Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Going on a mission with her partner was normal. But going on an errand with him? That was torture.

For the third time that night, Vivi listened to Mr. 9 tell the same story about how he spilled coffee on Mr. 1’s shoe and somehow lived to tell the tale.

By the time they reached the dock, Vivi was rubbing her temples, silently asking herself how she ended up with this partner. Why couldn’t he skip this one like he always did?

The cold night air and his endless chatter were wearing her patience thin.

“Mr. 9, let’s just get this done, shall we?” she said with a strained smile.

She lifted a bag beside the ration barrels, the coins inside clinking as she slung it over her shoulder.

That sound caught Mr. 9’s attention instantly. His eyes lit up like a magpie spotting something shiny. Vivi sighed, she knew what was coming.

“Neeee~ Miss Wednesday, should we get—”

“No.”

“B-but—”

“No buts,” she cut him off sharply. “We’re only here for supplies and weapons for the Billions. Nothing else.”

Her tone left no room for argument. Still, he pouted like a scolded child, making Vivi exhale through her nose.

“God help us all,” she muttered.

With one last look at her sulking partner, she stepped off the boat. Her cloak caught the cold air as her boots touched the dock with barely a sound.

The waves crashed softly in the distance. She looked around, frowning. The docks were empty. Usually, this island was full of life—people laughing, drinking, celebrating, but now it was silent. The only place still open was the small pub she and Mr. 9 always visited for dinner.

A faint unease settled in her chest.

“Strange,” she murmured. “It’s never this empty.”

Mr. 9 jumped off the boat beside her, his usual grin fading. “Maybe everyone’s sleeping off last night’s party?”

“If they were, we’d see bottles or hear their drunken snores,” Vivi said quietly.

He chuckled nervously, glancing around. “W-Well, maybe they all decided to turn in early for once?”

She didn’t answer. The silence pressed in, heavy and unnatural. A few lanterns swayed in the wind, casting long shadows across the street.

“Let’s move,” Vivi said finally, adjusting her hood. “If something happened, I’d rather not find out while standing here.”

Mr. 9 gulped and followed her. Their boots echoed softly as they made their way toward the dim pub.

When they reached the door, Vivi signaled him to be ready. She turned the knob slowly—the hinges creaked.

Inside, the air smelled of liquor and roasted meat, but the usual laughter and shouting were gone. The townsfolk sat close together, drinking in silence. No one sang. No one smiled.

Every conversation stopped the moment Vivi and Mr. 9 stepped inside.

Mr. 9 lowered his weapon slightly. “Well… at least they’re not dead,” he whispered.

Vivi didn’t relax. Something was very wrong. Even the barkeep’s hands shook as he wiped a clean glass.

She walked forward, eyes scanning the tense faces. “Something happened,” she whispered. “Stay sharp.”

The two agents moved toward the counter. The barman—Arnold, looked at Vivi like he’d seen a ghost.

“E-Erm… are you okay, Arnold-san?” Vivi asked softly, pulling back her hood.

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes darted toward the window, then back to her. “You shouldn’t be here, Miss Wednesday,” he whispered. “Not tonight.”

Vivi frowned. “What’s going on?”

Arnold leaned closer, voice shaking. “A Shichibukai’s on the island. Been here since morning. No one knows why, but everyone’s scared. Best you lie low until he’s gone.”

Vivi felt a chill run down her spine. “A Shichibukai… here?”

He nodded. “The captain of the Donquixote Pirates. Donquixote Doflamingo.”

Vivi blinked. “…What?”

She looked at him like he’d lost his mind. What would a Shichibukai be doing on some forgotten shabby ass North Blue island?

“Are you sure?” she whispered.

Arnold nodded quickly. “Pink feathers, blond, maniacal grin. mistaking that one.”

Mr. 9’s eyes widened. “W-What the hell’s he doing here?”

“Quiet,” Vivi snapped. Her pulse quickened. “Did he say what he wants?”

Arnold shook his head. “No. Just wandering. Passed by half an hour ago. People swear the air went cold when he did.”

Vivi muttered under her breath, “Perfect night for an errand.”

Arnold leaned forward. “Can’t this wait until he’s gone?”

Vivi laughed quietly. “You know it can’t. The boss won’t wait. We need those supplies tonight.”

Mr. 9 puffed up his chest. “Then I’m coming with you!”

She turned to him, calm but firm. “No. You’re staying here.”

“What?! You can’t just—”

“I can, and I will,” she said flatly. “Your mouth’s a liability. If we run into him, I can’t risk you saying something stupid.”

He pouted. “You’re mean.”

“It’s called being smart,” she said, her tone softening slightly. “Stay put. Don’t move till I get back.”

Before he could argue, she slipped out the back door, the pub’s light fading behind her.

---

He didn’t even remember how he ended up here. The last thing he recalled was drinking—something strong, and using one of Caesar’s new powders. Then, for some reason, he’d looked at the calendar. The date stared back at him, and his chest hollowed out.

A cruel joke of a memory.

This island.

The same soil where his family’s screams still seemed to echo if he listened too long.

The bane of his existence.

He sat at the edge of the cliff, a bottle of wine hanging loosely from his hand.

A faint laugh escaped him.

Bitter.

Broken.

The more he drank, the less he felt.

But the less he felt, the more those old voices came crawling back—his mother’s sobs, his father’s desperate pleads, his brother’s silence.

He tilted his head back, staring at the sky as if it might finally open and give him an answer.

Nothing came.

Just that same, empty horizon.

He smiled again.

It's sharp and hollow.

Befor drinking until the world blurred.

Until the ache in his chest drowned under the weight of wine and memory.

---

The streets were dead quiet. Every window was shuttered. Even the sea breeze felt heavy.

Vivi kept close to the walls, her cloak drawn tight. Her steps were silent.

The black market shop wasn’t far, tucked between two old warehouses. She slipped through the shadows, careful not to make a sound.

Inside, the smell of gunpowder and herbs filled the air. The shopkeeper looked up, recognized her, and nodded.

“The usual,” Vivi said quietly. Then, in a much lower tone, “And the guns.”

The man hesitated but obeyed, pulling a crate from beneath the counter. Vivi checked each weapon quickly, then paid and left without a word.

Outside, the night was colder. The crates were heavy, and each step back to the dock felt longer than the last.

She turned a corner and stopped.

The road ahead was ruined, littered with rubble and broken fences.

Then she heard it.

A low, slurred voice.

“Ah… here it is.”

Vivi froze. Peeking around the wall, she saw a ginormous in a pink feathered coat, swaying as he walked. His glasses hung loose, a bottle of wine in hand.

Her blood ran cold.

The Shichibukai.

“Stay calm,” she whispered to herself, steadying her breath. She adjusted the crates and moved slowly, trying to slip past him unseen.

But then she stopped.

She watches him stare at the rubble with an odd, distant look, almost like pain. His lips moved soundlessly, and under the moonlight, his cheeks seemed to glisten.

Vivi’s heart pounded.

Was he… crying?

For a moment, she just stood there, frozen.

Then, against her better judgment, she set the crates down carefully.

Her curiosity burned.

In both her mind and heart.

Step by step, she moved closer.

The man didn’t notice her, lost in his own thoughts.

Vivi’s breath caught.

What could make a man like him cry?

She didn’t know why, but she wanted to see more, to understand the monster everyone feared.

And so, ignoring every instinct screaming at her to run, Vivi walked toward him.

Chapter Text

The gravel crunched softly beneath her boots.

She stopped just a few paces behind him.

He still hasn’t noticed her yet, The feathers of his coat stirred with the wind, brushing the dirt like drifting cherry blossom petals. The bottle in his hand swayed as his shoulders trembled. His head hung low, hair falling over his face as he stared quietly at the ground.

“...Mother,” he breathed out, the word so faint it almost disappeared with the wind.

Vivi froze.

His voice was beyond fragile, a kind of vulnerability she thought warlords had long abandoned in exchange for power. For a moment, she wasn’t sure if she had misheard, or if the man before her was truly whispering to a ghost that had been long gone.

“I’m sorry... I couldn’t... I couldn’t save you.”

He laughed— low, bitter. But the sound cracked halfway through, collapsing into something closer to a sob. The bottle slipped from his hand, clattering against the stones before rolling to a stop at her feet.

Vivi flinched. Her throat tightening as she instinctively took a step back. The sound of the bottle’s faint spin echoed through the quiet night, making the already tense atmosphere more severe.

For a long, uncertain moment, she just stood there, frozen in place, her breath shallow against the cold air. She didn’t know if she was witnessing a man’s grief or the madness that came after too much of it. The chill bit at her skin, yet it wasn’t the cold that made her tremble. It was the sight of him—this man she’d only known through whispers and wanted posters.

The devil known to wear the finest of clothes.

The monster who leveled cities and kingdoms over the most trivial of spats.

The tyrant so feared that even Crocodile made sure to never cross his path with.

That was who he was supposed to be, the kind of man only whispered about in dark corners alleys, the kind whose shadow alone could silence a whole island.

And yet, the man before her didn’t match the stories. He wasn’t laughing now. He wasn’t smiling that cruel, twisted grin she’d seen in wanted posters and newspaper prints.

Instead, he was slumped against the wall like the weight of the world had finally caught up to him. His hair fell loose over his face, his shoulders trembling with each shaky breath.

Vivi’s fingers curled tightly at her sides. Every instinct screamed for her to leave, to run before he noticed her.

Was it stupidity?

Or was it pity?

She couldn’t tell. All she knew was that the sight before her stirred something deep inside, something she thought she’d buried long ago.

The way his shoulders shook, the way his voice cracked under the weight of guilt... it reminded her too much of herself. Of the nights she had knelt in the dark halls of Alubarna, praying for a miracle as her kingdom slipped through her fingers. The helplessness. The quiet ache that clawed at her chest. The kind of pain that made you question if saving anyone had ever truly been possible.

And for a fleeting moment, what she saw was not a warlord or a monster.

She saw someone who had lost everything—just like she once had.

So she did what her father once did for her, She reached out and embraced the monster everyone else feared.

---

Inside the now almost empty pub, Mr. 9 sat restlessly by the counter with the barman. The Baroque Works agent had tried to follow her a couple of times, even though his partner had told him not to, even arnold told him to shut up and wait patiently after his fourth attempt of following his partner.

Mr. 9 scoffed at him but sat himself back down on the stool, arms crossed. The silence stretched for a few minutes before boredom caught up with him.

He drummed his fingers against the wood, glancing at the door every few seconds, half expecting Vivi to come back through it.

But she didn't.

He rubbed the back of his neck, the thought alone making his stomach twist. Maybe, if he was lucky, the warlord would just sneer and laugh at him—the way predators toy with prey they don’t take seriously. But even if that bought them a few seconds, someone like that could close the distance before he could blink.

He sighed, slumping over the counter. Miss Wednesday always made it look easy—calm, sharp, unshaken, while he was here, trying not to lose his nerve before she got back.

A deep sigh escaped his lips which made the barman chuckle lightly.

"You worry too much. Miss Wednesday’s a capable woman, more than you are, so have some faith in her," Arnold said, patting his shoulder.

Mr. 9 gave him a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

He knows that his partner is much more capable than him, no need to rub it in. Thank you.

"So, you guys really don’t know why a Shichibukai’s here?" he asked, leaning his elbow on the counter and resting his chin on his fist, changing the subject smoothly.

Arnold shrugged. "No idea—and I don’t really want to know," he said honestly, setting his rag aside before pulling a crumpled box of cigarettes from his apron pocket.

He struck a match while Mr. 9 watched in silence, the faint scent of tobacco settling into the air.

"I know why," came a gruff voice from behind him.

Mr. 9 turned, spotting a stocky old man with deep set brows leaning on his cane, studying him with a faint frown. The old man’s presence alone carried weight, like someone who’d been watching this town far too long to be surprised by anything anymore.

"Old man Rocco, you’re still here, eh? Aunt Layla’s gonna nag me again tomorrow," Arnold said with a tired grin. There was no edge in his tone, just the familiar tease of someone used to the old man’s stubborn routines.

Rocco snorted, the sound rough as gravel. "That woman’s been nagging me for fifty years, boy. Another day won’t kill me."

Mr. 9 chuckled under his breath, the exchange easing some of the tension pressing at his chest.

"So," he started, glancing between the two men, "what makes you so sure you know why he’s here?"

Rocco took his time answering, puffing smoke through his nose as his eyes drifted toward the window. " I was a Marine corporal when I first saw him." the old man began, voice rough from years of smoke and salt air. "A rich family had moved to this puny island, built themselves a mansion on the cliffside. First word that came to mind? Nobles."

The words hung in the air, heavy and certain. Even Arnold, who is usually quick to joke, went quiet. Mr. 9 found himself staring at the floor, the unease creeping back stronger than before.

He paused, eyes distant, as if the memory itself carried a weight. " His parents were good, incredibly kind. But that boy…" He exhaled slowly, the smoke curling between them. "Even back then, there was something off about him. Maybe it was the way he looked at people, like he was watching ants climb out of the dirt. Guess going from a noble’s palace to living among us peasants didn’t sit well with him. "

Rocco’s expression hardened as he leaned back on his cane, his voice rough with something caught between anger and pity.

"Then word got out, that they were Celestial Dragons. After that, it was over. The whole island turned on them. They were hunted like prey… dragged out, beaten, spat on."

He let out a low breath, eyes narrowing as if the scene were playing out again before him.
"And that kid… he got the worst of it. Mouthy little thing, didn’t know when to shut up, didn’t understand what he’d done wrong. Imagine that—a pack of grown men, fists flying at a child who only ever knew the lies he’d been raised with in that godforsaken holy land."

The room went still. Even Arnold’s cigarette burned forgotten between his fingers.

Rocco’s next words came quieter, more solemn.

"I tried to reason with some of them," Rocco went on, his grip tightening on the cane. "But they wouldn’t listen. They ransacked the family’s home, stole everything worth taking, bastards even tore the curtains off the windows just to prove a point. They beat them, stripped them of everything that made them human, until there was nothing left but fear and hate."

He paused, his jaw working as he fought the tremor in his voice.
"Then the boy’s mother fell ill. They begged for help, but the townsfolk barred the hospital doors, said the Celestial trash could rot for all they cared."

He sighed, low and weary. "The kid, he tried to swallow his pride. Came down to the square, asked for work, said he’d do anything if someone just gave him medicine. And what did they do?"

Rocco’s eyes darkened. "They laughed. Tossed him scraps, cheap pills that wouldn’t heal a paper cut. Some even… put their hands on him while he begged. Thought it was funny."

He leaned forward, voice dropping to a rasp, his tone dripping with venom.

"That’s when I stopped calling them my people. You don’t come back from doing something like that to a child."

Rocco dragged a stool closer and lowered himself onto it with a soft grunt. The flame at the tip of his cigarette flared as he took another long puff, smoke curling between his fingers.

"Then they tried to burn them," he said quietly. "Tied them up, threw torches like it was some kind of celebration. That’s when the boy snapped."

He stared at the floor, voice roughening. "He awakened something that day—Haki? I think they call it that now. Knocked the whole mob unconscious without even meaning to. Then some bastards tried to profit off it afterward, thought they could use him, mold him."He shook his head slowly, disgust shadowing his features.

"The kid got tangled up with the worst kind of people. One of ’em told him he needed to prove himself, said if he wanted real power, he had to kill his old man."

Rocco’s jaw clenched. "That snot-nosed bastard didn’t care about the boy, just wanted a weapon. And the sad part? It worked. Turned that kid into what he is now, the monster everyone whispers about."

He leaned back, tapping ash off his cigarette. "I don’t pity him… but I remember the day the world made him that way,"

Mr. 9 didn’t know what to say after hearing all of that. The old man’s words hung in the air like thick smoke, too heavy to breathe through. Behind him, Arnold shifted on his feet, rubbing the back of his neck, trying to cut through the silence that had settled over the bar.

"Guess even demons start out as people, huh?" he muttered, forcing a half-hearted grin.

That earned a laugh from the old man across the counter—rough, bitter, and humorless. He tapped the end of his cigarette against the ashtray, eyes glinting with mirth.

"Demon?" Rocco echoed, his voice gravelly with disbelief. "Boy, that child was no demon. He was a fallen god, one that lost everything that made him divine. And the world didn’t just cast him down. It spat on him, ground him into the dirt, then watched to see what he’d become."

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring past them as if he could still see the boy in his mind’s eye. "You don’t come out of that as a man. You come out twisted, a thing that learned how to love power because power doesn’t leave you to rot. That kid learned that lesson younger than most ever learn to walk."

Arnold said nothing this time. The words dying in his throat.

Mr. 9 swallowed hard, unease crawling up his throat. He turned toward the window, the streets outside were dim and empty, but the thought of his partner out there with a warlord roaming around made his pulse quicken. Vivi was capable, sure, but this wasn’t just another bounty or mission. This was a warlord.

He pushed himself off the stool, hand already reaching for his weapon.

"H-hey! wait, where are you going?" Arnold asked, grabbing his arm. "Miss Wednesday told you to stay put!"

Mr. 9 shook him off, the movement sharper than he intended. "I-I can’t just sit here while she’s out there with that man roaming around!"

Arnold opened his mouth to argue, then shut it, the worry in Mr. 9’s eyes did the talking for him.

The barman exhaled, took a riffle hidden underneath the counter and took one last drag of his cigarette. "If you’re going alone, Miss Wednesday won’t stand a chance, not with you rushing in. I’m coming with you."

Mr. 9 nodded once, jaw tightening with determination. The floorboards creaked under their boots as they moved toward the door, each step heavier than the last.

Arnold adjusted the grip on his gun, his expression unreadable beneath the faint haze of smoke still hanging in the air.

He took a breath, steadying himself. “Let’s go.”

And with that, they pushed into the night.