Chapter Text
It’s no secret that people who live the way of the pirate tend to fall outside the categories of what many would consider to be ‘normal’ or ‘ordinary’. This isn’t anything bad necessarily, and so long as you find a ragtag group of misfits like yourself to travel around with, you’ll hardly ever feel out of the ordinary or see anything surprising or disconcerting. In all the time the Roger pirates have been sailing together, this fact was the one constant that held strong and true despite all the danger and uncertainty that generally went along with their hectic way of life sailing along the Grand Line.
But then one day Buggy started making bombs, and any semblance of normalcy that the Roger pirates had went careening overboard into the depths of the deep blue sea.
Now to be fair, bombs weren’t a particularly uncommon type of weapon to happen upon in the Grand Line. In fact, bombs were probably one of the most common weapons used by marines and pirates alike, behind knives and guns of course, and depending on the type of bomb you have and how you use it, they can be an invaluable tool in one’s arsenal. But when your captain’s 7 year old starts setting off highly dangerous, highly lethal explosives no more than 20ft from the ship you need to remain on top of the water, rather than sinking to the bottom of it, there is definitely some cause for concern, and hopefully, intervention.
You see, it all started on a seemingly ordinary, uneventful day. The Oro Jackson was sailing along at a decent pace toward its next destination, and the crew were taking advantage of the nice weather and the lack of enemies nearby to catch up on some relaxation, or, in Crocus’ case, some much needed work.
The doctor in question was spending his day productively making various ointments, antidotes, and vaccines ahead of time, so that he could stock up his medical cabinets and be prepared for whatever danger or idiocy their hairbrained captain threw them all into next. Crocus was feeling rather proud of himself, seeing the large quantity of medicines he had been able to craft in the span of only a couple of hours, and was about to tidy up his medbay and give himself the rest of the day off, when the door to the medbay opened slightly, and Buggy peeked his head in.
“Crocus” the small boy called, his gaze shifting around the room in search for the ship’s doctor.
“Yes Buggy, what is it?” Crocus responds, pulling the nylon gloves he had been wearing off and tossing them into the nearby trash can, before turning to address his student. “How are you getting along with the homework I assigned you earlier? I know the topics we’re working on right now are a bit advanced, so do you need any help?”
Buggy shakes his head. “No, I don’t need any help on the homework. It’s tough, but I’m working through it.”
“Good, I’m glad to hear that” Crocus grins, happy to hear that Buggy was continuing to excel in his academics despite the difficult subjects they were getting into. After spending years surrounded by meatheads who think with their biceps rather than their brains, it's nice to finally have another member of the crew who values education and intellectual thinking over brute strength. Crocus would make a scholar out of Buggy if it was the last thing he did.
“I don’t need any help with the homework, but I do have a question for you” Buggy continues, staring up at the doctor with those big, curious eyes of his.
Crocus chuckles. “Alright then, what is your question?”
“How do you make a bomb?”
“Ah, a bomb, now that’s a very interesting question and the answer is actually quite… wait what?” Crocus asks rather dumbly, his pensive gaze immediately shifting to confusion and disbelief as he looks down at Buggy, unsure of whether he’d heard the boy correctly.
“A bomb. How do you make one?” Buggy clarifies, as though he were asking something simple and mental, rather than how one would construct a dangerous weapon of mass destruction.
Crocus states at Buggy in utter confusion for a moment, unsure of how to respond to the unusual question.
“Well… I… uh…” Crocus stammers.
Buggy merely blinks at him, waiting for a response of some kind.
“What… why do you want to know?” The doctor asks cautiously, trying to figure out what Buggy’s intentions are.
“Well, in chemistry we’re learning about how to balance chemical equations” Buggy begins.
“Right, that’s correct” Crocus affirms.
“And in this section we learned that there are 4 different types of chemical reactions.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“And one of those chemical reactions is combustion, right?”
“Yes?”
“Well, when I was reading over the textbook chapter earlier today, it said that combustion is an exothermic redox reaction that takes place between an oxidant and a fuel, that results in the release of a gaseous substance, the release of energy in the form of heat, and depending on how much energy is released, light can be produced from the reaction too, right?”
“Yes, that’s right. So what does this have to do with bombs?” Crocus asks curiously.
“Well, after reading through the passage on combustion reactions and seeing the examples they gave, I realized that combustion reactions are basically just explosions. Two chemical substances coming together and the resulting reaction between them produces some kind of gas that is released into the air, as well as lots of energy, heat, and light. The textbook explained how these reactions can occur in situations like lighting a campfire, but it never said anything about the types of combustion reactions that occur when a bomb explodes, so I was wondering how bombs were made because I want to know how the construction of it prevents it from going off accidentally or not going off at all” Buggy elaborates, rattling off the information he learned as though he were an expert.
Crocus nods his head in understanding, taking a moment to figure out how he wants to answer this.
“Well Buggy, I must admit, your question has caught me off guard a bit, and to be perfectly honest… I’m not entirely sure how to answer it. I am a doctor, not a bomb technician, so that line of chemistry is outside my realm of expertise, unfortunately” Crocus says.
Buggy’s expression immediately drops, his lips forming into a disappointed pout at the news that Crocus couldn’t answer his question. Of all the men on board the Oro Jackson, Crocus was usually the one that Buggy could go to with moderate certainty that the doctor would have an answer to his never ending stream of questions. This was unfortunately one of the few instances where even Crocus, in all his knowledge and wisdom, was at a total loss for how to answer the young boy’s question.
”But” Crocus adds “perhaps there’s someone on board who could.”
Buggy stares at the doctor with a mildly confused look on his face, before a look of understanding flashes over his features. “Oh” is all he says, turning around and exiting the room. Crocus follows the young boy and makes his way further below deck, heading to the one person who might be able to answer his question.
“KEEEEEEENAAAAAAAIIII” Buggy yells as he bursts into the workshop. A man with olive-toned skin, shaggy grey hair, and rather rough looking features downs the remainder of the bottle of whiskey he had in his hands, tossing it into the nearest trash can before turning to regard the blue haired boy who’d just entered his domain. Kenai, the Roger Pirate’s resident pyromaniac, was the type of man who enjoyed drinking his liquor in the way that most people enjoyed breathing air, meaning that he did so unconsciously and out of habit, but if he were to stop doing so for any length of time, he’d probably die from withdrawal.
“What’dya wan’” the man, Kenai, slurs drunkenly, nodding in vague acknowledgement of Crocus, who hangs back by the door.
Buggy pays Kenai’s drunkenness little mind or care as he approaches the man. “How do you make a bomb?” The boy asks simply.
A moment of silence passes as the question registers and processes through Kenai’s inebriated mind. A look of confusion slowly settles on the older man’s face.
“The fuck you wanna know that for?” Kenai asks, fixing the boy with a look of suspicion.
“We’re learning about chemical reactions” Crocus says, abandoning his spot by the door to step further into the room. “Buggy was wondering how combustion reactions were stabilized and contained within bombs. Since you’re the ships resident bomb expert, I figured you’d be better able to explain how that works.”
“Oh, I see. Well why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Kenai says, a cocky smile spreading across his face and his chest puffs out pridefully from the compliment.
“Tell me tell me tell me” Buggy chants, bounding up and down excitedly.
Kenai laughs. “Well alright then, come with me young padawan, and I will show you the glory that is COMBUSTION!” Buggy shrieks in excitement as Kenai hauls himself out of the chair he was sitting in, reaching back and grabbing the blue haired boy and throwing him over him over his shoulder, before finally heading into the workshop where Kenai does his explosive work.
Crocus smiles at the display before turning and exiting the room, pleased that he was able to facilitate a supplemental lesson for Buggy that would help him better understand the material he was learning.
It wasn’t often that Crocus was able to put together lessons that took a more hands-on approach to learning. Being on a pirate ship with limited space for supplies that weren’t absolutely necessary to their everyday living and survival wasn’t the most conducive environment for teaching two children who learned in very different ways and at very different speeds, but there were certain days where the stars seemed to line up perfectly, and Crocus was able to pass Shanks or Buggy, off to another member of the crew for a more active learning experience. Shanks definitely preferred these kinds of lessons to the typical textbook and lecture style lessons that Crocus was often limited to giving, and Buggy was so flexible when it came to how he learned that at this point, Crocus wouldn’t be surprised if the boy could absorb information through osmosis.
As Crocus slowly but surely meandered his way down the hall, he reveled in the idea of what he could do with the rest of his day off after he finished cleaning up the medbay, completely oblivious to the absolute mayhem that he had unintentionally set in motion.