few loops. He fiercely opened the door, and stalked in.
“Shut up,” He said before Zeff even opened his mouth, “I need help.”
Zeff barked out a laugh. “Are you about to die?”
Sanji didn’t appreciate the sarcasm. “I’m stuck in a time loop.”
Zeff got up and lifted the back of his hand to Sanji’s forehead with surprising concern. Sanji paused for a second, struck from his tired exhaustion. When had he last slept properly? Not since that clown stayed in his room, and that felt like a month prior. He knew it wasn't, but it felt it.
“I know,” Sanji spat out even as Zeff continued to look over him, “That it sounds crazy, but it’s true. Ever since a while back, I keep re-living from now until the next couple weeks. I’m stuck with — with a fucking clown.”
Zeff said nothing as he continued to rant.
“So I tried to get out, you know, by seeing how far I could go, but the fucking clown keeps killing people and resetting it, and then I thought I finally got it, but then… he must’ve broke free, because I’m back here.” He laughed angrily, and wiped at his eyes.
“By clown, you mean Buggy?”
“Yes! We’re both stuck,” Sanji hissed, “He’s made it further than me.” He continued to explain the situation, all of his previous loops, and how it was seemingly connected to Buggy’s attachment to murder.
Zeff sat back down at his deck, and poured himself a drink from a jug filled with water and ice. Sanji sat down too, at a visitor’s chair that was blue. Zeff’s angry red, ugly chair stared at him. “I thought I figured it out,” He said eventually. He joined Mihawk, thus fulfilling the requirements of the original loop. But he'd been pulled all the way back to the start the second he'd stepped towards the man.
And maybe, he'd think the resets were still for 'fulfilment' if not for the fact that every single time things changed, and so change couldn't possibly be what reset the fucking time loops! Buggy had changed things, Sanji had too, but it was this small change which wasn't even a change that restarted it. So it couldn't be fulfilment. It had to have something to do with Buggy. Buggy must have freed himself and did something, or maybe someone freed him --
“Why didn’t you come to me sooner?”
“I did, once. But then I thought I could figure it out, and I thought I did. But then I had Buggy tied up in my closet, and Mihawk agreed to take me on his crew—,”
“— What —“
“—But it didn’t work. He must’ve escaped, but how? I’m good at knots! Someone must’ve helped him.”
It was late evening, and Zeff looked the most shocked he’d ever seen him. He had to laugh, even briefly, at his lost expression. “Mihawk,” Zeff repeated, eyes wide. Sanji smirked, and brushed hair out of eyes.
“He’ll come in two weeks, and apparently I’m meant to join him. So I did.”
“Who told you that?”
“The clown.”
“Well there’s your first problem, boy, you’re trusting Buggy.” Zeff grinned, as if he’d solved everything, and Sanji had a bit of hope. Why hadn’t he come sooner? He knew why — he’d wanted to prove himself. But that was stupid. He should have come the previous loop, when time had proved not quick to vanish. “It’s all connected to that watch, yes?”
“Yes.” Sanji pulled it out, and it softly swayed from the ship’s subtle movements.
“And it looks old, which means it has to have a history. No doubt, some other traveller has experienced it’s effects. Which means you just need to research. Ask around. I know there’s a big library in Orange Town, filled with East Blue literature. Go there.”
“Orange Town?” Sanji thought aloud. “Why not here? Books are one thing, but we’ve seen more experienced marines and pirates than Orange Town.”
“You can ask Tom,” Their bartender, “But if he doesn’t know no one does. The library is your best bet. And if that doesn’t work out, you’ll need to find that clown. He might be lying to you — wring it out of him.” Tom was the best at finding things out, and he was quick to give it out for a fee. Everyone else on the Baratie, though? Shit. Absolutely didn’t listen to anything.
The next person on the Baratie to potentially know anything, was Zeff. And since Zeff didn’t… Sanji sighed. “Right. I’ll… thanks.”
“Anytime, eggplant.”
It was midday and the bar was open. The only people that came by were the oldies and the teenagers trying to act ‘wild.’ It was the best time of day, because he was paid to do basically nothing.
He hated his job. Every single day was a mix of the same bland boring requests; either that, or annoyingly hyped up nights which ended up with someone drunk on the couch. Didn’t matter how many people they got, or how big the Baratie’s drink menu was, they all went for the drinks Tom just… wasn’t in the mood to make.
It happened time and time again. He’d run out of vodka, and then suddenly everyone wanted vodka. He ran out of peach snaps. Peach snaps, suddenly, was requested for everyone and their grandma. And Tom wasn’t trained to be a bartender. He wasn’t even good at it. The only thing he remotely enjoyed and was fucking trained for, was burning shit.
But nobody wanted a budding arsonist, so instead he copped a job at the Baratie. And listened in on people, because, well. Who wouldn’t in his position?
He was kind of spiteful, too, about his job and prospects, so had no interest in loyalty or whatever the fuck. Zeff could think whatever he wanted, if he was fired from here he wouldn’t care. It was just another job that didn’t involve setting things on fire — because sure, the chefs could grill and flambé, but he wasn’t allowed to make a blue blazer because Zeff ‘heard the rumours.’
“Hey, Tom.”
Fucking hell it was Sanji. He hated Sanji. There was something so pretentious about him. Everyone else seemed to love the guy — ‘he cooks so well,’ or ‘he’s going to do great things someday,’ Tom didn’t care. Fuck the guy. He didn’t tip well on long islands.
“Sanji,” Tom said curtly. He tried to limit himself, word-wise. Zeff and Sanji couldn’t know he was smoozing off the booze. ‘Boss we lost another barrel of rum to a rowdy pirate’ — no they didn’t.
“You haven’t happened to hear about a magical watch recently, have you?”
What the fuck. No. What was he, some sort of fucking prophet? A fucking know-all crew-mate? Why was he the go-to for this sort of shit? Did he look like he knew about magic? Magic didn’t exist. Oh sure, devil fruits came close but was it really magic?
Well, actually, it was debated but Tom was no expert. He was just another East Blue failed arsonist, condemned to never be allowed to make a blue blazer. Sally could. Did Zeff know how shit it was to have to fetch Sally whenever a guest requested something with flames? Literally fuck the guy.
And his shit-adopted-son. ‘You haven’t happened’ what was he, some pompous fucking prince? It was a pirate crew. Nobody used fancy fucking speech when asking about gossip. God, it was like the marines. Always acted so up themselves, so smart, except then Tom scammed them for more than what information was worth so truly shit didn’t mean shit.
Sometimes they slipped money to him after he genuinely said he didn’t have a clue, and then he just made shit up. Somehow, he’d never faced consequences for it. Anyway, a watch. Magical. As if people would talk about bullshit like that.
“No.”
“Alright, thanks. See you, Tom.”
“See ya.”
Mihawk was in the waters. Sanji had known that, somewhere in the back of his head, but running into him had just been unfair. He left as soon as Tom was proven to not know anything, and set out for Orange Town.
Mihawk sailed on a vessel that looked like an upturned coffin. It was small, especially by average ship standards, with a singular centralised white chair and a cross for a mast. It was unthreatening in appearance, but the sight of the man who sailed it was known to spark fear into the hearts of all who saw it — that was, if they lived to tell the tale.
Santi’s own boat was a small wooden one with at the very least a cabin. It was easy to steer, and easy to mistake for a fisherman’s boat. It was sometimes sent off to islands for errands, but Zeff allowed him to take it.
Upon seeing Mihawk, the smartest option was to sail away. But something in Sanji called for him not to do that.
He was going to Orange Town. Mihawk was going to the Baratie, where he’d bump into the straw-hats and set them on a course for ruin — an injured swordsman, who was going to lay dying. Sanji could let him keep going, or, he could distract him.
And if it all went terrible, he could find someone, or find Buggy, and start again. If he died, would he still go back? Somehow, he thought so. He didn’t want to necessarily test the theory, but with the strange pattern — as soon as he worked it out, he was going to be thrilled — chances were, things would work out.
He was a gambling man.
“You.”
Mihawk’s boat lazily stopped. It was strange. The sail was small. The boat wasn’t designed for fine movements, Sanji could see that well enough by the lack of anchor kept onboard. The lack of paddles. And yet it stopped. Sanji cleared his throat. “Let me join.”
He needed to gather research. Needed to ignore Buggy, because what if it had nothing to do with him?
What was the pattern, here? If it all restarted, it was a clue. It meant that without fail he couldn’t join Mihawk, and when lost in a shitshow, even a faint idea of what Not to do was welcome.
“Why?”
Because of his dream. He said as much. The All Blue, the place where all oceans met. Sanji, reading about it as a child, surrounded by dissenters. The escape. The rock. So on, so on.
And, despite what he’d expected, despite evidence to the contrary, Mihawk agreed under the same terms as before.
It was a shock, to be accepted as crew by the world's strongest swordsman. It was less shocking for the agreement to have a time limit. He made clear upon accepting his request that there was going to be an end.
Mihawk was one of the few warlords — the two warlords — known to not have a crew. Kuma had none, Mihawk had none. The others were surrounded by rumours, and what Sanji wouldn’t give to meet Boa Hancock’s crew. The pirate empress, who only employed women.
Mihawk agreed. Sanji wondered, for a second, what to do. Was the move to sail alongside him in his boat, or jump aboard the sailing casket? “I have another request.”
“Of course you do,” Mihawk drawled.
It was odd to join him, but it was easier than before. He’d already had all of the doubts. He still had the doubts. But what was at the forefront of his mind wasn’t that — it was surprise.
He hadn’t restarted. So that confirmed that the last loop wasn't created by him. It was all Buggy’s fault, and he must’ve escaped. That fucking clown…!
In the end, Sanji jumped aboard Mihawk’s boat with his rucksack over his back. The fucking boat was atrocious. Sanji could cook, but the place didn’t have so much as a fucking latrine let alone a kitchen. How did he live? Did he spend all of his time in motels?
Did he depend completely on islands? There were so many questions, but Sanji wasn’t inclined to ask him just yet. As Sanji settled, decidedly sitting next to the mast behind Mihawk’s central chair, no words were spoken. It was an awkward, strange, fucking weird exchange.
But it was necessary, because if everything went right, he’d find out answers.
They left the boat behind, and continued towards the Baratie. “I’m Sanji, by the way,” He said suddenly. He hadn’t even introduced himself. Mihawk, by all means, shouldn’t have even looked his way and yet — maybe Buggy was right. Maybe the man was attracted to him.
“Whatever.”
Or not.
How was he supposed to politely request to redirect to Orange Town? Well. He’d come this far.
“Orange Town,” Sanji said abruptly. Why make it into a sentence when the name alone would do? From what he'd seen so far, Mihawk didn't care much for politeness. In fact, he cared more for straight-to-the-point requests and statements.
Mihawk sighed from up ahead. “I have orders from Garp the fist to find his grandson.”
(His fucking grandson? What the fuck. What the fuck! Luffy was Garp the fist’s grandson? How the hell did that work out? What kind of fucked up marine gave way to the most pirate-seeming pirate since — hell, and this was a weird thought — Gold Roger? And then sent a warlord of the sea after them?!)
“At the Baratie, right?” Sanji voiced, voice vague as he was internally screaming. “Luffy will get there in a couple of days.”
“Oh?”
The voice was dark. Threatening.
“You don’t have to bother, you’ll let him go.”
Mihawk’s head turned towards him, and Sanji reached into his jacket for a cigarette. “You know quite a bit, don’t you?”
Sanji decided that for his own best interests, it was best to explain.
Buggy wasn’t a navigator, but he wasn’t talentless. The blues were easy to sail, it wasn’t a major effort. His crew, though? If he shook their heads he’d hear clanging and banging, like tin teapots in a tumbler. He decided to go on his own. He had to do it at least once, right?
Made a couple of… stops, along the way. For business reasons. The universe might have been a real dick, countering him at every turn, but he had his methods of making things harder for the people around him. It was simple enough — a couple of words here, something blown up there. He set it all up like a game.
People tended to forget, but he was one of the strongest pirates in the East Blue. And even ignoring his strength, it was impossible to not recognise his notoriety. He had a power, a strong one that wasn’t his devil fruit; the power to persuade, to put on a show.
Buggy’s pirate ship was a temporary, run down one. It had already been constructed when he’d decided to crash at Orange Town, it’d just needed a new figure head and a new paint job. It was this ship, the Soiree, that he used for his casual mayhem.
As always, time tended to pass slower on the waters. There was nothing to do, no-one to taunt, and kilometres between islands. It was a mix of sleeping and navigating and eating and burning things in the kitchen. And every now and then, vocalised angry rants.
Buggy didn’t used to get the way his captain’s opponents always went on and on, until he grew up and he realised how fun it was. How could he let people know how stupid they were without saying anything? It was so much better to rant about how things came to be, how he’d planned everything out, then to stay quiet.
The waves were rowdy. It was better, this way, predictable. It was a bitch to steer on his lonesome, but if he’d invited any of his crew along with him, even just to do the labour, he’d have cracked and killed someone. He couldn’t have that, not yet. He had to kill the straw hat, just once, and he had to find a way out of this shit-show.
To think that the blondie got his hands on it. What were the chances? He must’ve ran into the bozo at the docks who’d bought it from him. The rage that Buggy had felt when blondie revealed it. Oh, he’d give it back. He had to give it back. It was Buggy’s. He had the right to do what he wanted with it, because he’d found it first. It was his.
The Baratie was on the horizon.
Ships were docked, and the faint sound of music cast out to the waves. Buggy exhaled in relief. He was an alright navigator, but then again, the Baratie always moved. What he needed to do was lay low, avoid Sanji, and then just… see what happened next.
The Soiree was tied to the docks, and he jumped off to meet a sea of different crews, marines and pirates, arguing while walking to the restaurant. Buggy was glad that at least the loop had tied him to a restaurant, and not some shitty place like a floating graveyard. That would have been the last straw for him.
At least here he could eat!
“Sir, you need to pay the docking fee.”
“Rot in hell,” Buggy deadpanned to a flustered young boy in a battered cap. He pushed him off the dock and into the ocean, then stomped around to find his way to the dining area, filled with red booths and jazz music.
“I want a table,” Buggy said.
The fishman said his usual drivel. Buggy put a few beri into his hand, and suddenly there was a table. He sat alone, and started to listen.
There was the usual stuff. Gossip, a few angry rants about leadership. Oftentimes arguing, oftentimes flirting between people who had to be teenagers. He wasn’t expecting for what he was looking for to land in his lap, but it was stupid to not listen. If there wasn’t information here, there’d be information elsewhere.
Held by a waiter, or a docksman, or even the captain.
He waited, ordered, and frowned at the food that arrived because while he’d been listening and gathering, not once had he seen Sanji. Sanji was here, right? He ought to have ‘woke up.’ Did he leave? Where to? Maybe he was in bed, but what were the chances?
It was suspicious. Very suspicious. If Buggy had wanted silence, he’d have come a week prior.
“Hey, you,” He called out to a passing man with short curly blue hair. The man raised an eyebrow.
“Fuck do ya want?”
“You work here. Where can I find information?”
The man stopped by his table. He balanced two plates on one hand, and with the other he picked his nose. “Dunno. Why would I tell ya?”
Buggy withdrew some beri and held it out. The man took it with a smug grin and tucked it into his apron pocket. It was unfortunate, what these sorts of exchanges did to his pockets. But it worked, and there wasn’t much to do about it.
“Well?”
The man leaned in. “We got a bartender,” He whispered smugly. “Try him,” Then he spat on Buggy’s table and stalked away.
Sanji travelling with Dracule Mihawk on a casket boat seemed like the punchline to a bad joke.
And yet there he was.
With every hour that passed, the incredulity that he wasn’t dead rose. It was meant to happen, he knew that, but it still felt wrong. But even so he had to continue. For sense, for Luffy’s swordsman, and for his dream.
“A watch, was it?” Mihawk asked after a while of smooth sailing to Sanji’s desired destination. Sanji easily told the man the truth. He was his captain, now, and without the truth things weren’t guaranteed to work out. Mihawk had taken the information with an easy sigh and turned the boat.
What exactly drove such a powerful pirate to do the bidding of a man who climbed aboard with his teeth and a shallow-sounding dream? Sanji knew it wasn’t shallow, but Mihawk didn’t. The only explanation had to be that Mihawk was a good person, whether morally or out of boredom, and Sanji felt that he could rely on him because of it.
Sanji could never follow a corrupt pirate. King, woman, or otherwise — morals were what drove his loyalty. The desire for positive change, and adventure. In his heart, he’d always wanted adventure. He’d wanted since childhood to see all the places described by kitchen-staff talking in hushed whispers.
The watch dangled from his fingers, smooth and glinting in the sunlight. Mihawk’s golden eyes focused on it, and for a moment Sanji wanted to snatch it from his sight, but paused when realising it would be futile. The power gap between them was huge.
“You’ll find,” Mihawk said after a brief pause, “That for your research you may need only look for a name to find your solution. 'The floating islands,' which denote they float. 'Noland the Liar,' which spoils that he lies. Likewise, your watch's name may hide the answer. People have rarely been imaginative with names.”
“Like your moniker,” Sanji remarked with a snort. Mihawk didn’t outwardly react to his words, but nonetheless Sanji could sense his amusement.
“I doubt, however, that you will find anything on it.”
Sanji’s faint smile cooled. “What?”
“You can check archives, books, word of mouth, but such a tale — such a watch — would only be known in the Grand Line. The watch bares no notoriety here. There’s little hope.”
He’d known that. The East Blue was the weakest sea. Any pirate, any marine, any knowledge found here was weaker than any other place in the world. The Red Line had more chance of a barnacle holding more knowledge than a grown man in the East.
But still, he’d hoped for something. Had known just as Zeff had surely known that there would likely be nothing. Because not many pirates wrote things down, except for in logbooks. There were scholars, archaeologists, but such people were scarce after the disaster of Ohara. The library of Ohara was burnt by the World Government, the most sacred selection of knowledge held by anyone.
And that library itself was unlikely to have ever held anything about the watch. It may have, but again, not many pirates chose to write books on their voyages. Not many chose to warn others through writing or literature. It wasn’t likely, at all, that there would actually be something in Orange Town to get him and the clown out of the mess they’d found themselves in.
Even in stories, never did such problems and literature end with the main characters writing a quick publicised or isolated book on how future people could get out of the problem they’d just faced. Such works were scarce. That was the way of the world, the way of people.
Adventurers, it could be argued, wrote about their problems. But some wandering on the sea could call themselves adventurers, but not all. Yes, only hope pinned him to finding an answer. Maybe Dr Vegapunk, the smartest man alive, would know. But Mihawk was right, as Sanji had always known, and Vegapunk was buried among people and islands on the Grand Line with a loyalty to the government.
“Did you ever change your bearing?” Sanji asked quietly.
“No,” He said. “My course hasn’t changed. If you truly desire this path you will find a new route come the next time you appear.”
“Your own route has no meaning,” Sanji hissed lowly. All camaraderie and loyalty was stretched thin, like a long hair strand about to snap. Mihawk had never intended to help him. “You won’t achieve anything.”
It was spat out with spite. He knew the man was fucking right, but. Then what? What was he supposed to do?
“Incorrect,” Mihawk replied. “I will 'achieve' a challenge.”
“You’ll win. You already know that he has no hope.”
“He does not,” He agreed. “But the tides will change with time. I’ve been looking for a new opponent, someone other than the one-armed nuisance. With strength comes unparalleled boredom, and I wish to sate my own appetite.”
They sailed to the Baratie.
“Is there anything I can do to change your mind?”
Mihawk drawled, “It is an exercise in futility, alike you searching a destroyed island for a nonexistent book.”
Destroyed?
“Haven’t happened to hear anything about a magic pocket watch recently have you? Time loops? Anything ring a bell?”
Tom was so sick of his fucking job.
“No.”
The clown slid a couple of beri across the table. Tom didn’t say anything after receiving the cash, and just stared blankly. The clown grumbled and pressed some more forward. “Well?”
Once, Tom had had prospects. A life. On the horizon, a burning, flame-filled, fiery sunset. Why did people always assume he knew shit? They never believed him. Or maybe the problem was that they believed him too much.
“Yeah, actually.” Tom deadpanned. He smiled, even if he felt nothing like smiling. He was so done. “Time-loop, I’ve heard. The watch… causes, them.” Obviously he’d not heard that, but it was easy enough to pull things together.
The pirate lit up. As if everything in life was working out. As if there was a light from above, a ray of sunshine, a god; after all. Nope. Just Tom. Tom had checked above the clouds; the heavens were empty.
“How do you get out? Me and a… friend. We’re stuck.” Must’ve been Sanji, then, that he was stuck with. Interesting. Tom hadn't forgotten the blond man's words.
The trusting buffoon. He usually only saw this level of trust in marines. He knew, that whatever Tom said, the clown would believe. And why wouldn’t he? Tom was trustworthy. Maybe, just maybe, he knew his shit.
Like how Buggy the clown took over the town where he’d grown up, once upon a time. Where Tom had been born.
Like how Tom had been forced out, and forced to find a job. A place willing to take in a teenage, homeless, budding pyromaniac. Like how the town was destroyed, and how the main man to blame sat in front of him in rapt attention.
“Easy.” Tom replied, rubbing the beri together. “To get out, you both have to kill yourselves.”
Usopp had been through hell. The rumours had been one thing -- 'Usopp's father now wears drag,' 'Usopp tried to seduce the maiden Kaya with hip-hop dancing' -- with his reputation he couldn't even defend himself!
But then some unknown shmuck blew up Kaya's mansion and accidentally or maybe on purpose killed her butler that he'd never really liked but whatever, and the perpetrator was supposed to be in a floating fucking fish restaurant! Thankfully, the pirate crew that landed in Syrup were willing to help him.
He was pissed. Incredibly so. That rumoured rumour-spreading, blond, butler-killing, cigarette-smoking, suit-wearing sadist was going to rot beneath the waves.