Work Text:
The Donquixote’s SAD Tanker is a marvel of marine engineering, designed specifically to transport SAD as quickly and safely as possible – a difficult task considering the substance’s notorious volatility. It used to look the part, too. Now? Land of the Dead has coated the ship’s exterior in a thin, chalky layer, discoloring the steel and wood. The surrounding air is acrid, yet cloyingly sweet, the stench suffocating. Doflamingo’s jolly rogers stare off into the distance unblinking, teeth bared. Eyesores, just like their captain.
The whole scene is nauseating, and it’s only about to get worse.
Law opens the door to the bridge, a dozen-or-so heads swiveling to look at him. The children’s eyes are owlish in the dimly-lit room. If Law looks closely enough, he can see his silhouette reflected in the eyes of the less fortunate children – the ones that are larger, their eyes glassy with tears and withdrawal. He looks like Death itself, backlit by the brightness of the setting sun.
He’ll have to work quickly, before anyone’s condition can worsen – before the Marines or Strawhat’s doctor get in his way.
Law flicks on the rest of the lights, sliding the door shut behind him. He unsheathes Kikoku in one swift motion and sets up a Room. Some of the children gasp at the blue light enveloping them; the rest look at him or Kikoku warily, shuffling out of his way as he approaches the child that’s been lying passed out near the back corner: Mocha.
He starts with a simple Amputation, separating her head and limbs from her torso, then separating the extremities again into smaller parts: upper arms, forearms, hands, fingers, legs, feet, toes. He flips Kikoku around with a muttered “scan,” slowly passing it over Mocha’s body. Normally, just an Amputation would suffice, but given the nature of NHC10 and the fact that the withdrawal was so severe, it’s better to be safe than sorry.
As expected, there’s a buildup of the drug in the liver and in the intestines – not unusual, considering she’d consumed a large amount of it within the last couple of hours – but what’s less expected is the buildup of NHC10 in her bone tissue. Law makes a mental note that it behaves differently from most other stimulants; unfortunately, he won’t be able to add that to his toxicology notes since he won’t be returning to the Tang. With the Scan completed and the drug removed from her system, now a fine pink powder sitting in the palm of his hand, Law puts Mocha’s body back together, turning to the rest of the children.
“Who’s next?”
They all stare at each other for a moment, dead silent, until some kid near the back squeaks out a “me.”
So Law repeats the process again. And again. And again, and again, and at some point, the children start gathering a little closer. Sometimes they ask about what an organ does or what something is called, but mostly they just watch, quiet and wide-eyed. By the time Law finishes, their eyes are filled with curiosity, rather than fear.
“Law!!” Tony shrills from outside, hooves clomping across the deck toward the bridge, “Get out here, Law!! What are you doing in there!?”
Law sighs, sheathing Kikoku and sliding the door open, the last vestiges of the setting sun shining into his eyes.
“What were you doing to those children!?” Tony shrieks. “If you hurt a hair on their heads-”
“I told you not to peek, didn’t I?” Law interrupts, too drained to bother controlling his words or his tone. “I was cutting their bodies to pieces.”
Tony screams – clearly assuming the worst – pushing past Law with tears in his eyes.
“Those were heavy drugs they were on,” Law continues, “painful, long-term rehab is unavoidable.”
Tony isn’t listening, too busy fussing over the children cheering for “Racoon Man.” Clearly they’re happier seeing him than Law. All the better – he can take this opportunity to wander and see if there’s any more valuable information here before the next step of the plan.
Despite never having been in the SAD Tanker before, Law navigates it with ease. The layout is
. . .
It’s eerily familiar. Something about the proportions of the risers to the handrails, the height of the tubs and the toilet seats, the orientation of the furniture, the sheets on the beds, the plush of the chairs, the lack of windows, the placement of the lamps, the shape of the ship, the
The
. . .
It’s like the Numancia, Law realizes. But smaller – though, maybe part of it is that he’s taller. Now. That he’s older.
Newer also. Mostly steel, on account of the
The volatility of SAD makes it difficult to transport safely, so
. . .
God, it’s all the fucking same isn’t it? Caesar with his drugs; Doflamingo with his lies. They get in your head, your mind, your body, and you spend years trying to get them out but they just won’t leave, they’ll never really leave, not without stringing you along, leaving something behind: an addiction, withdrawal; a quote, a piece of wisdom, a worldview, or some stupid, uncalled-for opinion that you don’t even believe but it’s already left your mouth and it’s too fucking late to
. . .
How
How could Law not have realized it sooner?
How could he not have noticed ? He’d spent half a fucking year wandering- infiltrating, and he didn’t
didn’t even fucking notice the drugged up kids with shit in their bodies
. . .
“Torao.”
Law blinks.
It’s . . . much darker, suddenly. It takes him a moment to realize that he’s not on the Tang. Not in the tiny room Monet had prepared for him on Punk Hazard either.
“Torao, can you hear me?”
“Nico?” he turns to see her disembodied head looking at him from the adjacent wall. It takes him a second to remember that he didn’t do that to her, that it’s her Devil Fruit ability at work.
“It’s been a little while,” she blinks at him. “Food’s almost ready.”
“I’m not hungry,” he stares back. Any appetite he might have had has been lost thanks to his carelessness. Who knows how long he’s been standing here doing nothing ? If Doflamingo has heard about the destruction of the lab – and he must have by now, it’s been hours probably – then he’s probably- he must be on his way to Punk Hazard right now, and they need to get moving before
before he
“Torao,” a disembodied hand lands lightly on his shoulder.
Law jolts, arms grasping at nothing.
Where’s Kikoku- Kikoku is-
In his hands. The fabric of the scabbard is slightly worn, familiar. He’s peripherally aware of the fact that he must have dropped it, that Nico must have picked it up. That she handed it back to him because she noticed the
“Let’s get something to eat,” despite her gentle tone, Law can tell that it’s not a suggestion.
He grits out a “fine.” This is not a fight he wants to pick considering the state he’s in, and arguing at this point is just a waste of time.
“Do you need help navigating out-”
“I’m good, thanks.”
Nico frowns at him, tells him “I’ll let Sanji know you’ll be there shortly,” before dissipating into nothing.
Law sighs. He knows she’ll just come looking for him if he doesn’t show up – or worse, she’ll send someone else . . . he shudders at the thought of the robot carrying him around like a sack of potatoes. So he meanders off the tanker and heads towards the makeshift camp.
Law sees the huge pot first, then Strawhat and his cook and musician gathered around the samurai and his son. Kin’emon is hunched over a spread of dishes the size of which Law hasn’t seen since he was back on the Tang. It almost makes him feel hungry again.
Suddenly, the samurai shouts, “Let us choose to live, Momonosuke!!!” around mouthfuls of food, tears streaming down his face. Slowly, the boy picks up his own bowl and takes a sip, takes a bite of some meat through his tears, and then everyone is up and moving, scrambling to get in line for food.
In the commotion, Law weaves through the crowd until he sees who he’s looking for.
“Strawhat,” he turns to Law, eyes wide, “we need to leave this place at once. They will be on our heels soon if we stop to eat! Make sure your crew knows.”
“Oh, yeah?” Strawhat’s eyes flick around the crowd, “Okay, I’ll tell ‘em!”
He vaults over to the top of a stack of crates, all light and restless energy.
“Hey, everyone!” Strawhat shouts brightly, voice radiating over the crowd, “It’s party time!!”
Law feels his jaw drop as everyone – even the damn Marines – breaks into raucous cheers. His throat works around an objection, a demand to call off the party and get moving, to just follow the fucking plan, but Law doesn’t manage a single syllable before Strawhat’s already running off to who-knows-where.
You’ll catch flies like that, Cora teases in his head.
Law clicks his jaw shut, gritting his teeth. He has no intention of participating in the ‘festivities,’ when there’s places he needs to be and things he needs to do, but then the Soul King is asking Law if he ‘has any requests,’ which – no, of course he doesn’t – and then the shipwright and sniper ambush him with questions about the Tang – which Law refuses to answer, because it’s none of their business – but by then it’s too late.
Roronoa finds him next, grins fiendishly, forces a foaming tankard into Law’s hands, beer sloshing over the side, narrowly missing his boots. Then, Roronoa claps Law on the shoulder, actually spilling beer on his boots before laughing and walking off to cause problems elsewhere.
Nami catches up to him while Law is attempting to get rid of the beer and “graciously” agrees to take it off his hands “for the low, low price!” of Law eating dinner. When he tries to refuse, her smile quickly turns into a smirk as she threatens to “sic” Tony on him. Law quickly realizes that arguing with her is a lost cause – at least he got rid of the beer.
Blackleg serves Law a heaping portion of some kind of soup before glancing up at him, narrowing his eyes, and adding a few more ladlefuls of meat and vegetables to the bowl before finally shoving it in Law’s hands with a grumbled, “Eat!”
Law heads past the periphery of the party, sitting down on an empty crate carefully with his soup and Kikoku. He looks into the bowl, up at the cloudy, snowy sky, considering. His crew and the Tang, the alliance with Strawhat and the party, Doflamingo and Dressrosa, and
“Law,” White Chase cuts in, hunched over on a nearby rock. “You don’t seriously believe,” he takes a sip of broth, “I’d keep an oath to a pirate, do you? If you really wanted to silence me, you had plenty of opportunities . . . What are you using Strawhat for? What are you starting?”
“Using? Who’s using whom . . . ?” Law smiles bitterly.
He thinks of Strawhat’s all too-enthusiastic agreement – despite Law messing with his crew, despite the plan’s terrible odds, despite the fact that Law is obviously
. . .
He thinks of Strawhat’s smile.
Blinding.
Law closes his eyes.
“The fact that I left you alive,” he raises the bowl to his lips, steam warming his cheeks, “means absolutely nothing.”
White Chase says nothing.
“Incidentally, I’m planning to head for Greenbit after this,” Law stands, opening his eyes, throwing the empty bowl into the snowbank.
White Chase stares at him, silent.
“We’ll see if the Strawhat crew is compliant enough . . . to play along with my plan.”
The plan, crafted slowly and meticulously – every moment of Law’s life, the last thirteen years of borrowed time – has been building up to this. It’ll all be over soon.
Towards Dressrosa – the inevitable.
To Doflamingo.
To his death.