Chapter Text
How hard was it to make a lion dance? Or throw swords straight at a spinning target? Shit — aim a spotlight?
Buggy was a great captain, all things considered. It wasn’t as if he had to be so nice to his supporting cast. He was the strongest, it was natural to be authoritative and take charge. Nowhere, in the past, had he been so celebrated for his strength compared to in the East Blue. It was why he took residence here.
But time was passing, the island was growing stale, and the audience kept whining and crying and that got boring after a while, damnit! Whatever happened to adventure? Better yet, treasure seeking? He had to get out. Had to train his men, had to get that goddamn Grand Line map.
Cabaji glared balefully from his spot in the ring. His swords glinted in the spotlight, highlighting his dreadful haircut. Buggy groaned and stepped around him on the stage, and glared around him to casually terrify the audience.
They quivered, as always, and it wasn’t as fun as it used to be. Now it was kind of just uncomfortable. The old major-dude in the front always smelled like dog. In fact, they all smelled, which was kind of strange since he permitted them all bathroom breaks after every act was finished.
Wasn’t his fault if they chose not to take them. He’d only killed two men for taking too long — seriously, why was his audience so dramatic? All they needed to do was be quick about it. All things considered, Buggy was kind of a saint. No, a god. God Buggy — that should have been his wanted poster. But no, the marines had decided to name him ‘Buggy the Clown,’ so he’d had to commit to the fucking theatrics and create a thrice-damned circus.
And the fucking swordsman couldn’t throw straight.
Bored, bored, bored!
But, in the very least, recently one of his men had found a chest and given the plunder to him in its entirety. His treasure was all stashed sensibly in an old shop next to a tattered pet store. Sometimes, things went well. Like now, he had a fancy gold pocket watch that hung from his pants. But rarely. Unfairly rarely. “Mohji,” Buggy called to his stupid fur-headed circus performer, “Is it so hard to teach the lion to do the salsa?”
“Richie is doing his best, Captain,” Mohji simpered, “He’s just nervous s’all. He don’t usually perform in front of such a big audience.”
The stupid oversized lion was indeed pathetically quivering. God, Buggy wanted to kill someone. Maybe he would. Yes, he would. Maybe Mohji.
Over his shoulder he caught Mohji attempting a cartwheel before plummeting to the ground, and internally doubled down on that decision. Stupid fucking lion performer. Why had he added him to his stupid no-good cast again?
Right, Mohji was invited because he was funny-looking. Buggy liked those ones. They distracted people from his nose. That was also, incidentally, why he’d snagged Cabaji and his stupid fucking hairstyle. And the tight-rope walker, and suddenly it made sense why his crew was shit.
Buggy decided to take a break. He sat on one of the seats beside a quaking boy and his mother. Both kept glancing at him, but he very politely ignored them. But then the boy kept getting on his nerves, so his hand parted from his arm and waved a blade around his face. Then he stopped looking, shitty kid, one of these days he’d theatrically maim the boy — in a flashy way.
Out of boredom he started to fidget with the new flashy pocket watch.
When it had been passed to him, it’d already been set to the proper time. It ticked languidly, and only served to annoy him. If it wasn’t pure gold, he’d probably cut it — chop it. he'd strung it from his right pocket to send a message to his opponents -- that he was rich, and therefore successful.
People liked to make their appearances interesting. Not only because it was believed to be good luck, but because it made making a name for yourself easier. If you dyed your hair or adapted a certain look, a laugh or anything distinguishable, it made it easier to be known by wider audiences. If someone said ‘the man with green hair came by,’ they would be easier to pin. When people sought bounty posters or fame, they changed something up.
Like Garp and that ugly hound-hat. He’d adopted it early on to distinguish himself. Now, he hardly needed the thing, but whenever a pirate saw it and recognised it, it only boosted his reputation.
Or, if not reputation, style. Truly just shitty style. With the Grand Line and all, things just tended to go in all sorts of directions — including clothing taste. Thankfully, Buggy knew enough to know he had killer style. Buggy was one of the good ones.
Mohji attempted another cartwheel, and this time Cabaji also grew annoyed, and that was evident by the knife thrown at him. The spotlight kept derailing to the left because the crew members in the top box kept arguing.
Whiteboard could control earthquakes with his fruit. Firefist had fire. But he’d been tricked into eating his by that damned fucking boy, and now Buggy couldn’t get out of it. Of course he’d decided to stick to the East Blue while figuring it out — who wouldn’t? His fruit wasn’t worth giving up the ability to swim. Wasn’t it rumoured that Kaido could change into something mythical?
If only he could chop things outside his body. Like other people. Like the kid who kept sniffling every time Buggy raised the knife. Or like the pocket watch when it was across the room — or, fuck, dreams. Hope. Life. What he wouldn’t give to make someone on the Grand Line shake and quiver just like the little snot-nosed brat beside him, just by hearing Buggy’s name.
He flicked the pocket watch between his fingers. “Chop,” He muttered. “Cut, you shitty watch.”
(The watch didn’t cut in half. But all too suddenly, all too miraculously, something did).
When he ran from Arlong Park, from those stupid good-for-nothing shitheads and their insufferable captain, he’d expected to find a boat, and then after some time, another island. And he did find another boat, a passenger ship, but instead of another island he found himself in Orange Town.
Orange Town was on an island, actually, not the island itself. It was also a shitty distance away. It was nowhere near the Conomi Islands, and it was half impossible to fall asleep in a room underneath the galley of a boat and to wake up in a bed, his own bed, halfway across the fucking sea.
It didn’t happen. Didn’t even happen in the Grand Line. Or maybe it did it just wasn’t so fast, except it wasn’t fast, because the fucking pocket watch’s time was fucked up so clearly time had escaped him. Three weeks in the past his ass!
Clearly it was faulty and wasn't worth being kept as even a fucking claim of skill or luck or booty. If people saw it they'd only question it being set at the wrong date; some smart-ass was bound to lodge a comment at him towards it with the intention of making Buggy look stupid and he wasn't stupid. So it had to go.
Buggy set off towards the docks, and driven by spite sold it to some sod visitor for thrice its value — some meat-seller with apparently shit instincts. It was a quick trip, and only because he needed to find and steal something sharp. If Buggy was smart about it, he could make a public example of the straw-hat — of why nobody should ever disrespect Buggy the Clown. Rope might be helpful. A voice-enhancing snail too.
He finished stuffing his quick thefts down his pockets and brushed off his hands. The old stash room was the next place to visit — but he didn’t have high-hopes, Arlong had seen fit to shake him of all he had. Money. Directions. Dignity. Weirdly enough not his pocket watch, but he’d also stuffed it down his underwear to hide it, so it should probably be less surprising.
He wondered how much he could’ve stuffed down his pants before Arlong and his posse of fish bitches would’ve commented. Probably a lot. Arlong used to have a bit more sense — shit, more strength too — when he’d first come to the East Blue, but he’d relaxed a bit too much, and it’d all waned. It wouldn’t surprise Buggy if that straw-hat had managed to defeat him in the end -- he'd check the paper when the news-coo came.
The shop next to the pet food store was locked. He reached under the doormat for the key, unlocked the door, and paused. Wiped his eyes. Sweated, just a little bit, until his collar became uncomfortable against his neck. Looked around, looked over his shoulder, then looked back into the shop. The fierce haze that had swept through his body and mind since his weirdly comfortable morning vanished without a trace.
The building wasn’t right.
Arlong’s commander — Kuroobi or whatever his name was, or maybe that was the other one, was it Chew? — had ransacked it. Torn apart the floors. Emptied the cupboards, and stomped on the doormat.
It was untouched. In fact, everything on the path to the dock had been just as he remembered it. He hadn’t questioned it, because when it was meant to be how it was then why would it be something to think about? But it should have been changed. More better-er or whatever those islanders wanted.
But it was all the same. From the upturned houses, the shape of his bed and the painted walls in the shape of his flag. It should’ve been different, his treasure ought to be gone, and there shouldn’t have been distant almost inaudible sounds coming from the big still-strung circus tent.
Three weeks in the past, that pocket watch had said.
Buggy forced open the door and dashed outside. He ran towards the dock — if he was quick, that salesmen could still be there — he pushed aside everything in his path, from bushes and bricks to Mohji’s fucking lion. He had to get it back.
He had to get it back.
But the docks were empty and there was no small boat on the horizon, and it was gone and it was too late to go after it he’d have to send someone to go after them but how hard would it be to find a random salesman? It would be almost impossible. Straw-hat was distinctive, but a dark-haired salesman? If only the fuck had had rat ears — a dog’s hat — an ugly hairstyle!
He could always leave things as is, perhaps, maybe try to live through things again — gain an edge, defeat the straw-hat for good — but bad things happened to those who messed around with things they didn’t understand. He knew that enough from his damned past — some people could walk through time unscathed, but him?
Perhaps. He was, after all, the great captain Buggy. But that watch was obviously the key to something, so he couldn’t just let it sail away. Such a small ornate piece of gold jewellery would never find itself in his hands again without a bit of interference.
He ran through the destroyed junky town. As he passed through, no citizens were around to watch him. The stupid lion was, but he ignored the damn thing.
Buggy had to stick to what he understood. One, was that he’d gone back. Two, was that it had to be all connected to that stupid watch -- with a time related issue and an odd appearance of a time related object, how could they not be connected? Three, he’d given it away because he hadn’t stopped to smell the fucking roses or whatever.
Four, he was going to get it back. Only good things happened to men with initiative. So what he was going to do was grab a couple of his best men, and make them scatter out to get it back. He could always go himself, but then how could he kill that straw-hat when he inevitably came by for the map he hadn't yet stolen?
He burst through the tent entrance, and eyes from across the space turned his way. Unfortunately, not a great lot of those eyes belonged to his good-for-nothing half-rate crew. Who were, actually, doing very badly at their practice rehearsal.
“Cabaji!” Buggy yelled at his stupid swordsman, “You’re doing it all wrong!”
The second time around was just as, if not more, infuriating. This time around, he dislodged a leg which he used to kick Cabaji off his unicycle, and the situation turned more amusing. His upset eyes were indeed much more fun than his floundering about.
he cleared his throat. “I need five men!”
The circus continued to swell and fall with the music. Everyone seemed to ignore him, except Cabaji who glared while rubbing his ass. “Everyone!” He repeated louder, angrier, more authoritative. “Shut up! Music, shut up! Listen!” It didn’t — he didn’t know why he expected it to, nobody ever listened — so the same leg that tossed Cabaji to the ground rose up to kick whats-her-name playing her music on her hoo-der-nanny, which fell to the ground with a loud obnoxious twang.
And look at that, everybody was listening.
Buggy hopped into the spotlight, cleared his throat, and stuck out his knee. His foot attached with a hollow-sounding thud. “I need five men,” He repeated loudly. Cabaji’s eyes fell to him, as did Mohji’s and the other ones to be really fair he didn’t remember their names a lot of the time. “To go after a meat salesman. He’s fat, dark hair, a five o’clock shadow and has bad breath.”
Mohji raised his hand.
“What?”
“That sounds like every meat salesman, Captain.”
Buggy opened his mouth, but paused. Mohji stood alone today, for some reason. He cleared his throat again patiently. “Mohji, why did I run into the lion earlier?”
“You didn’t come to see us bright and early, Captain. Richie got concerned.”
Buggy wanted to beat him up, just a little bit, but every time he did that the half-rates started avoiding his eyes and somehow that was more annoying than the whining. Whatever.
“I’m aware,” He glared at them all, “That he looks average. But you’re all smart enough to find him anyway, right?” No, they weren’t. “Right?” He repeated threateningly.
Some nodded quickly, but most just looked uncomfortable or apathetic. He hated them all. “You, you, and you guys,” He picked them out mostly at random, “Scram. Find him, and bring me back the gold pocket watch he bought from me today. You should know the one. He went North.”
Cabaji cycled off along with three goons, but Mohji stayed behind and nervously stepped a bit closer. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Do me and Richie count as one man?”
Mohji was a lion tamer. His only strength was that he was a fucking lion tamer. “No, Richie goes alone — what the fuck do you think?” He was so going to maim him. As soon as he got back, he was going to claw the shit out of his eyeballs.