Chapter Text
The cobblestones of Loguetown felt like ice beneath Buggy’s boots. He huddled in the shadow of a damp alleyway, his hands shoved deep into his pockets to hide their trembling. Somewhere, just a few streets away behind heavy iron bars, Captain Roger was waiting for the dawn—and Buggy hated him for it.
He hated the Captain for leaving, he hated Shanks for acting like it was okay and he hated himself most of all for being so utterly useless. He wanted to scream, to beg the Captain to tell him it was all a lie, to pretend for just one more day that they were still sailing toward the horizon together.
But what was he so afraid of?
Was it the finality that sat like lead in his stomach?
Was it the realisation that once the words were spoken, there was no going back?
Buggy wanted to find that cell, to grab the iron bars and plead with the Captain to stay silent.
And why did the truth have to be so loud? Tell me we are going to the Grand Line tomorrow. Tell me we are going to find another treasure. But there was nothing. But if this was truly the end, if the Captain was going to abandon them to this grey, miserable world, then Buggy did not want to hear the reality of it.
Could they not just pretend for one more night?
Could he not have just a little more time to prepare?
Could the Captain not stay just long enough for Buggy to teach himself how to breathe in the cold?
Buggy was a boy of no consequence, a worthless coward who was not ready for the light to go out. He just needed more time—time for his heart to grow a little tougher. He was begging for the mercy of a charade, a few borrowed hours to adjust his soul to the crushing weight of the coming loneliness before he was forced to stand in the sun and watch the King walk away forever.
A low, rumbling growl of thunder rolled over the rooftops of Loguetown.
The sky was finally beginning to weep, fat droplets of rain splashing into the grime of the alley. He stood up slowly, wiping his face with a rough sleeve. Whatever. If his eyes were red, the downpour would act as his cover, hiding his weakness like the tragic lead in one of those tawdry romance novels he used to smuggle onto the Oro Jackson. At least now, with the crew scattered and the Captain heading for the gallows, he could read that rubbish without Shanks making a nuisance of himself.
He began the long, wet walk back to the inn, keeping his head down.
The murmur of the town reached him.
“It’s definitely tomorrow then,” a voice carried over the wind. “The scaffold is ready for the King.”
Buggy let out a jagged snort of a laugh.
Tomorrow.
He had begged for a little more time to steel his heart, and the universe, in its twisted sense of humour, had granted him exactly one night. He looked up at the black clouds, the rain stinging his eyes. What about a little more than that? he thought bitterly.
Could we not push it to the weekend? Or perhaps next century? Better yet, never? But he knew the score. A worthless cabin boy had no right to bargain with fate. Beggars could not be choosers, and Buggy was the poorest boy in the world tonight.
Buggy decided that things could not possibly get worse.
Naturally, that was the moment he jinxed his entire existence. By the time he reached his room at the inn, he was a sodden, shivering mess, but he still possessed the dignity of a high-class pirate.
He would shower, he would sleep and he would absolutely not eat. Food was for people who had a future to fuel, or for gluttons like Shanks who used digestion as a personality trait, and Buggy was far too refined for the vulgarity of chewing.
He stepped into the cramped bathroom, his movements sluggish. He reached for the taps, but his wet boot found a slick patch of soap scum. Time suddenly decelerated into a nauseating crawl. Buggy watched the ceiling tilt away, his limbs flailing with the grace of a dying fish.
He could have used his Bara Bara powers—he could have detached his head or floated his torso—but a dark, treacherous part of him simply... stopped. Fine, he thought with a strange, hollow apathy as the floor rushed up to meet him. Let it end on a bathroom floor. Maybe I will beat the Captain to the afterlife and trip him at the pearly gates for being such a monumental prick.
There was a sickening thud, a flash of white-hot agony and then a cold, suffocating darkness that felt far too heavy for a simple fall. As his consciousness flickered like a dying candle, Buggy’s final thought was: Screw you, Roger. I hope there is no sake where you are going, you flashy, life-ruining bastard.
Then—
A gasp tore through the silence.
Buggy’s upper half bolted upright with the mechanical force of a spring-loaded trap. He blinked rapidly. He had been out for perhaps five minutes, but the crushing weight of despair had been replaced by a strange, buzzing electricity. He stood up slowly. The tap was still running, water slopping over the edge of the basin in a steady rhythm. He clicked it off with a sharp, decisive flick of his wrist.
Off came the wet, pathetic rags of a cabin boy, and he stepped into the freezing bathwater. Cold? This was nothing. He was no longer a terrified brat with a runny nose.
He was back. The glorious, terrifyingly talented Buggy the Star Clown was back in his prime—sort of. He was nearly forty years old in spirit, an Emperor of the Sea who had outlasted almost every other legend of his time. He didn't know how the explosion in his treasure vault had sent him back, and frankly, he didn't care.
He grabbed a rough sponge and began scrubbing his skin with a ferocity that bordered on vengeful. As the grime of the 15-year-old Buggy washed away, he rifled through his memories. Tomorrow. Loguetown. The execution. A wide, manic grin stretched across his face, one that would have terrified the crew of the Oro Jackson.
Roger wanted a grand finale? He wanted to start a New Era with a noble death? “Not on my watch, Captain,” Buggy hissed, his eyes gleaming. Oh, yes. He had a plan to ‘save’ the man, but by the time Buggy was finished, Gol D. Roger would wish he had stayed in that cell.