Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The world had gone quiet.

Buggy's eyes fluttered open, and he was lying on something far too soft to be a ship’s deck. It was a patch of grass, wait... no, not grass, synthetic, stiff and too green, like someone had painted it. The sky above was choked with pale grey clouds that didn’t move, and there was no smell of salt in the air, no creak of masts, no raucous caw of seagulls. Instead, the only sound was a faint, low whine, like the kind snails made when they were about to talk, except there were no snails around. Just that sound, persistent, as if the world itself was charging up to scream.

He sat up slowly. His body felt... wrong. Light. Small. The sleeves of his coat drooped over his hands, now too short to fill them. His boots were gone. Replaced by soft shoes with loops instead of buckles. When he stood, his legs wobbled. He stumbled forward and crashed into the side of a strange, angular metal thing, like a carriage, but with no horses and all the windows were shattered. Inside were seats and buttons and a cold silence that settled into his bones.

Something had happened.

He remembered shouting. A blinding light. A voice, maybe a laugh. The kind of laugh you heard in the middle of a magic trick gone wrong or maybe right for someone else. He had been on the Grand Line, on his ship, shouting at someone and then… nothing.

Now, here.

A scream echoed in the distance, sharp and human, then quickly cut off.

Buggy turned in a slow circle. The buildings loomed around him like giants, tall and glassy, many of them broken, with vines climbing up their sides like they were being dragged down to the sea. Some had giant signs, glowing boxes, but the letters made no sense to him. They blinked, buzzed, or stayed dark entirely.

He raised a hand or tried to. It moved, but did not come apart. His fingers stayed attached. No click, no float, no familiar tug of his Chop-Chop Fruit. He stared, tried again, this time gritting his teeth. Nothing. Not even the tingle of devil fruit power. Like it had been scrubbed from him, like someone had stolen it from the inside out.

Buggy didn’t panic, not at first. He was a great pirate, after all. Buggy the Clown! Emperor of the Sea! But when he caught his reflection in the glass of a nearby window, his breath caught in his throat.

A child stared back.

Red nose, still bright and round. But the face around it was smooth, unscarred by the years. His eyes were rounder, brighter, less fierce. His chin soft, his mouth smaller. His blue hair was choppy, like it had been hacked off by tiny scissors. And worst of all, his height barely reached the door handle of the metal carriage.

His clothes were wrong too. Whoever had dressed him (had he been dressed? Had he just poofed into this?) had a sick sense of humour. A long-sleeved, blue and white striped shirt, tucked into shorts that had pockets, small but functional. Knee-high socks, one slightly sagging, and scuffed-up boots that looked like they’d seen a single adventure before being handed down to him.

And then there was the hat.

Buggy snatched it off his head, staring in horror at the floppy, oversized thing. It was blue, like his hair, but with a stupid little brim that drooped pathetically over one eye. He threw it to the ground, stomped on it for good measure, then, after a second of hesitation, snatched it back up and jammed it onto his head again. (It was cold, okay? And he wasn’t an idiot! He needed something to keep the wind out of his ears.)

Buggy wanted to scream. Instead, he leaned against the cold surface and laughed, sharp, desperate giggles that didn't feel like his own. And then, quite suddenly, the laughter twisted. His throat tightened. His knees gave out.

He cried.

For a moment.

Just a moment.

The tears came fast, hot and angry. His chest ached, his small hands clenched into fists against the ground. No, he thought furiously. No no no no no. He wasn’t supposed to feel this way. Pirates didn’t cry. He didn’t cry. But the tears came anyway, stupid and wet and childish, and all he could do was bury his face in his sleeves and pretend it wasn’t happening.

Minutes passed. Or hours.

He sat there, small and trembling.

When Buggy finally lifted his head, the afternoon sun hung lower in the sky. It made long shadows stretch across the cracked pavement. He stood, his legs stiff and shaky. The city was silent and empty. Buildings looked like dark, vacant skulls, and the wind whistled through broken windows. Rust ate at old signs, making their words unreadable. He walked, his boots echoing in the quiet. He passed overturned cars, their metal dull in the fading light, and streets choked with trash. The air felt heavy and still.

Then, he saw it - a crudely painted sign, tacked to a leaning lamppost. "Survivor Camp -> This Way." The arrow pointed down a side street. Survivor of what? A war? A plague? The city was clearly damaged, but this felt bigger. Like the whole world had broken. Still, the sign gave him a direction in this empty place. He followed it.

The street was deserted. No birds, no stray animals, just the wind blowing through the ruins. Buggy kept walking, guided only by the sign, until the buildings thinned out into a wide, open space. Ahead, it was a mall. Its entrance, though scarred, still stood out in the surrounding emptiness.

The big glass doors opened with a sigh.

Buggy didn’t question how the place still had power. Music played faintly, distorted and slow, like it was underwater. It was something jazzy, maybe. Or maybe meant to be comforting. But it just made the emptiness feel thicker.

He stepped inside cautiously, small shoes squeaking on the polished white tiles. The air was stale, filled with a hundred artificial scents - old perfume, plastic plants, greasy food that had long since rotted into mush. He passed store after store with mannequins in clothes too strange, too clean, all staring ahead, smiling without eyes. One of them wore a red jacket that caught Buggy’s attention. It looked pirate-y enough. He tugged it off the dummy with a grunt and threw it on over his shirt. It dwarfed his tiny frame even more, but it made him feel better somehow.

He was halfway through inspecting a rack of brightly coloured hats when he heard it, the soft drag of feet behind him.

“Oh! Hello?” he chirped, spinning around.

A man, maybe... stood just outside the store entrance. His skin looked like it had been soaking in saltwater for days, puckered and grey. One eye dangled from its socket. His shirt was torn, stained with something dark and dry. He didn’t speak. He didn’t even breathe.

Buggy tilted his head. “You okay, old man? You look like hell.”

No response. The thing’s head twitched, then jerked away from him, like someone had tugged an invisible string. It stumbled back. Then turned — and walked the other way.

“Rude,” Buggy muttered.

He wandered out of the store and into the mall’s main atrium. It was huge — four floors stacked in an open circle, with glass railings and wide escalators frozen in place. Vines hung from the ceilings like the guts of some fallen beast. There were fountains, too, cracked and dry, surrounded by benches and paper cups.

Then he saw them.

Dozens of people. Or... what looked like people.

They were gathered in clumps, some leaning against broken shopfronts, some sprawled on the floor. Their bodies twitched, heads jerking now and then like they were listening to something no one else could hear. Their skin was all wrong. Pale and bruised. Their mouths hung open, many missing lips or noses entirely. Buggy wrinkled his nose.

“Hey!” he called out cheerily, raising a hand. “Do any of you weirdos know where I am? I think I got lost.”

The effect was immediate, but not what he expected.

They turned. One by one. And then they… parted. Like he was the tip of a spear, and they were water. They shuffled aside, clearing a path for him without a sound. Some didn’t even glance his way. Others stared right through him.

Buggy blinked. “...Oookay. You guys are even worse than Marines at hospitality.”

He wandered further, stepping between them, heart thudding in his chest for no reason he could explain. Something primal itched under his skin. They weren’t normal. He didn’t know how or why, but his child mind was starting to squirm.

But then, his foot kicked something, a plastic cup. It skittered across the tiles and smacked into the leg of a kiosk.

The sound seemed to echo.

He looked up just in time to see a screen flicker on above the fountain, one of those mall display things. It showed a grainy image, from a camera angle somewhere high. A lone girl, maybe in her late teens, darting down the top floor hallway, a red backpack swinging behind her.

“Wh—?”

A loud crash shattered the silence.

Buggy’s eyes jerked upward as the girl, the same one from the screen, came hurtling over the second floor railing, screaming. She hit the ground with a sickening crack. Her scream turned into sobs, broken, panicked. Her leg was twisted under her.

The air shifted.

Every one of the silent figures around Buggy turned. Heads cocked. Mouths opened wider.

Then they moved. Faster than before. Limbs jerking, arms outstretched. They surged toward her like a wave, hissing and groaning.

Buggy stood frozen, a child’s eyes wide with shock. “Hey—HEY! Stop—she’s—!”

But they didn’t stop. They fell on her in a snarling mass, arms clawing, teeth gnashing. Her screams rose, became pure terror — then gurgled into silence. Buggy stumbled back, fell onto his rear, eyes locked on the horror before him. His stomach churned.

His pirate’s mind, older and sharper, slammed through the wall of childish confusion.

They’re dead.

They’re eating her.

They’re zombies.

Buggy clapped his hands over his mouth. He didn’t scream, but it took everything in him not to. His body trembled — not just from fear, but confusion, a storm of mismatched thoughts and feelings. His adult brain grasped the danger, the logic. His child heart only knew he wanted to run, hide, cry.

He crawled backward until his back hit a bench. His breathing was fast and shallow. He wanted his ship. His crew. Hell — even Alvida. Anyone. Anything familiar, but all he had were the monsters and the fact that, somehow, for some reason… they didn’t want him.

Chapter Text

The air on the roof was still.

Buggy sat cross-legged beside a rusted table, one cheek puffed out as he chewed a mouthful of something crunchy and stale, a bag of triangle chips he’d found in a locked vending machine. He’d smashed the glass with a metal bar after an hour of punching it did nothing but hurt his knuckles. One point for pirate ingenuity.

The sun didn't really come out. Just that smeared, pale light through a grey sheet of sky, like a fog that never lifted. It made the world below look like it had been painted in soot. Streets stretched endlessly in every direction, littered with cars that no longer moved and bodies that did. The horizon felt far and cramped at once. No sea. No sails. No gulls. Only the occasional flicker of something far-off moving in clusters. Like ants. Ants that groaned.

This mall had been picked clean, but he’d found a way to the roof through an emergency stairwell. It was surprisingly peaceful up here. He could almost pretend the world wasn’t ruined, if he didn’t look too hard at the cracked skyline or the abandoned cities beyond. There were a few potted trees, now brittle and dry, and one of them had a small bench underneath that he now claimed as his throne.

He licked orange powder from his fingers, nose scrunched. "This tastes like cheap chemicals," he muttered, but still kept eating.

He was quiet for a long time. No mutiny. No shouting. No one to impress. Just the wind and his thoughts — which, annoyingly, had started talking back. He started counting off on his fingers, small hands tapping his knee as he listed.

“Okay. So... number one: this is definitely a different world. Not a sky island, not the Grand Line, not even the Calm Belt. No ocean. Not even a puddle. I’m landlocked.”

He flopped backward with a sigh.

“Number two: I’m a kid now. That’s obvious. But it’s not just my body. It’s in my head too. My temper’s shorter. I get sad faster, tired easier. I want to scream and cry and punch something. It’s like my brain’s been shrunk along with the rest of me."

Buggy stared at the grey sky a moment longer, then sat up again. It’s hard to think like a Yonko when you can’t stop wanting to nap.

“Three: My powers are gone. Can’t split. Nothing.” he poked himself in the chest, “But I can still use Haki. Armament’s weak, but it's there. Observation’s a little fuzzy, but working. Four: zombies don’t like me. No clue why. I’m not complaining, but it’s weird. They act like I smell bad or something.”

He sniffed his armpit. His brow furrowed. Instead of stink, he caught a faint, sweet smell, like warm milk and something soft.

I don't even smell bad!

“Five...” He trailed off, glancing toward a screen just visible from the roof. It flickered, still playing the same clip on loop. A woman with too-perfect hair and hollow eyes, standing in front of a wall of statistics. The words didn’t make much sense to Buggy, but he’d been picking them apart slowly. “Virus,” he said aloud. “That's what they keep saying. Virus. Infects people, turns them into monsters. Spread fast.”

He leaned his chin into his palm, lips pursed.

So... some disease had wiped out this world. It turned people into flesh-eating ghouls, and somehow, Buggy had been tossed here, young, powerless and alone, but still not eaten. He didn’t know if that meant he was lucky, cursed, or just the butt of some cosmic joke.

The chips were almost gone now. He tilted the bag to drink the crumbs straight from the foil, making a satisfied grunt before tossing it aside. It skittered across the roof tiles and stopped near the edge, right by a shattered lawn chair.

From here, he could see everything.

The buildings below like broken teeth. The black ribbons of cracked roads. The empty playground that now looked like a trap. The long-forgotten billboard for something called a “Smartphone” with a bright smiling couple, frozen in time, holding a rectangle like it was treasure.

He watched the horizon for a long time.

His body felt warm, tired, slow. A child’s metabolism running low. His eyes drooped. But he fought the urge to sleep because every time he closed his eyes now, he didn’t know what he might wake up to.

He curled up on the bench instead, hugging his knees.

This world was awful. Grey. Cold. Full of monsters.

He hated to admit it, but part of him, the kid part, the unformed part, felt strangely safe up here. Like nothing could touch him. No Marines. No enemies. No expectations.

Just him and the silence.

The wind picked up, and Buggy shivered. A sudden gust tore at his hat, ripping it from his head and sending it cartwheeling into the desolate street below.

Buggy didn't care. He hopped down from the bench, arms wrapped around himself. His jacket did nothing much to block the chill. His little fingers were stiff, his nose cold. He needed warmth. And frankly, he was sick of smelling like vending machine dust and cheap chemicals.

Which meant... operation [Clean Clown] was a go.

He descended the stairwell slowly, careful not to slip on the damp concrete. The emergency lights flickered red overhead as he made his way down to the second floor, where the kid stores were lined up like miniature boutiques, bright logos, cartoon characters on signs, mannequins with huge eyes and stiff grins.

Buggy walked past a rack of glitter-covered skirts with a grimace, muttering, “Absolutely not.” He pulled a fluffy purple hoodie from a shelf — it had cat ears on the hood, “...Tempting.” But in the end, he chose a soft red sweatshirt with a little shark biting through the words “BITE ME,” a pair of thick navy sweatpants that pooled at his ankles and a knit beanie — red and blue striped, with a puff on top. It drooped a bit to one side when he tugged it on, his clown-blue hair sticking out beneath it in wisps. He glanced at himself in a broken mirror near the counter.

Tiny. Round-cheeked. Warm.

Still ridiculous-looking, but he approved.

Next mission - water.

The toilets were near the food court, tucked behind a hallway marked with symbols he recognized. He braced himself for the worst, and stepped inside.

The fluorescent lights blinked awake.

Buggy was too short to reach the sink properly, even on his tiptoes. So, he scampered out of the bathroom and returned shortly, dragging a lightweight plastic chair from the abandoned food court. And, miracle of miracles, the faucets worked.

He twisted one and gasped as cold water gushed out. “Holy mother of Sea Kings.”

Buggy shoved his hand under it, then both, then his whole head, scrubbing the dust and sweat from his face until he was dripping. He found a mop bucket, filled it, then dashed back to a drugstore near the escalator. It was half-looted but still had rows of tiny travel bottles. He picked the nicest-smelling shampoo and a goofy bar of soap shaped like a dinosaur. He even grabbed a toothbrush, then returned to the restroom.

The shower was... not quite a shower. But he made it work — using the mop bucket, cold water and determination. He shivered violently the whole time but refused to whine. Pirates didn’t whine. They just... squeaked when soap got in their eyes and maybe cursed under their breath about modern plumbing.

He scrubbed until he felt raw and new.

Then he dried off with stolen towels, pulled on his new warm clothes, and gave himself a little twirl in the mirror.

Then Buggy remembered the bag he'd picked up earlier. He pulled it open, revealing fluffy white socks and oversized, fluffy animal sandals, shaped like a cat, or maybe a bear. He slipped them on, the soft fabric a comforting contrast to the cold marble. Yawning now, warm and clean, he padded across the marble floor, guided by the dim emergency lights. His legs felt heavy. His belly was full enough. He hadn’t cried once all day. A proud record.

To his right - a glass storefront, brightly coloured and filled with toys.

A toy shop.

It was called “GRAND TINY WORLD,” in big bubbly letters.

And right in the middle of the window display, sitting high on a shelf, was a stuffed rabbit. It was sleek and slouchy, with long floppy ears and black fur like midnight velvet. Beside it sat a white twin. Both had one shiny button eye and a little red ribbon around the neck.

Buggy stared at them.

Something in him stirred. A sort of magnetic pull that made his feet move forward even though he wanted to pretend he didn’t care.

“I don’t need a dumb stuffed thing,” he muttered under his breath, pressing his face to the glass. “I’m not a baby.”

His voice sounded too thin, too tired, like even he didn’t believe it. He stared at the rabbits a bit longer. Something about the way they just sat there, blank and calm, waiting, made his chest feel tight. His hands curled at his sides.

His heart said want.

His brain said don’t.

And something between them, the part of him that was still six years old, no matter how much he pretended otherwise, started to panic. He could feel the childish emotions winding up. The ache behind his eyes, the hot pressure in his throat.

Why do I want that stupid thing?

I’m a warlord. A captain. A Yonko.

I’ve fought Mihawk! I’ve punched sea beasts! I’ve—

And yet, he stood there like a statue in the cold, staring through the glass at a black rabbit with one shiny eye and a crooked smile. After a long silence, Buggy groaned, dragged a hand down his face, and whispered, defeated, “Oh my god, I’m a baby.”

He closed his eyes for a second, breathing through the shame. Then he shrugged.

“Fine. FINE. No one’s here. No one’s judging. Everyone who would judge me is either dead or in another dimension. Might as well go full gremlin.”

He marched inside.

The rabbit was exactly where he expected it. He plucked the black one from the shelf, gave it a single evaluating squeeze. It made a soft squeak in response.

“I’ll call you... Captain Flop.”

He glanced at the white twin still on the shelf, clean and unscarred. “No offense to your sibling, but I picked you because you’ll show less blood if things get messy. You understand, right?”

Captain Flop didn’t respond.

Buggy tucked the rabbit under one arm like treasure, proud and warm and slightly humiliated, and walked out of the store with his head high.

He didn’t need it, but he wanted it, and he was finally tired enough, small enough and alone enough to stop pretending he didn’t.

By the time he reached the bed store, he felt like he'd run a marathon, not with his legs, but with his pride. He wandered through rows of mattresses until he found one tucked into the corner, still piled with soft blankets and pillows. He climbed up, dragging his rabbit with him, and wrapped himself in the warmth like a burrito.

The bed was cold at first, but it slowly warmed beneath him. The rabbit’s fur was soft against his cheek. Buggy didn’t want to admit how much it helped. How the weight of it, the presence of something, made the shadows less sharp around him.

The mall groaned as the wind shifted outside. Metal creaked in the rafters. Far below, a single something fell with a clang, and Buggy jumped — squeezing the rabbit tight to his chest, his heart suddenly pounding like war drums.

It’s fine.

It’s fine. You’re fine.

“I’m not scared,” he whispered, but his voice cracked. He swallowed hard, face scrunching as something hot and childish pressed behind his eyes again. His lip trembled.

“I’m not...”

Buggy buried his face into the rabbit’s side and whispered to the dark, “It’s okay. It’ll be okay. I’m gonna find a way back. They’ll notice I’m gone. The crew... they’ll look for me. Even if they’re idiots.”

He sniffled once, rubbed his eyes angrily and mumbled, “You’ll see, Flop. This is just temporary. Just... a detour. Buggy-sama always finds a way.”

He sighed, eyes fluttering shut.

“I better not pee the bed,” he mumbled. And eventually, the small pirate fell into sleep — curled into a fortress of blankets, with a black rabbit watching the shadows on his behalf.

Chapter Text

He should’ve died already.

That was the thought hammering through his skull as he slumped behind a concrete barrier, one hand clamped tight over the gash on his side. His shirt was soaked. His breath came fast. The sky above was smeared with ash and cloud, no stars to guide him. No way to track how long he’d been bleeding.

The bastard had lied.

He’d left the camp on a scavenging route, routine and unremarkable. Same protocols. Same expectations. Get in. Get out. No heroics. But then Davis, smug, always too ambitious for his own good, had rerouted them. The man claimed there was something worth seeing near the industrial block.

There was.

An ambush.

Not zombies.

People.

The kind who saw human lives as currency. The kind who didn’t hesitate to shoot. Davis had fled. He hadn’t even looked back. Just ran. Rayleigh had taken a bullet in the ribs and vanished into the wreckage, dragging himself through back alleys and fences, blood painting his trail like a road map for death.

Now he was somewhere near the old mall — he could see its jagged crown over the rooftops, silhouetted in the distance like a castle half-sunk in fog.

He pressed his back to the wall, ears straining.

The infected were out there. Drawn by scent. Drawn by sound. But he hadn’t been bitten. Not yet. He’d fought with a pipe and a shard of glass and sheer, feral instinct. And he was still here. Barely.

Rayleigh’s head lolled back. His vision swam.

He couldn’t die here. Not like this. Not yet.

He gritted his teeth and forced himself upright. If he could just make it to the mall — just one floor up, a hiding spot, anything — he could rest. Regroup. Plan.

His breath fogged faintly in the cold as he staggered into the dark.

And behind him, quiet as rot, the shadows began to move.

... ...

Buggy woke up before the sun. Something had shifted, like a weight in the air, a pulse in his chest. His Haki had never really stopped humming since he got here, like a string pulled taut somewhere behind his ribs. But now it flared sharply, a quiet alarm going off in his bones.

Someone was close. Someone familiar.

Buggy sat up, clutching Captain Flop close, blinking into the dimness.

“That… that’s impossible,” he whispered, but his feet were already moving. Down the mattress. Across the showroom. Through the flickering halls. He didn't even think. His body knew where to go.

The mall doors groaned as he shoved them open with a grunt, small fingers curled tight around Flop’s floppy ear. The cold slapped him in the face, but the Haki was louder now, clearer. It was warm.

“Come on, come on...”

He sprinted past the broken fountains and frozen escalators, weaving through overturned strollers and shopping carts. The zombies were already stirring in the distance, twitching to life as if they sensed motion, but again, as they caught Buggy’s presence, they... moved aside.

And there, slumped against a cracked planter, surrounded by the stench of blood and near-death, lay the man.

Tall. Blonde. Barely breathing.

Buggy stumbled to a stop.

“…Rayleigh?”

The man wore dark, worn cargo pants that had plenty of pockets, tucked into sturdy boots. A long-sleeved, deep grey shirt covered his torso and over that, a dark, fitted vest with multiple zippers. His voice was a breath. Not disbelief, not quite, but the fragile kind of hope that hurts. It was Rayleigh. Or… it looked like him. Not the old man with silver beard and smiling eyes who had once laughed through storms. This Rayleigh was younger, maybe thirty, face hardened, jaw clenched in pain. But the way he felt in the Haki, the way the world bent ever-so-slightly around him like it used to back on the Oro Jackson...

Buggy didn't need to think about it. He just knew. This wasn't the Rayleigh he knew. This man was from here. However, even if this man was a stranger with Rayleigh's face, he still felt like Rayleigh. And for Buggy, that was enough.

The zombies were closing in again now, cautiously. Despite their obvious hunger, an invisible barrier seemed to hold them back from Buggy, making them hesitate. Buggy didn’t wait. He bared his tiny teeth and snapped, “BACK OFF!” with a sudden burst of Conqueror's Haki so faint it was like a whisper, but it worked.

They froze.

He dropped to his knees beside the man, hugging Flop tighter with one arm as he used the other to grip Rayleigh’s jacket.

“Captain’s first mate or not,” he grunted, dragging him toward the mall entrance, “you’re not dying out here while I’ve got anything to say about it.”

Rayleigh groaned, not awake, but his body helped just enough. Buggy huffed and puffed, cheeks pink from the cold, small hands pulling like a stubborn crab with a prize it refused to let go.

They got inside. The glass doors slammed shut behind them, and the moaning faded outside.

Buggy didn’t stop. The pharmacy was just a few shops down, miraculously unlooted. He kicked it open, shoved Rayleigh inside, and slammed the door behind him, locking the sliding bar with effort. Then he breathed.

Buggy dragged Rayleigh to the back of the pharmacy where a cushioned bench sat beside a cabinet. A medical kit was still stocked. Bandages. Disinfectant. Even pain meds. Buggy had no training, but he’d watched plenty of ship medics work and his little hands were steady.

He cleaned the wound. Wrapped it tight. Found gauze and stuffed it into the torn shirt. The bleeding slowed. Rayleigh breathed easier. Then Buggy checked the rest of the shop, just in case — no infected, no rats, no awful surprises. He returned with a thick blanket and a pillow.

He didn’t speak.

He just laid the blanket over Rayleigh’s chest, tucking it at the sides the way he remembered someone once doing for him. Then, without thinking, without asking, he climbed up beside him on the wide bench.

He hugged Flop close. But that wasn’t enough. So he pressed in gently, curling next to Rayleigh’s side, like a kid remembering a story instead of living one. His small fingers gripped the fabric of the man’s jacket.

“…Just for a little while,” he whispered. “Just ‘til I feel normal again.”

The tears didn’t come, but his throat stayed tight, and the silence stayed heavy, and when he finally closed his eyes, it wasn’t sleep he wanted. It was the memory of the ship rocking beneath his feet.

The sound of laughter down the deck.

The hand on his head saying, "You’ll be alright, kid."

Chapter Text

The world came back in pieces. Slow and thick, like waking underwater. First, the dull, aching pressure in his side, stitched by fire. Then the sharp, clean scent of alcohol and antiseptic. He felt the cool smoothness of a cushioned bench beneath him, a blanket tucked to his ribs, and something soft under his head. A pillow. 

Rayleigh blinked slowly. Not dead. That was new.

It was mid-morning. Bright sunlight streamed through the windows, cutting through the dust motes floating in the air. He could guess from the shelves of medical supplies and the faint smell of chemicals that this was the backroom of a pharmacy, probably inside the mall. His ribs protested as he shifted, a hiss escaping through clenched teeth. He touched the bandages, surprised by how clean and tightly wrapped they were. The wound still burned, but the bleeding had stopped. Painkillers dulled the worst of it.

His fingers curled next to the pillow and brushed plastic.

A bottle of water. And next to it, a snack bar half-wrapped. Food. Supplies.

And then—

A weight.

Pressed to his left side. Small. Warm.

Rayleigh turned his head.

A child. Maybe five, at most. Curled into him like a kitten seeking warmth. Blue hair. Pale skin. A bright red nose. He was hugging a black stuffed rabbit, clinging to it like a lifeline. His little face was relaxed, but his eyebrows were drawn as if still frowning in some stubborn dream.

Rayleigh stared.

What the hell…

Was this who patched him up?

The kid hadn’t noticed his stirrings yet, deep in sleep, tiny breaths even and quiet. He looked fragile. Soft in a way that didn’t match the coldness of the world outside. His clothes were thick, like someone had dressed him in winter layers and a little dark beanie that had slid slightly to one side during sleep. One sock had slipped off.

Rayleigh’s lips parted in a breath of disbelief, but no words came. He simply watched, processing.

This child… saved me.

And now he was using him like a heater.

A chuckle almost escaped, but he stifled it. Movement would wake the boy, and Rayleigh didn’t want that. Not yet. So he stayed still. Ate in silence. Sipped from the water bottle. And watched the tiny blue-haired stranger curl closer to his side.

... ...

Rayleigh didn’t belong in the camps, not really.

They had too many walls and not enough vision. The survivors clung to what they could... concrete, rations, order, but none of them saw the world the way Roger had. The way he had.

Rayleigh had been with the man before the collapse. When the virus was a rumour, not a world-ending truth. Roger had believed in hope, even at the end. Rayleigh had stayed at Westbridge Camp since, helping where he could, teaching the kids, scavenging for medicine. He wasn’t a leader, he’d never wanted to be. That had been Roger’s strength.

This run had been Davis’ idea. He’d said there were clean supplies on the east side, untouched caches near the industrial sector. Rayleigh hadn’t trusted him, but he’d gone anyway. They needed meds. He didn’t want to risk anyone else.

It was a setup.

Rayleigh had walked into it like a fool, and Davis had run the second gunfire started. People, not infected, had done this to him. He’d been shot, left behind, bleeding into cold concrete.

Until now.

Until this.

He looked down at the child again. Still curled up tight. Still holding that ridiculous rabbit.

Rayleigh frowned. The longer he looked, the more the image scraped at something inside him. It reminded him of Shanks, the youngest back at camp. Ten years old and always mouthing off. Spirited. Bold. Too damn smart for his own good. He was Roger’s unofficial son, and Rayleigh had practically helped raise him. He missed that brat more than he wanted to admit.

This kid didn’t look like Shanks. But the way he curled into warmth without shame… the way he clutched something soft but still looked ready to bite your hand if you came too close...

Rayleigh exhaled slowly.

This world was full of ghosts. But this was the first time one had touched him.

He closed his eyes, just for a moment.

“I don’t know who you are, kid,” he whispered, “but... thanks.”

... ...

Rayleigh moved carefully.

The child still hadn’t stirred. A heavy sleeper, apparently. Or just exhausted. Judging by the snacks left beside him, the supplies pulled together and the bandaging job, Rayleigh guessed the kid had been running on instinct for some time. Long enough to crash hard.

Rayleigh stood, rolling his shoulder and testing his balance. His side throbbed dully, but he could move. Good enough.

There were two large shopping bags behind the counter. Rayleigh began sorting methodically, loading up everything he could find. Bandages, antiseptics, painkillers, antibiotic creams, tape. It wasn’t a hospital, but it was better than what the camp had right now.

He worked quietly, listening for groans outside. The zombies were still there — he could feel the slow drag of their presence beyond the shuttered gates. But none had come close since he woke.

He wondered if it was just luck.

He looked back at the boy.

Or not.

Rayleigh finished packing the last of the gauze and tucked in a pair of scissors and a thermometer for good measure. He added water bottles, a few protein bars and a small notebook with a pen clipped to the spiral. He always kept notes. Plans. Routes. No one survived long in this world without a system.

And now… he was adding something new to the plan.

He was taking the kid back.

That wasn’t even a question anymore.

Rayleigh glanced at the child again. Smaller than I thought, Rayleigh mused, crouching beside him again. He did all that, and he's just… tiny. Rayleigh reached out, carefully adjusting the blanket back over his shoulder. A bit of hair had fallen across the boy’s face, and Rayleigh brushed it back, fingers gentle.

That was when the boy’s eyes snapped open.

Blue.

Startling, bright blue.

And wide... so wide.

He jerked up with a quick, panicked breath and scooted back, hugging the rabbit tight to his chest, staring like Rayleigh had grown two heads.

“Hey—hey,” Rayleigh said softly, palms out, lowering himself into a seated position again. “It’s alright. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

The child didn’t speak. Just stared. Breathing fast. Clutching the rabbit like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

Rayleigh offered a slow smile. “You… you patched me up, didn’t you? That was you? Thank you. I’d be a corpse by now if not for that.”

Still nothing. Just those huge blue eyes and silence.

Rayleigh’s heart tugged strangely in his chest.

“I’m Rayleigh,” he offered. “I live not far from here. Got a camp. People. I can take you back. It’s safe, I promise.”

The boy’s shoulders trembled slightly. His lip quivered, and he bit it hard.

Rayleigh’s smile faltered, then softened. “You don’t have to be scared, alright? You did great. You—”

And then it happened.

The child started crying.

Not loudly, not at first. Just soft, stifled sobs. His shoulders shook. He buried his face in the rabbit’s ear, pressing his lips tight to stop the sound, but the tears came anyway.

Rayleigh stared, a lump catching at the base of his throat.

He wasn’t ready. No part of him was ready for how small the boy looked now, curled up, overwhelmed and clearly trying to hold it all in. Not just fear, but something that had been building for too long.

Rayleigh moved slowly. No sudden gestures. He reached out, gently, and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. When the child didn’t jerk away, he slid closer and opened his arms. The moment contact was made, when Rayleigh pulled him in, careful and quiet, the dam broke.

The child sobbed. Loud now. Wet and shaking and hoarse. He clutched Rayleigh’s shirt and cried, letting it out in deep, cracked sounds like it had been waiting to spill for days.

Rayleigh held him. Tight. One hand at the back of his head, the other wrapped around his back.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, instinctively. “It’s alright, kid. I’ve got you.”

He didn’t even know this boy, but it didn’t matter. There was something aching in the sound of those cries. Something Rayleigh couldn’t explain or didn’t want to explain. He just held him and let it echo in his chest.

He’s a baby, his mind kept whispering. And he’s been alone. How long? How far?

Rayleigh didn’t understand why his own heart hurt so much. Why his throat was tight. Why this moment felt like something important had begun.

Chapter Text

He’s still hugging me.

Buggy’s face was on fire.

His tears had stopped, dried into itchy little salt trails on his cheeks, but he hadn’t moved. Not an inch. His fists were still curled in the older man’s shirt, and Rayleigh, or this world’s Rayleigh, was sitting against the back wall of the pharmacy’s staff room, legs stretched out, gently rocking him like Buggy was something fragile.

And he felt it too. Fragile.

Buggy hated that.

He’d had a moment. That was all. Just a brief, emotional explosion. His nerves had snapped, and his stupid kid brain couldn’t hold it all in, and now here he was, 39 years old and still sniffling on a warm shoulder, trying not to squirm.

It was humiliating.

But also… warm.

And safe.

And his Rayleigh had never held him like this. Back then, when he and Shanks were bratty cabin boys bickering over oranges and climbing the masts barefoot, the Rayleigh of his world had always been kind but reserved. Stern when needed. Occasional ruffles to the hair. A hand on the shoulder. The sort of love you noticed only in hindsight.

This Rayleigh was softer. Or maybe it was just the world, broken and howling as it was, that had softened him.

Buggy sniffled again, then cursed himself for it internally.

He was a pirate. He was the great Buggy-sama. He once blew up half a Marine base in a fit of pique. He could crush a sea king’s jaw with a cannonball from thirty meters. He had a bounty that terrified coastal towns.

He wasn’t a cuddler.

But… well…

His fingers curled tighter around Flop’s long ear.

Maybe, just this once, he’d allow it.

Rayleigh must’ve sensed the shift in tension. He pulled back slightly, looking down with a faint smile. “You feeling a little better now?” he asked, voice quiet, thick with concern.

Buggy didn’t answer. The boy couldn’t. His throat felt too full. He only clutched Flop closer to his chest. Rayleigh reached out and brushed a few stray blue strands from Buggy’s forehead. That was new. Definitely new. His Rayleigh would’ve flicked his nose before doing something so parental.

Buggy didn’t know where to look. He stared down at his knees, suddenly sheepish and mumbled, “...Thank you. I’m okay now. You can let go.”

Rayleigh respected it. He eased his arms back and gave the boy space, though the man didn’t move far. He stayed sitting. Buggy took a careful step back without thinking, just enough distance to reclaim a sliver of pride, though he still clutched Flop like a lifeline.

“So,” Rayleigh said, “What’s your name, kid?”

Buggy blinked.

He hesitated.

For a brief, foolish second, his heart had hoped. He hoped that this man would recognize him. That maybe this was another version of his Rayleigh. Another dimensional misfire like his own.

But no, this Rayleigh didn’t know him.

Buggy swallowed and said quietly, “…Buggy.”

Rayleigh lifted an eyebrow. “Buggy?”

“And this is Captain Flop,” Buggy added quickly, holding up the rabbit.

Rayleigh blinked, then chuckled, a warm, genuine sound.

Buggy froze. His face lit up bright pink. He wasn’t looking directly at Rayleigh, but he could feel the smile. Feel the amusement rolling off him.

“You’re cute, kid.”

That did it.

Buggy grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it directly at the man’s face.

“I am NOT cute!” he barked, voice cracking slightly. “Take that back! You’re lucky I saved your life, old man!”

Rayleigh caught the pillow mid-air, grinning like the sun had finally peeked through the clouds.

Buggy huffed and hugged Flop closer. “And don’t laugh at Captain Flop either! He’s braver than you. He’s our morale officer. He holds the group together.”

Rayleigh blinked, clearly biting back a second laugh. “Didn’t say a word about him.”

Buggy narrowed his eyes. “I heard your smile.”

Rayleigh placed the pillow in his lap, hands raised in surrender. “Alright, alright. Captain Flop is a hero. My mistake.”

Buggy’s nose wrinkled and his glare sharpened. “And if you say anything about my nose,” he warned darkly, “I will personally shove you out the door and let the zombies gnaw your smug face off.”

Rayleigh just smiled wider. “Wasn’t going to. But noted.”

Buggy turned away with a huff, flopping onto a nearby cushion with Flop pressed tightly under one arm. He didn’t want to admit how much better he felt. Or how he was starting to feel warm again for the first time in days, not just physically, but inside. Still, as he peeked out from beneath his hat and caught Rayleigh watching him with that calm, kind gaze, something in him softened again. Just a little.

Maybe being a baby wasn’t so bad.

Just temporarily.

…Maybe.

... ...

Buggy had never eaten crackers this slowly in his life.

They were stale, like cardboard kissed by salt and left in the sun, but he nibbled one corner at a time with utmost concentration, as if his life depended on chewing in silence. He didn’t meet Rayleigh’s eyes, though he felt them watching. Calm. Measuring.

He hated how calm Rayleigh was.

Like he was good at this.

Buggy didn’t want to admit it, but it made him feel... small. Not just in body. But in the way his voice still wobbled sometimes, and how his brain felt like it lagged behind his mouth. Like there was a permanent fog on his thoughts, and only sometimes — sometimes — the adult part of him could punch through it.

“You’ve been here alone this whole time?” Rayleigh asked gently.

Buggy shrugged without looking up. “Yeah.”

Rayleigh’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “For how long?”

Buggy nibbled more cracker. “Dunno. Since the camp got bad. Few months, maybe.”

Rayleigh was quiet for a moment. “There was a camp here?”

Buggy nodded and took a fake sip of water to stall. “Yeah. Survivor group. Bunch of adults, families too. Some of them knew how to shoot. Others just... screamed a lot.”

“And your parents?”

There it was.

That question.

Buggy kept his face carefully blank. He felt Flop’s fuzzy ear under his fingers and squeezed it once.

“They’re gone,” he said. “I wasn’t with ’em when it started. Got picked up by people heading here. Guess that’s lucky.”

That part wasn’t a lie. Just... creatively arranged.

Rayleigh nodded. He wasn’t pushing, which made it worse somehow. Like he knew Buggy wasn’t telling the whole truth and was giving him space anyway. Buggy hated that kind of kindness. It made the guilt sharper.

“I knew the mall better than most of them,” he said, trying to sound like he was proud. “So when things went bad, I stayed behind. Hid. Found good spots.”

Rayleigh leaned back, his gaze scanning the dusty shelves of medicine and cheap plastic storage bins. “Water and power are still running?”

“Sorta,” Buggy said. “Limited. Some places still get it. You just gotta know where.”

“You found all this yourself?”

Buggy shot him a look, suddenly defensive. “I’m not helpless.”

Rayleigh raised his hands in peace. “Didn’t say you were. Just... that’s impressive. You’re smart. You know how to survive.”

Buggy blinked. His cheeks turned warm again, but this time he shoved the feeling down.

He didn’t want praise.

He wanted—

He didn’t know what he wanted.

Rayleigh’s expression turned thoughtful. “There’s a place west of here. Still intact. The walls are high. Solar grid, working defences. We grow what we can. Hunt when we have to. People look out for each other.”

Buggy’s chewing slowed.

A real base?

Rayleigh went on, “I came out here with a team to check on an old signal. Supply run too. But... something was off. A guy named Davis. He led us into a trap, whether he meant to or not. We lost almost everyone.”

Buggy’s hand tightened on Flop.

“Is he... one of the bad ones?” he asked cautiously.

Rayleigh’s jaw flexed. “I don’t know. I thought I knew him. But people change when the world ends. I have to go back. Have to make sure the others are safe.”

Buggy didn’t answer right away. He stared at the half-crushed cracker in his hand.

This Rayleigh... he wasn’t the same. Not his Rayleigh, but he felt like Rayleigh. A steady kind of weight in the world. And maybe that was enough.

Buggy’s fingers twitched toward his pocket, hesitating. He’d almost forgotten—almost. The weight of the glasses pressed against his thigh. He pulled them out now, the metal cool against his palm. "Here," he muttered, thrusting them toward Rayleigh without meeting his eyes. "Found ‘em when I was dragging your stupid heavy ass earlier."

Rayleigh blinked, his hands pausing mid-motion over the map he’d been studying. For a second, he just stared at the glasses, then at Buggy’s stubbornly turned-away face. Something unreadable flickered in his expression.

Rayleigh took the glasses, turning them over in his hands. The cracked lens caught the dim light, scattering it like a spiderweb. "Thank you," he said, and his voice was too warm, too knowing.

Buggy scowled. "Whatever. They’re just—"

A calloused hand landed on his head, ruffling his hair right under the edge of his beanie. The touch was startlingly gentle, almost absentminded, the way someone might pet a cat they’d known for years. And Buggy’s stupid traitorous body leaned into it, just for a second, before his brain caught up.

"Hey!" He swatted at Rayleigh’s wrist, jerking back. "Hands off, old man!"

Rayleigh chuckled, unbothered, and slid the glasses onto his nose. They sat crooked, one arm bent slightly out of shape, but he adjusted them with a practiced tilt of his head. "Hm. Not bad." He glanced at Buggy, a smirk playing at his lips. "You know, you remind me of a kid I know, named Shanks. Ten years old. At Westbridge Camp. Scrappy little thing, always getting into trouble. Had a smile that pissed people off."

Buggy’s breath hitched. Shanks. But—no. This wasn’t his Shanks. Just like this wasn’t his Rayleigh. This was some other boy in some other ruined world, a ghost wearing a name he knew. Buggy clutched Flop tighter, the rabbit’s fabric grounding him. 

"Yeah?" he forced out, aiming for disinterest and landing somewhere near shaky. "What happened to him?"

Rayleigh’s expression shifted, something distant and quiet passing over it. "He grew up," he said simply. Then, with a shrug, "Most kids do."

Buggy swallowed hard. Not me, he thought. Not like this.

“I want you to come with me,” Rayleigh said, voice quieter now. “It’s no place for a kid to be alone. Especially not one like you.”

Buggy bristled at the word kid, but the warmth in Rayleigh’s tone made it hard to argue. He looked down at his legs. Short, pale, knobby. Then at Flop, cradled against his side like a badge of shame and comfort in equal parts.

“…Okay,” he said after a long pause.

Buggy didn’t say anything after that. The boy just sat there, arms wrapped tight around Flop, gaze fixed somewhere past Rayleigh’s shoulder, pretending he wasn’t thinking anything at all.

Rayleigh nodded, accepting the answer without fuss. He leaned forward slightly, pulling a scrap of torn packaging from the floor and smoothing it flat like a map. “Alright. This mall’s big, but I spotted the parking structure from one of the windows. If we can get up to the second level, I might be able to hotwire one of the abandoned cars.”

Buggy blinked at him.

Rayleigh chuckled. “That just means I can make them work without keys. You’ll see.”

Buggy didn’t answer. Just gave a tiny nod.

“I saw an old maintenance tunnel last night too,” Rayleigh continued, “before I passed out. It could be a way out that doesn’t lead straight through the front doors. I’ll need your help navigating this place, though. You’ve been here longer.”

Another nod.

Buggy didn’t trust himself to speak right now. If he opened his mouth, he might say something stupid. Like Rayleigh, I think I’m cursed, the zombies don’t touch me and I don’t know why. Or I’m not actually a kid, my brain’s just all melted and stuck somewhere between six and thirty-nine. Or worse, I’m not even from this world. I think I fell through time and space and now I cuddle a stuffed rabbit and eat crackers like a toddler.

No.

He chewed the inside of his cheek, eyes flicking across the tile floor.

Now wasn’t the time.

Maybe there wasn’t a time.

Rayleigh’s voice kept talking,  smooth, steady, giving him the plan like it was already decided. Exit routes, when to move, how to watch the patterns of the zombies. He didn’t talk down to Buggy, which felt strange and... good. Like Rayleigh saw someone capable sitting there, not a helpless kid with jam on his face.

Buggy clutched Flop tighter.

The rabbit was still warm from his hands. It smelled like musty toy shop air and old stuffing. He tried not to think about how stupid he looked with it in his lap. Rayleigh hadn’t made fun, not even once. The man hadn’t said anything about the red nose either. Most adults would have. Even in a world full of walking corpses.

Buggy’s mind kept looping, chewing on the same thoughts over and over.

Should he tell him?

No. Not yet.

He didn’t even know if this Rayleigh could be trusted all the way. He seemed good. Kind. Capable. But so had others in the past. Buggy had seen how quickly trust broke down when things got bad. When food ran out. When people started dying.

He glanced at the man again, the scarred arm, the makeshift bandages, the tired but sharp eyes.

Buggy wanted to trust him.

It was stupid how much he wanted to trust him, but trust was like giving someone the map to your heart and hoping they didn’t set it on fire. So instead, Buggy stayed quiet. He listened to the plan, nodding at the right moments. Letting the calm of Rayleigh’s voice wrap around him like a blanket he didn’t want to admit he needed.

He pressed his face into Flop for a moment, just enough to hide his expression. Not crying. Not now. Just... breathing.

The man looked so much like the Rayleigh Buggy remembered from decades ago, tall and sturdy, not yet weighed down by age. But also... not his Rayleigh. This one didn’t have the same shadows around the eyes. He belonged here. In this world. This broken, dry, grey world.

And Buggy didn’t.

Rayleigh glanced back at him, smiled a little. “We’ll move tomorrow. Rest one more night. Then we go.”

Buggy nodded again.

He didn’t know how to say what he felt. He didn’t know what he could say. So he just pulled his knees up, rested his chin on top, and whispered to Flop when Rayleigh wasn’t looking.

“Don’t worry. I’ll figure it out.”

Even if he didn’t know what "it" was yet.

Even if he had no idea how.

Chapter Text

It was dark now, the last grey light of dusk long faded behind the metal shutters. Only the dim glow of a battery-powered lantern flickered in the corner and it cast long shadows across the shelves of ransacked medicines and toppled displays.

Rayleigh sat propped against the wall, his leg stretched out. The pain had dulled to a persistent throb, bearable as long as he didn't move too much. His fingers absently traced the edge of the glasses Buggy had given him, miraculously intact, the frames slightly bent but functional. He'd cleaned the lenses with the hem of his shirt earlier, and now they sat perched on the bridge of his nose.

Across from him, Buggy sat hunched on the cushioned bench. 

The kid was fidgeting again, his small fingers plucking at a loose thread on Flop's ear. His knees were drawn up to his chest, the oversized sweater he wore swallowing his frame, the sleeves hanging past his wrists. Every so often, he'd glance toward the pharmacy's back door, the one leading deeper into the mall, then quickly look away, as if afraid Rayleigh would notice.

"Kid," Rayleigh said, keeping his voice low. The walls were thick here, but sound carried in dead spaces. "You're gonna wear a hole in that rabbit if you keep at it."

Buggy's hands stilled. He didn't look up. "I'm fine."

Another lie. The kid had been wound tight all evening, his shoulders stiff, his breathing just a fraction too quick. Like a rabbit sensing a predator. But there was nothing out there tonight, Rayleigh had checked twice. The halls were empty. The dead had moved on, for now.

Rayleigh exhaled through his nose. He wasn't used to this... this careful dance around a child's pride. Shanks had been different. Loud, brash, throwing himself headfirst into trouble and laughing as he crawled back out. Buggy was all quiet tension, like a coiled spring waiting for release.

"You should sleep," Rayleigh tried again. "We've got a long walk tomorrow."

Buggy's fingers tightened around Flop. "I said I'm not tired."

Rayleigh studied him... the kid's jaw was clenched, shadows under his eyes.

Slowly, Rayleigh pushed himself up, biting back a grunt as his rib protested. He limped the few steps to the bed and lowered himself beside Buggy, close enough to share warmth. The kid tensed but didn't scoot away. 

The blanket was tangled between them, half-draped over Buggy's lap. Rayleigh tugged it free, shaking it out before settling it over both of them. The nights got cold in the mall, the concrete leaching heat like a sponge.

"You know," Rayleigh said, leaning back against the wall, "back at Westbridge, Shanks used to stay up all night like he was on watch. He's pass out mid-sentence the moment he stopped moving."

Buggy glanced at him sidelong. "Yeah? What'd you do?"

"Carried him to bed. Kid was light as a sack of flour." A pause. "You're lighter."

Buggy scowled. His fingers worried at Flop's ear again, twisting the fabric.

Silence settled between them. Outside, the distant creak of metal echoed through the mall's hollow belly, old pipes settling, or maybe the wind nudging a loose sign. Rayleigh kept his breathing even, his posture loose. No sudden movements. No pressure.

After a long moment, Buggy's shoulders slumped slightly. The fight was leaking out of him, exhaustion winning inch by inch.

Rayleigh reached over, slow enough to give the kid time to pull away, and pressed a palm between Buggy's shoulder blades. The kid stiffened, then, to Rayleigh's surprise, leaned into the touch, just a fraction. His spine curved under Rayleigh's hand, the tension bleeding away as Rayleigh rubbed slow, firm circles between his shoulders.

It was an old trick, one he'd used on rookies after their first firefight.

Buggy's breathing evened out, his head dipping forward. His grip on Flop loosened, the rabbit slipping slightly in his lap.

"'M not a baby," the kid muttered, but the words slurred at the edges.

"Didn't say you were," Rayleigh murmured back.

He kept the motion steady, his hand broad and warm against Buggy's narrow back. The kid's sweater was soft under his fingers. Beneath it, he could feel the sharp ridges of Buggy's spine, the too-prominent shoulder blades. The kid needed more food. More rest. More safety than this broken world seemed willing to give.

Rayleigh adjusted the blanket, tucking it tighter around Buggy's shoulders. The kid didn't stir, his breathing deep and even now, his cheek smashed against Flop's head. In sleep, he looked younger.

Rayleigh let his hand rest there a moment longer, a silent anchor. Then, carefully, he shifted, easing himself down beside Buggy. The bed was cramped with both of them, but the kid instinctively curled toward his warmth, his forehead bumping against Rayleigh's arm.

Rayleigh sighed, draping an arm over Buggy's back. The night was quiet, and for now, the kid was safe. Warm. Rayleigh closed his eyes, listening to the rhythm of Buggy's breathing, the occasional hitch of a child's dream.

... ...

Fire. Smoke stinging his eyes. The acrid tang of gunpowder thick in the air.

Rayleigh was running, his boots pounding against cracked asphalt, his arms locked around a small, trembling weight. Buggy. The kid's face was pressed into his shoulder, his fingers clawing into Rayleigh's shirt like he was afraid the wind might rip him away.

"Don't look," Rayleigh growled, tightening his grip as another gunshot split the night. "Just keep your eyes shut, kid. I've got you."

But Buggy wasn't listening. His head lifted, blue eyes wide and uncomprehending as he stared past Rayleigh's shoulder—

Crack.

A searing pain tore through Rayleigh's side. He stumbled, his knees hitting the ground hard, but he didn't let go. Couldn't. Buggy squirmed in his arms, small hands pushing against his chest.

"Rayleigh—!"

"Run," he rasped, blood filling his mouth. "Go—now—"

But the kid didn't. Of course he didn't. Stubborn, stupid, brave little idiot. Buggy grabbed his arm instead, trying to haul him up, his face pale with terror but his grip iron-strong.

"Get up! Get up, we gotta—"

Another shot.

Rayleigh didn't see where it hit. Only the sudden jerk of Buggy's body, the way his breath hitched... and then red. 

So much red.

Rayleigh jerked upright with a gasp, his hand flying to his side—no bullet wound, no blood. Just the dull ache of his healing injury and the cold sweat sticking his shirt to his back. His heart hammered against his ribs.

The pharmacy was dark. The lantern in the corner had burned low, its light now little more than a dim, flickering glow that stretched shadows long and thin across the floor. 

He turned, instinctively reaching for the small, warm presence that had been curled against him.

The bed was empty, but the blanket had been carefully arranged. It was still warm where Buggy had been. Flop the rabbit sat propped against the pillow, one ear bent at an angle, as if the kid had positioned him there before leaving. A sentinel. A silent keeper of the space he'd vacated.

Rayleigh sat up slowly.

"Buggy?" he called, low and urgent.

Silence.

The back door was shut. Not just closed, but latched, the bolt slid carefully into place.

Silence.

Complete, unnatural silence.

Rayleigh's stomach dropped.

No no no—

Rayleigh's breath stalled in his throat. The kid had moved like a ghost. No creak of hinges. No scuff of small shoes against tile. Just—gone. And Rayleigh hadn't even stirred.

A cold, sick feeling settled in his gut. He pushed himself to his feet, his injured body protesting the sudden movement, but he ignored it. The lantern's light was too weak to cut far into the darkness, but it was enough to see the emptiness of the room.

He grabbed the metal pipe leaning against the wall, his fingers tightening around the cool, solid weight of it. The kid was out there. Alone. In the dark.

Rayleigh exhaled sharply, forcing his breathing to steady. He knew, with a certainty that settled like a stone in his chest, that Buggy hadn't run from him. The careful arrangements, the blanket, Flop, the closed door, they were all a message. I meant to go. But that didn't make it better. If anything, it made it worse because whatever the kid was doing, he hadn't wanted Rayleigh to follow.

Chapter Text

Rayleigh moved through the mall, his footsteps silent against the tile. The lantern's light barely cut through the darkness. His ribs ached with every breath.

The first floor was empty. Not just empty, hollow. No groans. No shuffling footsteps. No dead things lurking in the corners. Just the distant drip of water and the echo of his own breathing.

It should have been a relief, but it wasn't. The silence pressed against his skin like a living thing, thick and unnatural. He kept the pipe tight in his grip, his knuckles white. Where the hell were they? Where the hell was Buggy?

The stairs to the second floor creaked under his weight, the sound a bit too loud in the stillness. His pulse hammered in his throat, but he forced his breathing steady. Panic wouldn't help. Panic wouldn't find the kid.

The second floor was just as quiet.

Then—

A noise.

Faint. Distant. The scrape of metal, the wet thud of something heavy hitting the ground.

Rayleigh moved before he could think, his body tensed for a fight. The sound led him toward the food court, the vast space littered with overturned tables and broken chairs. And bodies.

Dead bodies.

Not just zombies—killed zombies.

Their skulls were caved in, limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Some had knives still lodged in their heads, the blades glinting dully under the dim glow of emergency exit signs.

Fresh kills.

Rayleigh's stomach twisted.

"Buggy?" he called, his voice low but carrying. No answer.

Movement.

At the far end of the court, something small darted between the shadows—a flash of motion, too quick to make out. A knife gleamed in the dark, slashing downward. A wet crunch. Then silence.

Rayleigh's grip on the pipe tightened. "Who's there?"

No response.

He took a step forward, lifting the lantern higher. The light wavered, catching on the edges of a figure crouched over a fallen zombie. Small. Fast.

Then—gone.

Vanished into the dark before he could even blink.

Rayleigh exhaled sharply. Not Buggy. Someone else. Someone who'd cleared the mall of the dead in the time it had taken him to search two floors.

His chest tightened. Where the hell was the kid?

... ...

The bookshop was tucked in a corner of the second floor, its windows long shattered, its shelves toppled. The faint glow of a flashlight spilled from between the aisles.

Rayleigh's breath caught. There, curled between two fallen shelves with a picture book open in his lap, was Buggy. The kid looked up, his blue eyes wide in the dim light. The boy's usual oversized sweatshirt was gone, replaced by a dark, fitted hoodie that clung to his narrow frame. His blue hair was damp at the temples, as if he'd been running.

"Rayleigh?" Buggy's voice was small, almost guilty.

Relief hit Rayleigh like a punch to the gut. He wanted to yell. He wanted to grab the kid and shake him and then never let go. Instead, he forced his voice steady. "You scared the hell out of me."

Buggy ducked his head, fingers tracing the pages of the book, a glossy spread of ocean waves and sailing ships. "Sorry. Couldn't sleep. Wanted to look at pictures."

A lie.

Rayleigh knew it instantly. The kid's shoulders were too tense, his gaze flicking away too fast. But the sight of him, safe, unharmed, left Rayleigh too drained to push. He sank down beside him with a quiet groan, his ribs protesting, and reached out, pulling Buggy against his side. The boy stiffened for a moment before melting into the contact, his small frame warm through the thin fabric of his hoodie.

"Next time, wake me up."

Buggy hesitated, then nodded. His fingers curled into the edge of the book, crumpling the page just slightly. "Okay."

"What time is it?"

"Four AM," Buggy murmured. "Morning's coming."

Rayleigh hummed, looking down at the book in Buggy's lap. The page showed a tall-masted ship cutting through turquoise waters, its sails full of wind. "You like boats?"

Buggy's fingers twitched against the page. "Yeah. The sea's... it's home."

"You've been on one before?"

"A long time ago." Buggy turned the page, revealing a spread of coral reefs teeming with fish. His fingertip brushed over a particularly bright angelfish. "The water's so blue out there you can't even describe it. And at night, when the moon's full, it looks like the stars fell into the waves."

Rayleigh studied the boy's profile... the way his eyes softened as he spoke, the unconscious curve of his lips.

"Where was this?" Rayleigh asked carefully.

Buggy's breath hitched. For a moment, Rayleigh thought he wouldn't answer. Then, "Grand Line." The words slipped out like a secret.

Rayleigh frowned. "That a place near here?"

Buggy blinked, as if startled back to reality. "No. I mean—" He shook his head. "Just somewhere I read about."

Another lie.

Rayleigh let it go, turning his attention back to the book. They sat in silence as Buggy flipped through more pages, whales breaching, storms raging, islands dotted like emeralds in an endless blue. With each turn, the boy's shoulders relaxed a fraction more, his breathing evening out.

The first pale light of dawn was beginning to bleed through the broken skylights when Rayleigh finally broke the comfortable silence between them. He kept his voice casual, his grip loose on Buggy's shoulder.

"Kid," he started, "you didn't... happen to see anyone else while you were out here, did you?"

"No," Buggy said, too quickly. His voice was light, but his shoulders had gone rigid under Rayleigh's hand. "Why? Did you?"

Rayleigh studied the top of the boy's head, the way his blue hair stuck up in sleep-mussed tufts. Rayleigh didn't mention the change of clothes or the damp hair. He thought of the shadowy figure in the food court... fast and lethal. The way the zombies had fallen in neat, precise kills. 

"Yeah," he admitted. "Thought I saw someone. They cleared out the dead. Every last one."

Buggy's breath hitched, just slightly. "Oh." A pause. Then, "Maybe they left already."

Rayleigh hummed, pretending not to notice how the boy's pulse jumped under his fingertips. "Maybe."

They reached the bookstore's shattered entrance. The mall sprawled before them, eerily still in the dawn light. No groans. No shuffling. Just the distant drip of water and the creak of settling metal.

Buggy shifted from foot to foot, his free hand worrying at the hem of his dark hoodie. Rayleigh didn't miss the faint scent of soap clinging to his skin, as if he'd washed up somewhere between leaving the pharmacy and appearing in the bookstore. But the kid said he'd seen no one. And Rayleigh, against his better judgment, believed him.

"Come on," he said, steering Buggy toward the stairs. "Let's get Flop and get moving. Westbridge's waiting."

Buggy nodded, clutching the picture book to his chest like a shield. His fingers left faint smudges on the glossy cover—dark stains, Rayleigh realized this later, and he couldn't figure out how they'd gotten there.

Chapter Text

By early morning, Rayleigh and Buggy were already making their way back through the mall to the pharmacy. The quiet of the place felt wrong, broken only by the faint smell of dampness and rust. They walked quickly, their footsteps echoing as they navigated the deserted corridors and escalators to the first floor to get their supplies.

Flop sat exactly where Buggy had left him, propped against the pillow like a tiny sentinel. The moment Buggy spotted him, he darted forward and snatched the rabbit up, hugging it to his chest with a quiet fierceness that made something in Rayleigh's chest tighten.

"Missed you," Buggy muttered into Flop's fur, so low Rayleigh almost didn't catch it.

Rayleigh bit back a smile and shouldered the two bags of medical supplies he'd prepped the night before. They were heavy, the straps digging into his shoulders, but manageable.

Buggy eyed the bags, then held out his hands. "I can carry one."

Rayleigh chuckled. "Kid, the bag's practically your size."

"I'm stronger than I look," Buggy insisted, puffing up slightly.

There was something oddly fierce in his tone, something that made Rayleigh pause. For a split second, the boy's expression flickered with something like frustration, like he was biting back words he couldn't say. Then it was gone, replaced by a familiar pout.

Rayleigh ruffled his hair. "I appreciate the offer, but let's stick to you guarding the rabbit, yeah?"

Buggy huffed but didn't argue further, instead shoving his ocean picture book into a small blue dolphin backpack Rayleigh hadn't noticed before. Where the hell had he gotten that?

... ...

The car was right where Rayleigh had spotted it yesterday, an old sedan parked near the second-floor railing, its driver's side door slightly ajar. A few zombies lingered in the distance, their hollow eyes fixed in their direction, but none moved closer.

Rayleigh kept his pipe ready just in case. "Keep watch," he told Buggy, nodding toward the undead. "Yell if they start coming."

Buggy nodded, clutching Flop tighter. "They won't."

Rayleigh raised an eyebrow. "Confident, aren't you?"

Buggy froze for a fraction of a second before shrugging. "Just... a feeling."

Rayleigh eyed him but didn't press. Instead, he turned his attention to the car, popping the hood and getting to work. Hotwiring was second nature to him by now, his fingers moving on muscle memory. A twist of wires, a spark, and—

The engine roared to life.

"Ha!" Rayleigh grinned, wiping his hands on his pants. "Told you I could do it."

Buggy rolled his eyes but didn't hide his small, relieved smile.

Rayleigh tossed the bags into the backseat, then helped Buggy into the passenger side, making sure the seatbelt clicked securely over the kid's small frame.

"Ready?"

Buggy nodded, his fingers tightening around Flop. "Yeah."

The car rolled forward, tires crunching over broken glass. As they passed the lingering zombies, Rayleigh tensed, grip tightening on the wheel—but the creatures didn't so much as twitch in their direction.

Odd.

Very odd.

He glanced at Buggy. The boy was staring straight ahead, his expression carefully blank.

Rayleigh didn't ask.

(Not yet.)

... ...

The car moved smoothly, its engine a consistent rumble, as the ruined mall grew smaller in the rear-view mirror. Buggy pressed his forehead against the window, watching the skeletal remains of the city blur past. The glass was cool against his skin, the morning light painting everything in pale gold.

His gaze swept from the passing scenery to the strange vehicle's dashboard, then back to the road. This contraption, whatever it was called, was just another piece of this baffling new dimension. He took in the details, connecting the steady sound to the steady speed, the turns of the steering wheel to the turns in the road. It was a form of transport. Not a ship, not a beast, but effective.

Flop sat snug in his lap, the rabbit's fur soft under his fingers. Safe.

Rayleigh's voice cut through the quiet.

"You ever heard of Westbridge before?"

Buggy didn't turn. "No."

"It's a good place," Rayleigh said, like he was trying to smooth the edges of Buggy's silence. "Strong walls. Solar panels. Roger... my friend, he's the one who runs it, he's got a good head on his shoulders. He makes sure everyone pulls their weight, but no one goes hungry."

Roger.

Buggy's fingers twitched in Flop's fur.

"You'll like him," Rayleigh continued. "Loud. Brash. Kind of an idiot sometimes. But good people."

A laugh bubbled up in Buggy's throat, sharp and sudden. Yeah. That sounds like him.

Rayleigh glanced at him, amused. "What?"

"Nothing," Buggy muttered, forcing his face blank. "Just... sounds like someone I used to know."

"Someone from the camp you were at before?"

Buggy shrugged. "Something like that."

Rayleigh let it drop, but Buggy could feel the weight of his gaze. The unspoken questions.

The car rolled over a cracked stretch of road, the suspension groaning. Silence settled between them again. Then—

"How old are you, anyway?"

Buggy stiffened. "Six."

Rayleigh snorted. "You look five."

"I'm six," Buggy snapped, turning to glare at him.

Rayleigh just grinned, one hand loose on the wheel. "Sure, sure. Tiny six-year-old."

Buggy's cheeks burned. He wanted to argue. He wanted to yell that he was thirty-nine, damn it, that he'd sailed the Grand Line, that he'd fought Marines and laughed in the face of death, but he couldn't. So he just crossed his arms and slumped in his seat. 

"Shut up."

Rayleigh chuckled. "Shanks is going to love you."

Buggy's fingers stilled. It was the third time Rayleigh had mentioned that name since they'd left the mall. Shanks did this. Shanks likes that. Shanks, Shanks, Shanks.

Just like back home.

Always Shanks.

Buggy had his knees pulled up to his chest, Flop squished between them and his chin. The rabbit's fur was soft under his fingers, the only solid thing in this stupid, unfamiliar world.

Rayleigh's voice cut through his thoughts again.

"—and that kid's got a mouth on him. Last month, he tried to argue with Roger about rationing chocolate like he was some kind of lawyer—"

Buggy's fingers dug into Flop's sides. "We get it," he snapped, louder than he meant to. "Shanks is perfect."

The car went quiet.

Rayleigh blinked, then smirked. "Jealous?"

Buggy's face burned. "No."

"Uh-huh." Rayleigh reached over and ruffled his hair, ignoring the way Buggy swatted at his hand. "Relax, kid. You're way cuter than he is."

Buggy spluttered. "I'm not cute—"

"Roger and I found Shanks in a garbage bag behind our dorm freshman year," Rayleigh continued, like Buggy hadn't spoken. "The baby was wrapped in a ratty towel, crying loud enough to wake the whole block."

Buggy froze.

A treasure chest, he thought, bitterness rising in his throat. In his world, they found Shanks in a treasure chest at God Valley. Of course. Of course even here, Shanks was special. A miracle baby. A treasure.

Rayleigh kept talking. "We were dumb college kids. No clue what to do with a baby. But Roger—he just picked him up and said, 'Guess we're keeping him.'" A chuckle. "Ten years later, and the idiot's basically Shanks's dad."

Buggy stared out the window, his chest tight.

Always Shanks.

Always chosen.

A hand landed on his head, gentle. "Hey."

Buggy didn't look up.

"You'll like the camp," Rayleigh said, quieter now. "And they'll like you. Promise."

Buggy swallowed hard. "Whatever."

Rayleigh's fingers lingered for a moment longer before he sighed and pulled the car over onto the shoulder, gravel crunching under the tires. An old gas station loomed ahead, its sign half-collapsed, the pumps rusted but still standing.

"Gotta refuel," Rayleigh muttered, shifting the car into park, but before he moved to get out, he turned toward Buggy, his expression unreadable. Then his hand was in Buggy's hair again, but this time it wasn't a ruffle. His fingers carded through the tangled blue strands, gentle, smoothing out the knots with a patience that made Buggy's throat close up.

"You've got leaves in here," Rayleigh murmured, plucking one free and flicking it away. "What'd you do, roll around in a bush while I wasn't looking?"

Buggy stayed quiet. Leaves. Right. They must have gotten tangled when they cut through that indoor garden, the one between the second floor and the parking garage. The place had been a mess of overgrown plants, their branches brushing his head as they moved quickly. He hadn't thought about it at the time, just focused on keeping up.

Buggy scowled, but his traitorous child's body leaned into the touch, his stupid tiny heart squeezing in his chest.

Rayleigh's thumb brushed the tip of Buggy's nose next, a quick, playful boop. "And this thing's even redder in sunlight. Like a damn cherry."

Buggy's face flamed. "Stop it—"

"Roger got Shanks," Rayleigh said suddenly, his voice low, almost thoughtful. "Guess that means I got you."

Buggy's breath stuttered.

Rayleigh didn't seem to notice Buggy's reaction. He simply unbuckled his seatbelt, pushed the car door open, and stepped out. The door clicked shut with a solid thud, cutting off the low rumble of the engine. Buggy watched him walk towards the rusted gas pumps.

It was stupid. This wasn't his Rayleigh. This wasn't his world. And he wasn't really a kid, no matter what his stupid body said, but... despite every fibre of his being wanting to deny it, a feeling of... acceptance, perhaps, settled over him. It was a quiet comfort in this strange new reality.

Buggy's arms tightened around Flop, his face burying in the rabbit's fur to hide the way his eyes stung.

Chapter Text

The gas station’s convenience store had been picked clean long ago, but Rayleigh still managed to scrounge up a few edible things from the wreckage - a dented can of mixed nuts, a slightly stale granola bar, and a bag of pretzels that hadn’t yet turned to dust. He tossed them onto the seat between them with a grunt.

"Not exactly gourmet, but it’s something."

Buggy eyed the offerings. His stomach twisted, part hunger, part nerves. He just grabbed the smallest granola bar and a bottle of water, peeling the wrapper back carefully. He wasn’t actually sure he could eat right now, not with the way his pulse kept jumping under his skin.

Rayleigh watched him for a moment before cracking open the nuts. "You’re not picky, huh?"

Buggy shrugged. "Not like I have a choice."

Rayleigh’s mouth quirked. "Fair."

They ate in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the crunch of pretzels and the distant caw of crows outside. Then—

"So," Rayleigh said, casual as anything, "that nose of yours."

Buggy froze mid-chew.

"Is it real?"

For a second, Buggy’s brain short-circuited. What the hell kind of question. Then his fingers flew to his face, prodding at the round, red tip... and oh.

Oh no.

It was fake.

Not flesh. Not skin. A prop. A disguise.

His stomach dropped. How had he not noticed? How long had he been walking around with a goddamn clown nose stuck to his face and not realized?

Buggy didn't panic. He'd been ripped from his world and shoved into a child's body - a fake nose was hardly the strangest thing to happen. If anything, it was a relief. A real red nose would only make him stand out more in this bizarre dimension, a place with no Devil Fruits, no Haki, or any other mysterious powers. Speaking of mysterious powers, that annoying Straw Hat brat popped into his head. They'd gotten off to a terrible start, and Buggy still hated the rubber boy. But, he had to admit, sometimes the brat could be adorable. So, it wasn't a complete mystery why Shanks had adored Luffy and given him that precious straw hat.

"Buggy?" Rayleigh's voice was a low murmur, pulling him back. Buggy blinked, realizing he'd been staring at Flop the rabbit, completely lost in his own head.

"Of course it’s not real," he scoffed, peeling it off with a pop. "What, you think I was born like this?"

Rayleigh actually stopped the car to look, pulling over onto the shoulder again. He reached out, plucking the nose from Buggy’s fingers with a curious hum.

"Huh." He turned it over in his palm, then (because the universe hated Buggy) grinned. "It suits you."

Buggy’s face burned. "Obviously." He snatched it back. "I’m flashy like that."

Rayleigh’s laugh was warm, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Yeah, you are." He reached over, ruffling Buggy’s hair again. "And cute."

"Stop saying that—"

"Adorable, even."

"I’ll bite you—"

"Roger’s gonna lose his mind when he sees you," Rayleigh continued, utterly unfazed. "Gaban’ll try to teach you how to whittle or some shit. Crocus’ll fuss over your diet. And Shanks—"

Buggy’s fingers tightened around the nose.

"—Shanks is gonna adore you."

The words sat between them, heavy and unavoidable. Buggy’s chest ached.

He didn’t want Shanks to adore him.

(He did.)

(It hurt.)

He shoved the nose back onto his face with more force than necessary, crossing his arms. "Whatever. Just drive."

Rayleigh chuckled but obeyed, pulling back onto the road. The rest of the ride passed in a haze of half-hearted teasing - Rayleigh listing off every single person at Westbridge and how they’d definitely find Buggy so endearing, Buggy grumbling and pretending to ignore him, but the tension in Buggy’s shoulders never quite eased.

The road stretched ahead, winding through skeletal trees that clawed at the gray sky. Buggy had been staring out the window, half-listening to Rayleigh’s idle chatter about the camp’s vegetable garden, when it hit him... a cold, creeping sensation slithering down his spine. His fingers twitched against Flop’s fur, his breath catching in his throat.

Something was wrong.

His Observation Haki prickled at the edges of his awareness. He sensed bodies hidden by the trees, outlines where there was only empty space. The low pulse of machinery resonated through the earth. A dozen heartbeats, steady and waiting, registered within the tree line ahead.

Buggy turned sharply to Rayleigh. "Stop the car."

Rayleigh blinked, foot easing off the gas. "What?"

"Stop the car."

The tires crunched to a halt on the cracked asphalt. Rayleigh leaned over, his brow furrowed as he scanned Buggy’s face. "You feeling sick? Need air?" He reached out, his fingers briefly brushing Buggy's hair.

The boy didn’t answer. His eyes darted across the road ahead, the dense thicket of dead pines swaying slightly in the wind. No movement. No sound. But the feeling—that prickle of danger—wasn’t fading.

"There’s something ahead," he muttered. "A group of people."

Rayleigh stiffened. "How do you—"

"It doesn’t matter." Buggy cut him off. "We need to find another way."

For a heartbeat, Rayleigh just stared at him, his gaze searching. Then his jaw set. He reached for the gearshift—

Too late.

Buggy’s Haki flared again, a sharp warning—

"They’re moving," he hissed. "They’re coming now—"

Engines erupted in a cacophony of sound. Tires shrieked, and from the darkness of the trees, a rush of motorcycles and dented jeeps exploded onto the road, boxing them in. A thick, acrid cloud of dust and exhaust billowed. Immediately, figures scrambled from the vehicles, their faces hidden, rifles pointing straight at the car.

Rayleigh swore, yanking Buggy across the seat and into his arms in one fluid motion. The car door was wrenched open before he could react, rough hands dragging them both out onto the pavement.

"Rayleigh!" A voice boomed. "Long time no see!"

A man lowered his scarf.

Davis.

The young man grinned, all teeth. "Funny running into you here," Davis said, tapping his fingers against the car's dented hood. "After we left you bleeding out at that factory, I figured the Ravens would've finished the job."

Rayleigh's arms were iron bands around him, pressing Buggy's face into the rough fabric of his jacket. "Guess you figured wrong."

Davis laughed, sharp and humourless. "Guess so." His gaze slid to Buggy, lingering. "Who's the kid? Didn't peg you for the babysitting type."

Rayleigh shifted, blocking Buggy from view. "None of your business."

"Oh, I think it is." Davis crouched, eye-level with Buggy. His breath smelled like cigarettes. "What's with the nose, kid? You some kind of circus reject?" Before Buggy could react, Davis reached out. The red nose came free with a soft sound. The man turned the fake nose over in his fingers, grinning. "Cute." He then dropped it casually, letting it roll a few feet away.

Buggy's stomach turned. He felt the exact moment Rayleigh's muscles coiled - ready to fight, to run - but three rifles cocked in unison, the sound freezing them both in place.

"Easy," Davis crooned. "You wouldn't want to make the kid watch you die twice, would you?"

"Don't touch him, Davis." Rayleigh's body shifted further to shield Buggy.

A woman with cropped blonde hair moved, her gloved hands grabbed Buggy's arm and yanked hard. Flop remained clutched in his arms. Rayleigh tensed, but two other Ravens stepped forward, their rifles pressing hard against his sides. 

"Let me go!" Buggy kicked out, his small feet connecting with nothing but air.

The Ravens burst into laughter. "Feisty little shit, ain't he?" one of them guffawed.

Rayleigh surged forward—

CRACK.

The rifle butt caught him across the temple, sending him sprawling.

"RAYLEIGH!" Buggy's voice cracked.

Davis sighed dramatically. "See what happens when you misbehave?" He nodded to his men.

Two Ravens descended on Rayleigh, boots thudding against ribs. A sickening crunch filled the air.

"STOP!" The word tore from Buggy's throat. "I'll—I'll behave! Just stop hurting him!"

Immediately, the kicking ceased. Davis waved a hand, and the woman adjusted her grip on Buggy, though she didn't set him down.

"Smart kid," Davis murmured. He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Here's how this goes. We take you. Rayleigh goes back to Roger. Tell him he's got three days to open Westbridge's gates to the Ravens." His fingers dug into Buggy's chin. "No deal? Well... kids disappear all the time in this world."

Buggy's mouth went dry.

Rayleigh's voice cracked. "Buggy—"

The boy met his gaze, nodded once.

Go.

For a heartbeat, Rayleigh looked shattered. Then, a fist slammed into his ribs.

"Rayleigh!"

Davis straightened, jerking his head toward a waiting jeep. "Load him up. We move out in two."

They shoved Buggy into a waiting jeep. Davis leaned in close. "Three days, Ray. Don't be late."

As they dragged Buggy away, his last sight was Rayleigh struggling to rise, the red nose clutched in one bloodied hand, his other outstretched. Then the door slammed shut, and the world became engine roar and choking dust.

The jeep rattled over broken pavement. Each bump jolted Buggy between the two Ravens flanking him. The blonde woman, Mags, had her arm slung across the seat behind him. Her nails were chipped, stained with blood and dirt.

... ...

Buggy kept Flop pressed tight to his chest. His fingers curled just so around the rabbit’s middle. The stitching along its belly was loose, barely noticeable unless someone knew where to look. The man on his left, Hendricks, lit a cigarette. The acrid smoke curled around Buggy’s face. The little pirate resisted the urge to cough.

"Quiet little thing now, ain’tcha?" Mags mused, poking Buggy’s shoulder. "All that fire back there, and now you’re just sittin’ pretty."

Buggy didn’t answer. He stared out the window instead, watching the skeletal trees blur past. Rayleigh was alive. That was what mattered. Bruised, bleeding, but alive. And if Rayleigh was alive, he’d get to Westbridge. He’d get to Roger.

Then the Ravens would learn exactly why they didn’t take Buggy the Clown hostage. 

Buggy’s grip on Flop tightened instinctively, his fingers brushing the hard line of the blade hidden inside. Mags laughed, mistaking the motion for fear. 

"Aw, don’t worry, kid. We don’t bite." She leaned in, her breath hot and sour against his ear. "Much."

Hendricks snorted, taking another drag.

Buggy let his lower lip wobble, just a little. He let his eyes go wide and wet. Just a scared kid. Just a helpless little brat. Mags cooed, pinching his cheek. She didn’t notice how his other hand stayed fisted in Flop’s fur. She didn’t notice the way his thumb traced the outline of the knife’s hilt.

Buggy exhaled, slow and quiet.

Three days.

Plenty of time.

Chapter Text

The sun hung low over Westbridge’s walls when the sentries spotted the car, a battered sedan limping down the access road, one headlight shattered, its hood dented and streaked with grime. The guards raised their rifles, fingers hovering near triggers, until the dying light caught the driver’s face through the cracked windshield.

Rayleigh.

By the time the gates groaned open, Roger was already sprinting across the courtyard, his boots kicking up dust. He got to the car right as Rayleigh slumped down, his forehead hitting the steering wheel. The horn blared once, then went silent.

"Ray!" Roger wrenched the door open, his hands immediately finding the blood, some dried and flaking, some still fresh, seeping through the makeshift bandages around Rayleigh’s ribs. His fingers came away sticky.

Behind him, Shanks skidded to a stop, his breath coming in sharp gasps. "Is he—?"

"Alive," Roger gritted out, already hauling Rayleigh into his arms. "Gaban! Med bay, now!"

... ...

The lanterns in the infirmary burned too bright.

Rayleigh blinked against the glare, his vision swimming as Crocus pressed a stitch through his split brow. Rayleigh lay on a cot, his head resting on a thin pillow. The old doctor muttered curses under his breath, his hands steady despite the way his moustache twitched with fury.

On the cot beside him, Shanks sat cross-legged. The boy hadn’t left since they’d carried Rayleigh in, his usual grin replaced by a tight, trembling line. He was dressed in a faded, long-sleeved shirt and loose-fitting pants that reached his ankles. He had on worn-out sneakers that looked like they'd been white but were now mostly grey.

"You look like shit," Shanks said. His voice wavered.

Rayleigh huffed, then winced as the motion tugged at his ribs. "Feel like it too."

Roger wore a thick, dark jacket over a simple, dark shirt. His pants were also dark and well-worn, tucked into sturdy, scuffed boots. He loomed over them both, his arms crossed, his jaw set. The usual laughter in his eyes had hardened into something dangerous. "Start talking."

So Rayleigh did.

He told them about the supply run. The factory. Davis’s betrayal - how he’d led them straight into a Ravens ambush, how the gunfire had torn through his team, how he’d woken up half-dead in a ruined pharmacy with a six-year-old. This boy had not only treated Rayleigh's wounds, but also secured food and water, guided him through the mall to the second-floor car park where Rayleigh managed to get a vehicle running to bring them back.

"Buggy," Rayleigh said, the name rough in his throat. He fished in his pocket, pulling out the little red nose. "Kid saved my life. And Davis took him."

Shanks’ fingers twitched toward the nose, then curled into fists. "Why?"

"Leverage." Rayleigh’s grip tightened around the plastic. "They want Westbridge’s gates open. They’ve got three days... or the kid disappears."

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.

Roger exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled. When he spoke, his voice was deceptively calm. "So. We’re getting him back."

It wasn’t a question.

Rayleigh nodded.

Shanks scrambled upright, his hair a wild tangle of red in the lamplight. "How? We can’t just—just hand over the camp!"

"We won’t," Roger said. He reached out, ruffling Shanks’ hair, a gesture so familiar it made Rayleigh’s chest ache. "But we’re not leaving some kid with those bastards either."

Gaban, leaning against the doorframe, grunted. "Ravens’ base is a damn fortress. Even if we—"

"We’ll find a way," Roger interrupted. His gaze locked onto Rayleigh’s. "You found a way out. With help."

Rayleigh’s mouth twisted. Buggy’s face flashed in his mind, small, furious, terrified as they’d dragged him away.

(That kid had fought for him. Had saved him. Now it was his turn.)

Shanks edged closer, his shoulder pressing against Rayleigh’s arm. "What’s he like? Buggy?"

Rayleigh closed his eyes. "Loud. Stubborn. Smart as hell." A pause. "Blue hair. Red nose. Mouth like a sailor."

A startled laugh burst out of Shanks. "Really?"

"Mm. You’ll love him." Rayleigh nudged the boy with his elbow. "It gonna be like having a little brother. Red and blue—we’ll have a whole damn rainbow in here."

Shanks’ grin was tentative but real. "Cool."

Roger’s hand landed on Rayleigh’s shoulder, heavy and warm. "Rest. Tomorrow, we plan."

Rayleigh didn’t argue. He slumped back against the cot, the red nose still clutched in his palm. Somewhere out there, Buggy was waiting, and Rayleigh would bring him home.

... ...

The Ravens' base wasn’t what Buggy had expected.

It wasn’t some ramshackle hideout or crumbling ruin. It was a fortress. A converted prison, its high concrete walls topped with coiled barbed wire, its watchtowers manned by armed figures silhouetted against the evening sky. The jeep rumbled through the gates. Buggy took in every detail.

Two guards at the main entrance.

Chain-link fencing around the perimeter.

No vehicles parked near the east wall - blind spot?

Mags jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. "Quit gawking, kid. You’re not sightseeing."

Buggy scowled but slumped back in his seat, Flop tucked securely against his chest. His fingers traced the hidden seam along the rabbit’s belly, the one that concealed a knife.

The jeep rolled to a stop in the centre courtyard, a cracked concrete expanse littered with crates, fuel drums and a handful of Ravens milling about. Davis hauled Buggy out by the scruff of his hoodie like a misbehaving kitten, setting him down with a rough shake.

"Welcome to your new home," he sneered. "For the next three days, anyway."

Buggy bared his teeth. "I'd rather let a sea slug live in my nose than be stuck with you!"

Davis laughed, ruffling Buggy’s hair hard enough to make him stumble. "Oooh, a little sharp-tongued, aren't we? The boss loves a challenge." He then pinched Buggy's cheek, twisting it playfully. "She's gonna have so much fun with you."

A murmur rippled through the courtyard as a figure emerged from the prison’s main doors.

The boss.

She was tall, with dark skin and a shaved head, her arms corded with muscle beneath a sleeveless vest. A jagged scar ran from her left temple down to her jaw.

"Davis," she called, her voice smooth and low. "You brought me a child?"

Davis straightened, his cocky grin faltering. "Leverage, boss. Westbridge’ll fold for him."

The boss, Kestrel, stepped closer, her boots crunching on gravel. She crouched in front of Buggy, her dark eyes scanning him with unsettling focus.

Buggy held his breath.

Then—

She flicked his forehead.

"Ow!"

Kestrel smirked. She straightened, jerking her chin toward the prison. "Bring him inside. I want to talk to him."

... ...

The Ravens’ inner sanctum was a cluttered room filled with salvaged luxury. Plush couches, clearly ripped from abandoned homes, were pushed against the walls. A large chandelier hung precariously from the ceiling, its crystals throwing fractured light onto the concrete floor. Kestrel sat down in a worn armchair.

She gestured lazily. “Have a seat, sweetheart.”

Buggy didn’t move. He stood small and furious, clutching Flop the rabbit to his chest. His face was flushed, his lips pressed tight. His nose... his nose was gone. Just smooth skin where his red ball should be. They’d taken it. Davis had ripped it off like it was some toy, tossed it like trash. And now Buggy felt bare, exposed. Like being naked under a spotlight.

“Suit yourself.” Kestrel reached into her vest and pulled out a chocolate bar. She waved it temptingly. “You hungry?”

Buggy narrowed his eyes. “Are you asking because you care, or because poison works better on an empty stomach?”

Kestrel laughed. “Cute.” She bit off a chunk, chewed, then offered him the rest. “See? Harmless.”

Buggy eyed it, hugging Flop tighter. “Flop says if I eat that, I’ll wake up in a bathtub full of ice missing a kidney.”

Mags, near the door, let out a sharp snort.

Kestrel grinned. “Spunky. I like that.”

Buggy scowled. “I don’t like you. You smell like old couch.”

That earned a full laugh. “Come on, sugar-for-brains. You look like a breeze would knock you over. Don't be dramatic.”

“No,” Buggy said with deadly calm. “You are. This chandelier? What are you trying to compensate for? Small gang energy.”

The room went still, then a ripple of laughter spread from the goons at the wall. One whistled low.

“You’ve got a mouth,” Kestrel said, chewing off another bite of the chocolate herself. “Not sure how you’re still alive.”

Buggy’s eyes glittered. “Because people like you don’t think kids fight back. That’s your first mistake.”

Kestrel stood, circled him like a curious cat. “Davis says Westbridge will want you back bad. He says you’re valuable.”

Buggy snorted. “Davis couldn’t find his own teeth without help.”

Another round of chuckles. Mags shook her head like she couldn’t believe this was real.

Kestrel crouched to his eye level. She was too close, too amused. “So what are you? A mascot? A secret weapon?”

“I’m the worst decision you’ve ever made,” Buggy said, staring straight into her eyes. “And when I get out of here, I’m taking everything.”

That caught her. Her smile faltered for just a breath... then she grinned, slow and dangerous. Buggy stiffened. His hands curled tighter around Flop. He could feel the knife hidden in the plush stomach pressing into his side. 

"What do you want?"

Kestrel’s smirk widened. "Everything." She stood, pacing the room. "The Ravens don’t scavenge like those other groups. We don’t hide behind walls. We take." She gestured to the chandelier, the couches, the crates of supplies stacked against the wall. "From the weak. From the stupid. From anyone who can’t stop us."

Buggy’s stomach twisted. He knew this type. Like pirates, but at least some pirates had honour.

Kestrel stopped in front of him, tilting his chin up with one finger. "You’re smart, kid. I can tell. So here’s the deal, you behave, and I won’t have to hurt you. Westbridge opens its gates, and maybe I’ll even let you live."

Buggy met her gaze, his voice small but steady. "Liar."

They kept laughing. 

Kestrel flicked a finger under his chin. “You’re like a kitten that thinks it’s a lion.”

Buggy hissed through his teeth. “Keep touching me and you’ll find out I have claws.”

Mags laughed under her breath. “Boss, this kid’s a menace.”

“He’s mine now,” Kestrel said, rising again. “Put him in the east wing. Close to my quarters.”

Mags blinked. “Boss?”

“I want to keep an eye on him.” She turned her head, smile still sharp. “And I want that attitude in reach. It makes the place lively.”

Chapter Text

After Buggy was brought into the Ravens' east wing compound, Kestrel's crazy woman, Mags, took him to the east wing. Buggy was handed a new set of clothes and a cloth to clean himself up. He just sat around, trying to stay awake, dozing off twice but waking himself moments later. The guards outside his room actually laughed and made cooing noises at him.

Buggy, offended, snapped back at them, but that only made them find him more adorable. His face burned. Too angry and embarrassed to argue further, Buggy decided to do what he did best. Clam up and sulk.

Finally, Kestrel arrived. She led Buggy into the room. The single bulb cast a weak light, revealing a small bed and walls painted a bright, almost sickly yellow. Her face was unreadable. She practically steered him towards the bed. Her hand at his back was a steady, almost protective presence.

"Now, sleep," she said, her voice softening slightly. "And stay put, alright? My guards don't mess around. They shoot first, ask questions later." 

She left the door unlocked. He was just a kid with a stuffed rabbit, after all.

The ceiling blurred above Buggy as he stared, Flop clutched tight in his arms. Kestrel was definitely a villain, but there was something about her. It was like Alvida who was sometimes just as thick-headed as the rest of their gang, but then would suddenly see something everyone else missed. Alvida, who would patiently braid his hair, and who'd sometimes practically force him into bed, insisting he rest after a long day.

Buggy's eyes drifted over the bright yellow walls. He spotted tiny, almost imperceptible scuff marks low on the wall and a barely visible outline of a faded crayon drawing near the headboard. 

This was a child's room. The bed was narrow, the sheets clean but thin and smelling of bleach. 

Buggy pulled the thin blanket up to his chin. His body ached for sleep like a kid's body desperately needed. The day's emotional chaos and the overwhelming tiredness felt like a heavy weight pushing him into the mattress. 

Just close your eyes, his body urged. Sleep.

No!

Buggy clenched his jaw. He forced his eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. He was surrounded by predators who saw him as currency. Rayleigh was hurt, racing against time. Westbridge was threatened. Softness was a luxury he couldn't afford, not here, not now. He had to be the pirate, not the child. He had to work.

He didn't know much about Westbridge Camp, but what he did know, what mattered most, was that another version of Captain Roger was there. Buggy had already met another version of Rayleigh, and he already felt attached to the man. Buggy couldn't let Captain Roger's counterpart fall into enemy hands.

He focused inward, pushing past the fog of exhaustion clouding his young mind. Observation Haki flickered. He closed his eyes, concentrating.

Thump-thump... thump-thump... Slow, steady. Two floors below, near the main gate. Guards. Two of them. Bored, probably leaning against the cold concrete. Thump-thump-thump...

A cluster of slower, deeper rhythms – the dormitory block. Sleeping Ravens. Maybe a dozen? Farther out, near the perimeter fence... two more. Stationary. Watchtowers.

His senses stretched towards the adjacent room. Kestrel's quarters. Thump... thump... thump... Steady. She was awake. The rhythm was calm, controlled and focused.

The total picture formed in his mind's eye, sketchy but clear. Approximately twenty souls within the immediate compound walls.

He waited. 

The hands of the small, flower-shaped clock on the desk crawled past midnight, then 1 AM. Buggy lay still in bed, Flop clutched tight in his arms. After a few more minutes, he slid silently from the bed. The cool concrete floor sent a shock through his bare feet.

Buggy located the hidden seam on Flop's belly. He gave a small tug, then carefully reached into the stuffing. His fingers immediately found the cool, familiar handle of the dagger. He'd been sad to leave its twin behind at the mall, but that was necessary.

His hand trembled.

Buggy stared at the faint tremor in his small fingers wrapped around the hilt. A cold dread, different from fear, seeped into his bones. Why? He was Buggy the Clown! Cabin boy of the Roger Pirates! He'd seen battlefields painted red before he'd lost his baby teeth. He'd helped toss bodies overboard, watched Rayleigh dispatch threats and heard Captain Roger's roars echo over the screams of the defeated.

Violence wasn't new. Killing to protect his crew wasn't new.

Was it this body? His six-year-old body was built for crying and being scared. Was his young brain, still growing, unable to fully process the idea of murder? This disconnect was jarring and frightening.

Buggy closed his eyes, taking a slow and silent breath. He could almost smell the salt spray of the Grand Line, hear the clash of steel and feel the vibration of cannon fire through the deck of the Oro Jackson. He remembered Rayleigh's hand, heavy and grounding on his small shoulder amidst the carnage.

Buggy couldn't afford humanity right now.

His grip on the knife tightened until his knuckles shone white in the gloom. The fear, the exhaustion, the alien weakness of this body – they were obstacles, not absolutes. He could be afraid. He could tremble. He could still do what needed to be done. He wouldn't let it stop him.

Buggy shifted Flop into the crook of his left arm, feeling the worn fur against his chest. He pressed his right hand, gripping the knife, hard against his thigh, willing it to stop shaking. Just one hand holding the weapon would be enough. He had handled worse situations with fewer resources.

He took another silent breath. He mapped the path in his mind again, the heartbeats he needed to silence first – the bored guards at the inner door leading to the residential wing. They were closest. They were the key.

Buggy faced the unlocked door. He gently pushed it open. The hallway ahead was dimly lit and empty. He stepped out of the sunshine tomb and into the dark corridors of the Ravens' compound.

... ...

Kestrel's quarters were silent, except for the regular tick-tock of a fancy clock on the mantelpiece. She sat in her old armchair. She was looking at the cold window, which showed her own dim reflection. She was planning, as always. The boy was leverage, of course. But something about him bothered her.

The heavy oak door to her chamber exploded inwards.

Mags staggered through. She moved by lurching, propelled by a terrifying mix of momentum and hysteria. She clutched a gushing wound on her upper thigh. Dark blood soaked her pants and pooled on the polished concrete floor as she stumbled. Her other hand was pressed to her ribs, and her breathing was ragged, wet and bubbling. Her face was a mask of blood, some of it hers, some clearly not. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated from shock and a disturbing, almost wild amusement.

Kestrel didn't flinch. She set her glass down slowly.

"Boss..." Mags choked out, a wet laugh escaping her, spraying flecks of crimson. She stumbled again, catching herself on the back of a heavy chair. "Heh... hahaha... you gotta... gotta see this..."

Kestrel rose smoothly. "Mags. Speak."

Mags pushed herself upright, swaying precariously. Her grin was a rictus of pain and disbelief. "The kid..." she gasped, another laugh bubbling up. "The little blue-haired brat... he's... he's cleaning house! Like... like a damn ghost! He went through the night watch like they were practice dummies! Silas never saw it coming... throat opened before he could blink... Hendricks tripped over his own guts... hah!" She doubled over, coughing violently, more blood spattering the floor.

Kestrel's eyes narrowed. "Where is the boy now?"

Mags straightened, wiping blood from her mouth with the back of her hand. Her manic grin widened. "Coming," she rasped, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "For me, then for you, Boss." She let out another choked laugh. "He left me... just enough juice... to deliver the message..."

Kestrel's eyes flickered past her subordinate's shoulder towards the ruined doorway.

Buggy stood at the end of the hallway, dripping. He was soaked in dark, glistening crimson, which turned his clothes into a gruesome second skin. It matted his blue hair. He looked like he'd bathed in a slaughterhouse. There was no rage, no fear, just emptiness. His wide, innocent eyes stared out from the mask of blood, showing no emotion. The stuffed rabbit was equally saturated, its black fur now a sticky, dark maroon.

Mags followed Kestrel's gaze. She let out another wet, gurgling chuckle. "See? Boss... he's something else..."

Buggy's empty eyes moved from Kestrel to Mags. Slowly, his left hand moved. His small fingers slipped into the seam on Flop's belly, they pulled out the knife.

Mags watched. "Hah... there it is... the rabbit's... little secret..."

Kestrel didn't move. She just watched, detached.

The knife left Buggy's hand with a swift, almost negligent flick of his wrist. It flew straight and buried itself with a sickening thunk squarely between Mags' wide, still-amused eyes. The laughter died instantly. Mags' body jerked once, a final spasm, then collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, hitting the floor with a heavy, wet thud. 

Buggy stepped over the threshold, his small, bare feet leaving perfect, bloody prints on the polished concrete. He walked past Mags' body without a glance. His blood-smeared gaze stayed locked on Kestrel as he stepped forward. He bent, fingers closing around the knife hilt in Mags' forehead. A soft schlick as he pulled it free.

Kestrel looked down at him, her expression unreadable. There was no fear in her eyes, only a cold, assessing curiosity. She tilted her head slightly. Her hand rested lightly on the pistol at her hip.

"Quite the mess you made, sweetheart." Her hand moved and the pistol cleared the holster, its barrel settling unerringly on the centre of Buggy's blood-soaked chest from mere feet away. Point-blank. "Enough now," she said, her tone firm but not harsh, like a mother stopping a tantrum. "This ends here. Clean or messy, your choice."

Buggy blinked. The utter emptiness cracked, replaced by genuine surprise that widened his eyes for a split second. Then, it erupted. A gurgling chuckle bubbled up, morphing into a wild, high-pitched, utterly unhinged laugh that echoed in the room. His head tilted back slightly.

Kestrel's eyes narrowed. Her finger tightened.

CRACK!

The gunshot was deafening. Buggy's small body jerked violently as the round punched into his left shoulder, spinning him half-around. He staggered, catching himself against the arm of a heavy chair. The manic grin remained, strained and painful.

"Stings, doesn't it, baby?" Kestrel murmured.

Buggy pushed himself upright, clutching his bleeding shoulder. "Like hell!" he rasped. "It hurts like a bitch! But the flashy show must go on, right?" wild grin "And we're just getting to the good part!"

Kestrel's lips twitched, almost a sad smile. "Stubborn thing," she sighed. The pistol shifted minutely. "Next one stops the noise. Hold still."

Buggy's grin turned sharp as broken glass. "You can try."

CRACK!

She fired without flinching. The bullet screamed towards his forehead.

Buggy's head tilted, a fraction to the right, a movement so slight and fluid it seemed almost lazy. The bullet hissed past his ear, close enough to stir his bloody hair, and thwacked into the wooden doorframe behind him.

Kestrel froze. Her finger hesitated. Her sharp eyes widened, truly surprised for the first time. The gun barked again. And again. And again.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

Buggy moved. He flowed with the sound, anticipating the bullet's path before it was fully born. The last casing clattered onto the concrete. The slide locked back. Empty.

Sudden silence, louder than the shots. Smoke hung thick, mixing with cordite and copper. Kestrel lowered the pistol slowly, her gaze fixed on Buggy. He stood amidst the spent brass, breathing hard, his shoulder bleeding freely, his face a mask of crimson, but untouched by the bullets meant to end him. The manic energy still crackled, but his eyes were sharp, focused, dangerous.

Kestrel looked impressed. A faint approving smile touched her lips, incongruous and chilling. "Alright, clever boy," she breathed, her voice soft, almost gentle. "What's my little ghost gonna do now?"

Buggy raised his left hand – the one not holding the knife. He looked at the thick blood coating his fingers. He dragged those bloodied fingers across his lower face, from cheek to cheek, painting a wide smile beneath his nose. The bloody grin split his face as he met Kestrel's gaze.

... ...

Bright moonlight carved silver trenches through the barred window, illuminating dust motes dancing over the sprawled form of the Ravens' leader. Buggy stood frozen, Kestrel's blood darkening the blade and pooling beneath her on the cold concrete.

She wasn't screaming. Her breathing was a wet, ragged sawing sound, but her eyes tracked Buggy.

A slow, blood-flecked smile stretched across Kestrel's pale lips. "I knew you weren't just a lost kitten. I saw it in your eyes the moment Davis dragged you in."

Buggy remained silent, the knife trembling slightly in his grip. He found no joy in the triumph.

Kestrel shifted slightly, wincing as the movement pulled at the wound. "I'm impressed, little one. Truly." Her hand lifted slightly off the floor, reaching towards Buggy. "Come here."

Hesitantly, pulled by curiosity and her dying command, Buggy took a half-step closer. Kestrel's bloody hand cupped his cheek. The touch was cold and sticky, but surprisingly gentle.

"You're strong," she murmured, her thumb brushing his skin. "Stronger than you look. Stronger than they know. You did what you had to do. Just like I did." Her eyes, though clouding, held his with an unnerving intensity. "This world doesn't reward weakness. It doesn't forgive hesitation. I learned that... when I lost Cindy."

Buggy was now seated on the floor next to her. Kestrel's hand lifted to his face. Her fingers moved up, gently brushing his matted hair out of his eyes and off his forehead.

"My little girl," Kestrel breathed. "She was as bright as a button, loved daisies. They took her. In the first days." She closed her eyes for a second, a spasm of pain (emotional or physical, Buggy couldn't tell) crossing her face. "I screamed too. Then I stopped."

Her eyes snapped open. "The Ravens weren't family. They were tools. A means to an end. Control. Safety. Did I do terrible things? Yes, but necessary things."

She squeezed his cheek lightly, her strength fading fast. "You understand, don't you, clever boy? Protecting what's yours? Doing the ugly thing so others don't have to? So they can stay... soft?"

Buggy looked down at her.

"Maybe..."

Kestrel's bloody smile returned. "Good." Her hand slid from his cheek, leaving a cold trail. "Good boy." Her gaze drifted past him, towards the grimy window and the moon beyond. Her breath hitched, a final, shallow rattle. Then stillness.

Buggy stood. He wiped the knife meticulously clean on a clean patch of his shirt and slipped it back into Flop's hidden seam. The boy shuddered, pulling the rabbit tighter. 

... ...

Roger adjusted the strap of his rifle, his breath fogging in the cold morning air. The war council had been up for hours, planning, arguing, refining. They couldn't storm the Ravens' base head-on, but open gates meant vulnerability, and Westbridge had too many civilians, too many soft targets.

So they'd go in quiet.

"Intel says shift change is at sunrise," Gaban muttered, tracing a crude map in the dirt with his knife. "Front gate's got two, east wall's got one sniper in the tower. Rest are either asleep or drunk off their asses from night watch."

Rayleigh's fingers tightened around the hilt of his machete. His ribs ached where Davis's men had kicked him, but the pain was distant, secondary. All he could see was Buggy's small, terrified face as they dragged him away, the way his tiny hands had reached for Rayleigh.

Three days. They had less than that now.

"East wall first," Rayleigh said, his voice rough. "Take out the sniper. Then we move in teams. Roger, you and Crocus clear the barracks. Gaban, the armoury. I'll find Buggy." Rayleigh then forced his grip on the machete to loosen. "Kestrel's smart. A live hostage is better leverage than a dead one."

Roger clapped a hand on Rayleigh's shoulder, his grip firm. "We'll get your kid back."

Rayleigh nodded, but his jaw stayed clenched.

... ...

Something was wrong.

The east wall was unmanned. The sniper tower stood empty, a half-drunk bottle of whiskey and a cold cigarette butt the only signs anyone had ever been there.

Rayleigh signalled the others forward, his stomach knotting. No guards. No patrols. No voices. Just an eerie, unnatural quiet.

They moved through the compound like ghosts, weapons ready, but there was no one to fight.

Then they found the bodies.

Davis was slumped against the mess hall wall, his throat slit ear to ear, his face frozen in slack-jawed surprise. A trail of blood led from his corpse to the next—a Raven named Hendricks, gutted like a fish, his own knife buried in his eye socket.

"What the hell...?" Gaban breathed.

Rayleigh didn't answer. His pulse pounded in his ears as he scanned the bodies, the blood, the eerie precision of it all. His grip on his machete was white-knuckled.

Buggy. Where's Buggy?

They moved faster now, checking rooms, kicking open doors. More bodies. All dead. All killed with brutal efficiency—knife wounds, snapped necks, the occasional bullet, but only where it made sense. No wasted shots. No signs of struggle. Like they'd been taken out one by one, never seeing it coming.

Roger's face was grim. "This wasn't a raid. This was a cleaning."

Rayleigh barely heard him. He was already moving, sprinting toward the command wing. Toward Kestrel's quarters. His boots splashed through puddles of blood, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

He has to be here. He has to be—

The door to Kestrel's room was already open.

Kestrel lay on her back in the centre of the room, arms crossed over her chest like she'd been laid to rest. A bouquet of wildflowers—daisies, bright yellow and white—was clutched in her hands. Someone had arranged her. Someone had taken the time.

But the real horror was her face.

Blood painted her lips into a wide, grotesque smile. A perfect red circle covered her nose.

Rayleigh's breath caught.

The mall.

Someone had gone through and wiped out all the zombies.

No. That was impossible.

He shook his head, forcing the thought away. Buggy was six. Small. Fragile. Terrified. He couldn't have—

"Ray."

Roger's voice cut through the haze. Rayleigh turned, his hands shaking.

Roger's expression was unreadable. "No sign of the kid."

Rayleigh's chest tightened. He looked around the room again, his gaze catching on the small, bloody footprints near the door. His stomach lurched. Buggy was here.

But where was he now?

"Spread out," Rayleigh said, his voice low and urgent. "Check every room. Every closet. He's here somewhere."

Gaban exchanged a glance with Roger. "Ray... if he was here, and he's not now—"

"He's here." The words came out sharper than intended. Rayleigh forced himself to take a breath. "He has to be."

Roger studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Alright. We'll keep looking."

Rayleigh didn't wait. He turned on his heel and strode back into the hall, his boots echoing on the concrete. His mind raced, trying to piece together what had happened. The bodies. The blood. The clown's smile on Kestrel's face.

Buggy.

Where are you, kid?

Chapter Text

Buggy crouched low on a moss-slicked branch, legs tucked under him like a nesting bird, blood-stiffened sleeves pushed back. A tangle of bramble cloaked his position, but he could see everything. The compound. The broken walls. The blood trails already turning rusty in the sun.

And them.

Rayleigh. Roger. Gaban. Crocus.

His Rayleigh had crow’s feet deeper than this one. His Roger had a laugh that could make his ribs shake. But these men stood the same and moved the same. Their voices, even muffled by distance, hit something behind his ribs like a hammer.

Buggy's throat burned.

He could see them now, standing in a loose circle, looking too tall and too solid in this world where everything else had fallen apart. Rayleigh gestured at the ground, the trail Buggy had left by mistake, the tiny footprints smudged near the command building. They were close to finding it, close to piecing together the truth.

Buggy pressed closer to the bark, heartbeat fluttering in his throat.

He’d done it to protect himself. Sure.

But also them.

Kestrel would’ve found a way to use them — hostages, bait, pawns. She was sharp enough to crack open a man like a peanut, and cruel enough to suck out the soft parts.

Buggy had ended her, and now they were here. Kind faces. Familiar voices. Looking for a child Rayleigh remembered — the “clever little brat” he’d dragged around for a couple of days before the kidnapping. A mouthy, stubborn, bleeding-nosed boy with too many words and too many secrets.

They didn’t know the truth and that the bodies in that compound weren’t the work of any rival faction. They weren’t taken out by storm or raid or fluke. They were cleaned up. Precisely. Efficiently.

By a six-year-old with steady hands and a broken compass.

Buggy swallowed, jaw clenched tight.

If he went to them now... if they saw him, covered in dried blood and guilt, clutching Flop like a shield, they’d know. And what then? Fear? Distrust? They’d tell themselves it wasn’t personal. They’d still smile at him. That was worse. Buggy couldn’t take that. Not from Rayleigh. Not from Roger. Not even this world’s versions of them.

“I don’t get to stay,” he whispered, voice barely carried by the breeze. “Not like this.”

He didn’t know how to get back to his world. But he knew this wasn’t it.

He turned and ran.

The forest greeted him with low branches and knotted roots. His feet found their rhythm fast — quick and silent, Flop bouncing against his chest with each stride. His small body moved like a streak through the green. His mind spiralled. I don’t belong here. They’d hate me. They wouldn’t understand. They’ll look at me like she did when she died.

He leapt a fallen log and landed wrong. A branch cracked underfoot. Buggy winced and pushed forward. Then collided hard with something. Another boy.

Buggy hit the boy hard enough to knock the breath from both their lungs. The moss beneath them squished wetly as they rolled, limbs tangled. Buggy came out on top, knife drawn in a blink, the tip pressed against the pale skin of the other kid’s throat.

One move and Buggy could end it.

His body was still running on adrenaline, on muscle memory and haki. His little chest rose and fell in fast, short bursts. His grip was steady. His blade unshaking.

Buggy froze. The boy blinked up at him, stunned and just a little afraid. Big brown eyes. A mop of messy, red hair. Slightly older — ten, maybe eleven. He didn’t fight or scream, instead, he blurted, “You must be Buggy! Rayleigh told me about you!”

Buggy’s breath caught in his throat.

No.

He pulled back half an inch, just enough to look. There it was. That irritating, honest grin trying to poke through the fear. That same stupid cowlick. That spark.

Shanks.

Not his Shanks. No missing arm. No years of betrayal and silence between them. Just a ten-year-old version of the one person Buggy had sworn to hate forever.

Buggy scrambled off the boy and shoved the knife back into Flop’s belly with a huff. “You’re Shanks,” he said, scowling. “...The kid Rayleigh won’t shut up about.”

Shanks sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his head. “I wasn’t supposed to be here,” he mumbled. “They said I’d just get in the way… but I wanted to help.”

Buggy crossed his arms and muttered, “Well, congrats, you got in my way.”

Shanks frowned, about to retort, but then he looked closer. His eyes widened. “You’re—holy crap—are you hurt? You’re covered in—”

He started crawling closer, alarm written all over his face.

Buggy stepped back sharply, eyes narrowing. “Don’t come near me.”

Shanks stopped, hands half-raised.

“I’m not hurt,” Buggy said coolly. “It’s not my blood.”

Shanks stared.

Buggy turned slightly, avoiding the boy’s eyes. “Someone came. They took out the Ravens. All of them. I saw it. I ran.”

It wasn’t a great lie.

It wasn’t even a good one.

But Shanks bought it, or at least didn’t press. “Rayleigh? And Dad? Are they okay?”

Buggy froze.

He turned slowly, blinking. “...Dad?”

Shanks nodded. “Yeah. Roger. He’s—well, you probably know, huh?”

Buggy looked away again, jaw clenching. He didn’t respond. He didn’t want to respond.

Shanks watched him carefully for a moment, then hesitated. “Um…” He dug into the pocket of his coat and pulled something small and bright red from it. “Rayleigh gave me this. He said to keep it safe until they found you.”

Buggy’s breath caught.

Shanks stepped forward slowly, holding out the red nose in both hands like it was made of glass. “He said it was yours and you’d want it back.”

Buggy stared at it for a long moment. Then he reached out, slowly, carefully, and took it from Shanks. His fingers trembled. He turned away as he pressed the soft red bulb back onto his nose.

It clicked into place. And for just a second… he felt like himself again.

He just muttered, “They’re fine. They’ll be coming this way soon.”

Shanks brightened at that. “Then let’s wait here!” he grinned. “We can—”

“No.” Buggy’s voice was flat. Sharp. “I’m not staying.”

“What?” Shanks blinked. “Why not? Rayleigh said you’d come back with us! He cares about you! He told us about you, and he was worried and everything!”

“I didn’t ask him to.”

“But he wants you to! Even if I barely know you yet. I think I’d like you. You can’t just go! You’re just a kid! You’re younger than me, and—where will you even go?”

Buggy’s eyes flashed. “None of your business.”

He turned to leave.

Shanks pushed himself to his feet, his voice rising, more desperate now. “You can’t just leave! You belong with us! Rayleigh said you were smart and mouthy and really annoying and that you’d fit in perfectly!”

Buggy’s haki pulsed and he felt it.

They were coming. Rayleigh. Roger. The others.

Too close.

Too soon.

Buggy’s eyes darkened. “Sorry,” he muttered.

Then he shoved Shanks back.

Shanks stumbled, nearly falling, arms flailing to keep balance. He didn’t yell. He didn’t lash out.

Instead, he called out, “Buggy, wait! Don’t go! You can come with us! Please!”

Buggy didn’t stop.

“Come with us!” Shanks shouted, reaching out a hand. “You don’t have to be alone!”

And that did it. The world blurred at the edges. Buggy saw not the forest, not the boy, but rain, cold, sharp and endless. On the night Captain Roger died, Buggy remembered seeing his own hand. It was clenched tight, refusing to move. He saw Shanks, his Shanks, looking older, soaked and furious, pleading, "Won't you come with me, Buggy? We can do it together."

And Buggy, stupid, furious, choking on grief, had yelled back, “We’re enemies now. I don’t want anything to do with you!”

Then he had run. He had kept running.

For years. They hadn’t spoken again, not truly, until a certain straw-hatted brat forced the sea to bend for them both.

Buggy clenched his jaw, eyes glassy.

The boy’s hand was still outstretched.

His fingers were shaking.

Buggy stared at it for one long, bitter second.

Then he turned and ran — again.

Through the trees.

Through the ache.

Through the storm that never really left.

Chapter Text

Buggy was lost. Again.

Not that it mattered. This whole world was new. New dimension, new city, new rules. His little feet ached from running barefoot over broken pavement, the dried blood on his skin cracking every time he flexed his fingers. Flop, his stuffed black rabbit, dangled from his grip, one ear nearly torn off.

He shouldn’t have run from Rayleigh.

The thought made his chest hurt. The man had been nice. Like a real adult, not the fake kind who pretended before they hit you. Rayleigh was funny, steady and weirdly… safe. Buggy had wanted to go with him to West Bridge Camp. He wanted to see this world’s version of his crew, his family. But then—

Then he’d killed those men.

And he couldn’t let Rayleigh see him like this.

A zombie shambled past, its milky eyes sliding right over him before it turned and lurched away. They always avoided him like he smelled wrong. Maybe he did because now he was all sticky and gross with blood, but they always avoided him, even before he had to get all messy. Was it his nose? He poked it. Did they not like his cool red nose? That didn't make any sense! Whatever, he didn't care anyway. Zombies were dumb.

The commercial district was a mess of looted shops and broken glass. Buggy stepped inside a half-wrecked bookstore, wrinkling his nose at the mouldy paper stink. He needed a map. He needed to figure out where the hell he was.

The book he grabbed was heavy, pages sticking together. Dawn Country. Not an island, but a whole damn territory split into provinces, regions, blah blah blah. Foorat City. Central District (where he’d been with Rayleigh). West Bridge Camp (west, obviously). Raven’s base was outside the city, and he’d run way too far, ending up in this zombie-packed mess.

Midnight. No food. No shoes. And a stuffed rabbit for company.

Outside, another zombie groaned, shuffling backward when it noticed him.

Buggy sighed. Now what?

An hour later, Buggy held Flop and sat surrounded by maps he'd been studying. He was in a shopping district. It was dark and full of zombies, but that wasn't the problem. His six-year-old mind was close to a total meltdown if he couldn't come up with a plan.

This open shopping district was too fancy for the apocalypse. High-end boutiques had shattered windows, but you could still see designer clothes neatly arranged inside. Like anyone cared about brand names now. Buggy scrunched his nose. Even in his old world, he never got this rich-people garbage.

Flashy, yes, but expensive flashy? Pointless. Buggy’s kind of flashy was glittering gold and mountains of jewels, not silly clothes that just cost a lot.

The area was mostly dark, but a faint glow from a waning gibbous moon meant he wasn't completely blind. It reflected off puddles and broken glass. He could see empty cafes with their tables tipped over and display cases lying shattered.

A few zombies lurked in the shadows, but like always, they shuffled away when he got close. Weird. But useful.

He needed to get clean. The blood was crusting on his skin, itchy and sticky, and his toes curled against the cold pavement. Flop dangled from his grip; the rabbit’s black fur matted with grime.

A children’s clothing store stood nearby; its pastel-coloured sign half-hanging off. Perfect.

Buggy ducked inside, looking at all the clothes. He grabbed a jacket that felt soft and big, like a cosy blanket, and a simple shirt that looked easy to put on. He could only find shorts, which was weird, did kids in this world not wear trousers? He grabbed them anyway, they looked comfy. He also found a pair of socks and sneakers (because no way he was staying barefoot), and, most importantly, a beanie

Buggy couldn’t put any of it on yet, not while he was still covered in yucky stuff, but at least he had options now.

Behind the staff room, he found a pack of unopened water bottles. He did a little happy bounce. His first instinct was to use them to wash up, but no, water was too precious. He’d have to—

RUMBLE.

The sky cracked open.

Buggy’s head snapped up just as the first fat raindrops hit the pavement. A big, triumphant smile stretched his mouth.

"Hehe! The universe just loves me! No surprise there!"

Perfect.

He bolted outside, arms spread, tilting his face up as the downpour soaked him in seconds. Quickly, he shucked off his light green dinosaur pyjamas and the white fluffy jacket, letting them drop to the ground. The blood melted away from his skin, pinkish water swirling at his feet. He scrubbed hard at his arms, his face, then turned his attention to Flop. He held his stuffed rabbit under the rain, squeezing the grime-filled water out of its soggy fur, then gave it a good shake to fluff it up.

Clean. Fresh. Better.

The rain stopped as suddenly as it had started, leaving Buggy dripping wet and shivering. Flop the rabbit was so soaked he looked like a sad, deflated balloon.

Buggy glanced around. The high-end boutiques nearby were still intact. He stomped inside the closest one, his wet feet leaving little prints on the polished marble floor.

The place was ridiculous. Racks of sleek, weirdly shaped clothes, all in boring colours like beige and grey. Some had weird patterns, wait… was that… snakeskin? Who wanted to wear snakes?

Buggy grabbed the first thing he saw, a stupidly soft, oversized scarf with a fancy "GG" logo woven into it. He rubbed it all over his face, then scrubbed Flop with it until the rabbit’s fur was damp but clean.

He tossed it aside and yanked down a silky white blouse with some elegant, crisscrossing embroidery on the chest. Perfect for drying his hair. Next, he used a long, flowy coat to wipe down his arms and legs.

By the time he was done, the floor was littered with crumpled designer garments: scarves with those "GG" patterns, sleek bags with triangle badges (it was just a really smooth piece of fabric, so why not?!) and rich, black items with bold, interlocking letters. All now glorified rags, covered in rainwater.

Buggy stared at the mess, then shrugged.

He was all dry, finally! He grabbed another big, soft scarf with the "GG" marks and bunched it around him, tucking Flop close. Leaving the store behind, he padded back to the kid's shop. He quickly dressed. First the simple shirt, then the comfy shorts that were better than nothing, then his socks and sneakers. He pulled the jacket on last, and finally, settled the beanie over his head. No more shivering.

Buggy wiggled his toes in his new sneakers. The sticky blood was gone, Flop was (mostly) dry, and his clothes made him look like a normal kid. Well, as normal as a dimension-hopping, zombie-repelling ex-pirate in a six-year-old’s body could look.

He wasn’t tired. He wasn’t sleepy. Adrenaline? Maybe. Or maybe his brain just didn’t want to think about Rayleigh’s face or the fact that this world’s Shanks was older than him now.

(Weird. So weird.)

A shuffling noise made him turn. A few zombies lurked nearby, their milky eyes sliding right past him like he was part of the scenery. One even tripped over its own feet trying to veer away.

Buggy’s eye twitched.

"Oh, come on."

He set Flop down on the "GG" scarf (the rabbit could dry a little more) and marched toward the nearest zombie. The second it noticed him, it wheezed and sped up, well, as much as a rotting corpse could speed up, which meant an awkward, lurching waddle.

Buggy broke into a sprint.

The zombie panicked, arms flailing and face-planted into the pavement. But even then, it kept crawling away, fingers scraping against concrete like death itself was chasing it. Buggy planted his hands on his hips. 

"What’s your PROBLEM?!" 

He was an adorable kid. He smelled like rain and baby soap now! Were these zombies broken?! …Or was it him? No. Nope. Not thinking about that. Gritting his teeth, Buggy stomped forward and grabbed the zombie’s wrist.

Big mistake.

The zombie seized up, entire body locking like it had been electrocuted. Then, horrifyingly, it started thrashing, not to attack, but to fling itself away, even if it meant smashing its own skull on the curb.

Buggy let go, horrified. "EW. RUDE."

The zombie immediately scrambled backward, dragging its now-broken leg behind it.

Buggy looked down at his hands. Clean. No bites. No zombie cooties. But still… rejected.

"Screw this," he muttered.

He ducked back into the kids’ store, snatched an oversized raincoat (hood up, for drama) and grabbed a metal rod from a broken display.

WHACK.

The zombie stopped moving. Buggy stared at the motionless body, metal rod still in hand. His chest felt weird—too tight, too warm. He didn’t like it. His tiny brain couldn’t handle this much thinking right now. So, he did the only logical thing: he went to find a toy store.

He found one just down the street, its windows covered in bright, silly pictures. Inside, it smelled like plastic and dust. H

Buggy didn't care.

He marched straight to the dolls and stuffed animals. His eyes lit up. He saw one with huge, intense eyes and a tiny sword – a Mihawk-doll! And a grumpy-looking one with a big, bumpy nose and a fancy coat – a Crocodile-doll! He even found some smaller, rounder ones that vaguely reminded him of his own crew, loyal and not-so-bright.

He grabbed them all, piling them in his arms.

He sat down on the dusty floor, Flop nestled beside him, and arranged his new crew.

He made the Mihawk-doll stand stiffly. "Mihawk! Bring me my finest grape juice... I mean, wine!" He mimed the doll presenting him an imaginary glass, then pretended to sip it with exaggerated refinement.

Then he turned to the Crocodile-doll. "Crocodile! Go count my treasure! Make sure it's all there, and always growing bigger! And don't forget to polish my jewels!" Buggy grinned, making the Crocodile-doll nod solemnly, looking very serious about its task.

Then, he turned to the rest - his "crew."

"As for you lot—"

He paused.

In reality, his crew was loyal, in their own way. They cheered for him, followed him, even when they probably shouldn’t. And the moment trouble appeared, the second Mihawk or Crocodile just breathed in their direction? Poof. Gone. Every single one of them.

Not that Buggy blamed them. He’d have run too if he could.

But still. They stayed. Because even if Buggy was pathetic, even if he was useful more than feared, he was still Buggy-sama. The man who’d stood beside Red-Haired Shanks, who’d sailed with Gol D. Roger and who’d somehow convinced the world he was a Yonko.

And that had to mean something.

Buggy picked up one of the rounder and dumber-looking plushies and held it up.

"Mohji! Tell me why I’m the greatest!"

He made the doll jump up and down in excitement.

"BECAUSE YOU’RE CAPTAIN BUGGY! FUTURE KING OF THE PIRATES!"

Buggy grinned. That part was real.

… …

Exhaustion tugged at Buggy. He hadn’t slept properly in hours. Not since he’d run from Rayleigh. Not since he’d left behind the only person in this world who’d looked at him like he was worth keeping.

"Stupid," he mumbled, but his throat felt tight.

He arranged the plushies around him. Mihawk and Crocodile at a distance (because even in fantasy, they were insufferable), his crew closer, like they were standing guard. Flop stayed in his arms, a silent sentinel.

If Captain Flop were real, he’d be the only one who’d never flinch. Never back down. Never let anyone call Buggy weak or pathetic without throwing a punch first.

"…Thanks," Buggy whispered into the rabbit’s black fur.

The first tear hit Flop's nose. Then another. He curled around the stupid toy like it could shield him from the memory of Impel Down's darkness, from the way his crew's cheers always faltered when stronger men walked in, from the crushing weight of knowing he'd never be more than almost.

They loved him. Buggy knew they did. But love didn't change fact. Buggy was a liar. A coward. A man who'd built his legend on luck and laughter.

His crew knew what he was. They'd seen him scream and flail and beg for his life more times than he could count.

"If they're looking for me," he breathed into the hush, "if they're… if they're coming..."

He thought of Mohji's trembling hands when Mihawk entered the room, of Cabaji's nervous laughter when Crocodile made threats, of how quickly Alvida's loyalty shifted when real danger appeared.

But also, of Mohji who'd once tried to storm Impel Down for him, of Richie throwing himself between Buggy and a Marine's bullet, of Cabaji shouting "CAPTAIN!" like it meant something, of Alvida's smirk when she said "You're an idiot, but you're our idiot."

"I'll forgive them," Buggy decided, and it was a lie and the truth all at once. "Immediately."

Outside, the sun rose.

The great Captain Buggy, Straw Hat's rival, Cross Guild's figurehead, the man who once made the World Government bleed, fell asleep surrounded by ghosts, holding the only friend who'd never left.

Chapter Text

Marco ran. His breath tore ragged through his lungs, the air thick with smoke and death. Behind him, the shrieks of the undead clawed at the night, closing in, snapping, hungry.

His mind flickered back to the ambush, to the beginning of this hell.

It was supposed to be a simple supply run. Just a quick trip to the outskirts of Foorat City for canned goods and medical supplies. Their group, the Whitebeards, wasn't the biggest, but they were family, held together by Pops' sheer will and booming presence. Marco, at sixteen, was one of the younger ones, but he'd earned his place. He was dependable, quick and had learned a lot from the older heads like Izou and Jozu.

Yesterday, the scouts had reported the sector clear. Nothing. So, how in the hell had this happened? Thousands of them. A sea of rotting flesh and hungry groans, swarming out of nowhere, blocking every escape route.

Panic had started to set in for some of the newer folks, freezing them up. Pops was yelling orders, trying to coordinate a retreat, trying to save everyone, but they were too slow. Marco saw a narrow alleyway.

If someone could just divert the hoard, give the others a few precious seconds to break through... It was a split-second decision. He threw a molotov, then another, at the densest part of the swarm, yelling insults, drawing their attention, leading them away from the main group.

Marco heard Pops' roar of "MARCO!" but he didn't look back. He just ran, letting the hoard follow him, praying the others got away.

He was still running. Running, and alone.

Marco had lost the others, somewhere between the firebombed houses and the broken highway. Pops would’ve scolded him for being reckless. Thatch would’ve laughed and said he looked like a panicked seagull.

He skidded around the corner of a burned-out gas station and slammed straight into a wall of more of them. He swore, heart pounding against the inside of his ribs like a bird desperate to escape its cage. Dead end. Dead end. Dead—

Headlights roared through the alley.

A low, purring engine.

Then—crash.

A bright-blue sports car tore through the pack like a beast unchained. Tires screamed against the pavement; zombie bodies flung into the air. Someone leaned half out the window, one hand on the wheel.

“GET IN!”

Marco didn’t argue.

He flung himself into the passenger seat as the car drifted around a corner, sleek and fast like it had no right to be in a world gone to rot. The kid driving barely reached the pedals, had to sit on what looked like a folded jacket just to see.

Blue hair. Red nose. No older than six, maybe seven.

Marco blinked. “You—you’re a toddler.”

“Six,” the boy corrected, not looking at him. “I hotwired it.”

“You—what?”

“I’m a fast learner.”

Marco didn’t know what to say to that. He just stared ahead as the little gremlin whipped around another turn, zombies scattering behind them, unable or unwilling to keep up.

… …

Marco's initial shock slowly bled into a sense of relief, followed by a dizzying mix of confusion and awe. He was safe. Saved by... a six-year-old? He glanced at the kid, taking him in now that the immediate danger had passed.

The boy was tiny, barely peeking over the steering wheel. Marco, covered in grime, sweat, and a thin layer of zombie dust, suddenly felt acutely aware of his own state. He was wearing his usual apocalypse gear - faded cargo pants, a worn-out, dark green utility jacket and heavy combat boots, all covered in layers of dirt and probably a bit of blood. His hair was stiff with sweat, stuck to his forehead.

The kid next to him, though, was shockingly, impossibly clean. He smelled faintly of baby powder, a scent so out of place in this world it made Marco blink. His blue hair was surprisingly neat, mostly tucked under a bright yellow beanie. And his small, unnaturally red nose... Marco realized that it was a fake, plastic one, stuck right on his face.

Why in the world would a kid wear that?

Then, Marco remembered the older members back at camp. Izou, always meticulous about his beautiful kimonos, even in the middle of a ravaged world. Thatch, who kept his pompadour perfectly gelled, somehow, defying logic. And the younger ones, insisting on wearing mismatched socks just because.

Everyone had their way of holding onto some piece of themselves, some bit of sanity, when everything else was gone. This kid just had a plastic nose, but the same principle.

Marco nodded to himself.

The little driver navigated with an unnerving precision, taking turns that Marco wouldn't have even considered. They were leaving District 5, the eastern part of Foorat City. The landscape slowly shifted from the chaotic, burning commercial areas to quieter residential zones. Here, rows of houses stood eerily silent, interspersed with skeletal frames of half-built structures – new construction projects, abandoned mid-build when the world ended.

"Uh... thanks," Marco managed, the word feeling ridiculously inadequate. "Thank you. For that, yoi. I'm Marco."

The kid flicked a quick glance at him, his blue eyes sharp. "Buggy."

"Buggy?" Marco echoed, the name feeling oddly soft on his tongue. "Cute name, yoi."

Marco hadn't meant to say it, not exactly, but somehow it had felt right.

The kid's head snapped around, that tiny red nose practically twitching. "I'm not cute!" Buggy’s voice surprisingly sharp for a six-year-old. "And if you say that again, I'll kick you out of this flashy car! You hear me?!"

Marco found himself amused, a small smile tugging at his lips, but he complied instantly. "Heard you loud and clear, yoi."

Buggy, however, didn't immediately turn back to the road. Instead, his blue eyes remained fixed on Marco, holding his glare. Marco's easy-going demeanour wavered. "Yoi," he started, "you might wanna watch where you're going—"

Before he could finish, the car swerved wildly. Buggy's tiny hands, still locked on the wheel, remained pointed at Marco as the sports car veered perilously close to a downed lamppost.

"Woah!" Marco instinctively lunged forward, his own hand clamping over Buggy's on the wheel, trying to yank them back straight.

"GET OFF MY FLASHY WHEEL!" Buggy shrieked, swatting Marco's hands away with surprising force. "I have excellent spatial awareness! I know exactly and flashily where I'm driving us!"

Marco's eyebrows rose in disbelief. "No, you don't, yoi! You were staring at me! And I'd rather not die a dumb way like splatting into a pole just because a six-year-old was too busy throwing a tantrum!"

He lunged for the wheel again, but Buggy gripped it with surprising strength. In a swift, almost fluid motion, Marco extended his long leg, his boot finding the brake pedal just as the car was about to kiss the concrete. The tires shrieked, biting hard, and the sports car screeched to an inch from the mangled lamppost.

Buggy huffed, glaring at the lamppost, then at Marco, clearly annoyed his masterful driving had been 'interrupted.'

The boy turned his attention back to the road, but Marco heard him muttering under his breath, "First the Dark King called me cute, and now the Phoenix? Everyone's so rude in this dimension."

… …

Marco knew he needed to take control of the wheel.

The kid was clearly capable, but Buggy was also a six-year-old with a hotwired car and the spatial awareness of a furious ferret. Buggy insisted he was a genius driver, Marco calmly pointed out the near-collision. But Marco had a surprising knack for figuring out kids – especially the stubborn, prideful ones. It didn't take much; a few calm words and Buggy grudgingly slid over to the passenger seat.

Now, Marco was behind the wheel, his long legs comfortable on the pedals, and the blue sports car purred obediently under his control. The immediate crisis of a near-death by lamppost averted.

Marco still couldn't get over the faint scent of baby powder clinging to him – a smell so out of place in this world it felt like a deliberate act of defiance.

"Yoi," Marco started, trying to sound casual, "you live around here, Buggy? With... your parents?"

Buggy hummed, a strange, thoughtful sound for a child. "I... I live wherever I am right now," he said, not looking at Marco, his gaze fixed on the road. "My group's around here, but I got separated, like you. I'll drop you off somewhere safe. Then I gotta go find them."

Marco narrowed his eyes. The lie was flimsy. Buggy was too clean, too well-fed, too self-contained to be a survivor who'd just been "separated" from a group in the midst of a zombie outbreak. But Marco didn't push. He just watched the desolate landscape roll by, the purr of the engine filling the silence. Some mysteries, he decided, were best left untouched for now.

"Almost lunch," Buggy announced, his gaze now fixed on the road ahead. "Got some stuff in the back if you want to eat." He nodded vaguely towards the backseat.

Marco caught the abrupt change in subject.

As he continued to drive, Marco's eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror. Reflected there, nestled between a stack of neatly folded clothes that probably matched Buggy’s own immaculate outfit, sat a vibrant pink dolphin backpack. And beside it, belted securely, sat a black stuffed rabbit, its button eyes staring blankly ahead.

"That's Captain Flop," Buggy stated, pride entering his voice. "He's very important."

Marco found himself smiling. He had no idea why, but a wave of fondness washed over him.

"Right," Marco chuckled, pushing down the sudden warmth. "Captain Flop, yoi." He glanced at the pink backpack. "Thanks, but I'm not really hungry yet."

"Whatever," Buggy shrugged, a dismissive wave of his hand. "More for me, then."

Marco took a moment to mentally orient himself, glancing at the street signs as they passed. "Alright, yoi," he began. "We're in District 5, heading east out of Foorat City. My group's base is another forty-five minutes or so from here, by car, if the roads stay clear. On foot, it could be a whole lot longer, depending on what we run into." He paused, casting a glance at the kid. "But this isn't my car, yoi. Where would be a good place for you to drop me off? Where can you get back to your group safely?"

Buggy's chin tilted slightly, his eyes still on the road ahead. "We can get as close as the car can go," he stated, his voice devoid of concern. "I'm perfectly capable of finding my group. I'll be fine."

Marco just nodded, a quiet "Thanks, yoi."

Despite the transparent lie about his 'group,' Marco found himself wanting to bridge the gap between them. This kid was alone, no matter what he said. After a few more silent minutes of driving through the desolate suburban streets, Marco started talking again.

"My group, we are the Whitebeards, yoi," he began, his voice taking on a softer, almost nostalgic quality. "Our leader, Edward Newgate – everyone just calls him Pops. He's a big guy who takes in anyone who needs a place, gives them a purpose. We look out for each other. We are family.” Marco kept his tone easy, conversational, but as he spoke, he watched Buggy's profile.

Buggy remained silent for a moment. His gaze still fixed on the passing scenery outside. His lower lip pushed out in a tiny, almost imperceptible pout.

Family.

Everyone gets a family, it seems. Except me. Why did I get yeeted into this desolate, zombie-infested world all by myself? It's completely unfair!

A surge of inexplicable frustration welled up, hot and bitter, but Buggy clenched his tiny jaw, forcing it down. He wouldn't show weakness. Especially not to another Phoenix.

"Right," Buggy mumbled, his voice a little softer than before, just a touch flat. "Your family sounds... very efficient."

… …

They found a place eventually. An old police station, half-collapsed but still secure enough. They settled down, Buggy immediately pulling his pink dolphin backpack onto his lap and rummaging inside. He produced a couple of surprisingly fresh-looking energy bars and a small pouch of dried fruit, offering one of each to Marco.

Marco took them. He was grateful for something other than canned goods

Buggy was now strangely quiet. The boy leaned back against the wall, his black stuffed rabbit, Captain Flop, clutched tightly in his arms. He began to idly stroke its worn ears, his small fingers tracing the loose stitches.

Marco tried to stir up a conversation, feeling the silence stretching. "Yoi, that was quite a drive. You really hotwired that car yourself?"

Buggy merely mumbled, "Yeah," his eyes still fixed on the rabbit's head.

"You've been... traveling a lot?"

"Sometimes." Buggy adjusted Captain Flop on his lap, a tiny frown on his lips as he tugged at a loose thread.

Marco sighed, letting the silence fall again. The kid was clearly retreating, playing with his rabbit, and didn't seem interested in talking further.

… …

Buggy had been inside his head for a while, idly petting Captain Flop's worn head, the plush rabbit a comforting weight in his arms. When Buggy finally looked up, Marco was fast asleep, head lolled back against the wall, jacket still draped loosely over his shoulders. He looked younger in sleep, less burdened.

Buggy stared at him for a long moment. Marco’s fingers twitched slightly, as if even in dreams, he was ready to fight.

Buggy should leave.

The light outside was fading, the sky bleeding from orange to bruised purple – late afternoon, sun setting. It painted the broken windows orange and gold. If Buggy left now, he could disappear before Marco woke up. Before the boy could look at him with those stupidly hopeful eyes and ask him to come back to his camp, to his family, to a place where Buggy didn’t belong.

He’d already run from Rayleigh. He couldn’t do it again.

But Buggy’s hands moved before his brain could protest. He tugged a blanket from his backpack, the fabric thin but warm, and draped it over Marco’s shoulders. The boy didn’t stir, just exhaled softly, his head tilting further into the wall.

Buggy hesitated. Then, with a quiet, defeated sigh, he crawled under the blanket too, pressing himself against Marco’s side.

The warmth was immediate. It was familiar. Not this Marco, not this world, but the feeling. The air suddenly smelled like salt and sweat, the floor beneath them might as well have been the deck of a ship, rocking gently with the waves. And just for a second, Buggy could pretend they were kids again, back when their crews fought for fun, back when the worst thing in the world was Roger laughing too loud or Whitebeard’s stupid moustache twitching in amusement.

Buggy closed his eyes. He didn’t deserve this, but he took it anyway.

Chapter Text

Marco woke to the soft warmth of sunlight on his face. It was filtering through the grime-coated windows of the half-collapsed station. A peaceful quiet settled over him, strangely so. For a moment, he forgot the world had ended.

Then sensation returned… the pins-and-needles hell crawling up his arm and leg.

He blinked down.

Buggy.

The kid was curled against his side, small fingers tangled in the hem of Marco’s t-shirt, his own thin blanket draped over them both. Marco didn't remember when he’d fallen asleep, much less when the kid had crept over to his side, but Buggy was still out cold, his face tucked into Marco’s ribs like a kitten that had finally let down its guard.

Marco smiled faintly.

Buggy looked like he needed the rest.

So, Marco let him be.

At least for a while.

Marco's gaze drifted from the sleeping boy to the grime-coated window, where the early morning light was strengthening. His thoughts drifted to his base. It wasn't fancy, just a repurposed warehouse complex outside the city, but it was theirs.

He found himself wondering if Buggy would like it there.

If he could find a place among them, among his 'siblings'.

If he would finally have a real family, not just a group he made up to sound tough.

Marco thought of Izou, who would probably fuss over Buggy's surprisingly clean clothes, or Thatch, who'd no doubt try to teach him how to cook a palatable meal out of whatever they scrounged. Even the grumpiest of them, like Jozu, had a soft spot for the youngest.

Buggy was just a kid, a small, clearly lonely kid. He seemed to crave stability, even as he claimed independence.

Marco pictured Buggy, perhaps still pouting about something minor, but safe, well-fed and surrounded by people who cared, people who wouldn't just leave him.

If only the stubborn little punk would agree to come.

Marco certainly didn't want to just leave Buggy behind in this desolate city.

By 10 a.m., his arm had gone completely numb and his legs were barely functioning. He flexed his fingers with a grimace.

Time to move.

“Buggy,” Marco said softly. “Hey. Rise and shine, yoi.”

The kid stirred with a muffled grumble and rolled onto his back. His cheeks were flushed and his lips slightly parted as he sucked in short breaths.

Marco frowned.

Buggy sat up far too quickly for someone who looked that worn out. His small hands immediately went for his black stuffed rabbit, Captain Flop, and grabbed his backpack and clutched it like a shield.

Marco crouched down beside him, brushing strands of tangled hair off the boy’s clammy forehead.

“You alright?”

Buggy blinked slowly, his eyes glassy and unfocused.

“M’fine,” he croaked, immediately wincing at how raw his voice sounded.

Marco’s frown deepened. “You don’t look fine, yoi.”

Buggy gave a jerky shrug and averted his gaze, hugging himself with one arm. “It’s not a big deal.”

There was a beat of silence. Marco studied him carefully.

“You feel sick?” Marco asked gently.

Buggy hesitated. “I said I’m fine.” But his voice cracked again, and he shifted uncomfortably, as if even sitting upright was taking effort.

Marco didn’t push, but his jaw tightened. “When did it start?”

Buggy hunched his shoulders, gripping his bag and the rabbit tighter. “Dunno. Last night, maybe. Doesn’t matter.”

It mattered. The kid kept swallowing like his throat hurt. Marco could also tell from the sheen of sweat on Buggy’s temples and from the way his breathing stayed shallow and uneven.

Buggy caught him watching and turned his head sharply.

“We should go,” he muttered, as if that settled it.

Marco didn’t argue.

The police station was empty, nothing worth scavenging from its barren halls. They walked down a short flight of concrete stairs leading out to the parking lot. Each step seemed to take a monumental effort for Buggy.

He was moving slowly, swaying visibly.

Marco watched him for a few agonizing seconds. He knew this kid wouldn't ask for help, but he clearly needed it.

Without a word, Marco bent down and scooped the boy up into his arms. Buggy was surprisingly light, his small form almost swallowed by Marco's embrace. Buggy’s black stuffed rabbit was still clutched tightly to his chest.

To Marco's surprise, Buggy didn't protest. His blue eyes, wide and unfocused, simply stared up at Marco, but he didn't say anything, didn't struggle, just let himself be carried.

Marco strode towards the blue sports car, opened the passenger door, and gently placed Buggy inside. The kid, still silent, huddled into the seat, still wrapped in his blanket like a stubborn burrito. He shivered once, pulled the fabric tighter around him.

Seeing Buggy's white beanie tossed on the floor, Marco reached for it and carefully placed it on Buggy's head. The kid remained still, eyes already drooping, too tired to even acknowledge the gesture.

The car rumbled to life with little protest. They pulled out onto the road. For the next stretch, it was smooth—shockingly so. Just cracked pavement and the occasional toppled sign. No zombies, no wrecks. Buggy dozed again, head lolling gently with the motion of the vehicle. Marco glanced over every so often. The kid was out cold, and he didn’t look peaceful this time. His expression was strained, skin growing more ashen by the minute.

They were close. If things stayed this clear, Marco would reach the Whitebeard camp in fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. That was the plan. Drop-off, handover, goodbye.

Except Marco didn’t want to say goodbye.

Marco knew. Buggy wasn’t just some random survivor. He was capable, sharp, ridiculous—but he was also six. A six-year-old driving through a zombie apocalypse with a pink dolphin backpack and a stuffed rabbit named Captain Flop.

But... Buggy needed people.

And Marco… might’ve needed him a little too.

Chapter Text

The road twisted and all plans shattered.

A wall of undead stretched across the main avenue ahead. Dozens of them. Stumbling, moaning, crowding the path forward like a barricade of decay. No clear gaps. Too many to drive through without risk.

“Damn it,” Marco muttered, easing the car into reverse and turning down a smaller alley. He parked in a clear lot between two cracked brick buildings and reached over.

“Buggy, yoi” he said. “Wake up.”

The kid stirred again, sluggish this time, his head lolling to the side. His face was sweaty, his cheeks flaming. He winced, a soft, strangled sound escaping his throat.

Marco cursed under his breath.

He knew the signs of a rising fever thanks to the rough-and-tumble life at camp and the basic medical training he’d picked up from the older siblings. Buggy’s laboured breathing and clammy skin told him the kid was worse off than he let on.

Dehydration was the immediate threat with a fever this high.

Marco reached for Buggy’s backpack, rifled through it until he found a small bottle of water. “Here. You need to drink.”

Buggy barely shook his head. His eyes stayed closed.

“Come on,” Marco said more gently. “Just a bit, yoi.”

No response. Marco sighed, lifting Buggy carefully onto his lap to get a better look. The boy didn’t resist. He was burning up.

Captain Flop had slipped from his grasp and was lying loosely beside them. Marco picked it up and placed it on the passenger seat.

No bite marks. No scratches. No signs of infection.

Just… sick. A cold, maybe. Fever, for sure.

Marco uncapped the water bottle and brought it to Buggy's lips. He tilted the bottle gently, and to his relief, Buggy swallowed a few drops, his throat bobbing weakly. The kid managed a few more before turning his head away, a soft whimper escaping him.

Marco lowered the bottle, then carefully shifted Buggy, cradling the small boy against his chest. Buggy nestled in, his body radiating heat.

Marco’s mind raced.

They could try a detour, but that meant another thirty minutes minimum, maybe more if the roads weren’t clear. And no way in hell he was leaving Buggy alone, not like this. The car was safe, but if anything went wrong…

Marco exhaled through his nose, tension coiling in his chest.

Then Buggy’s hoarse voice broke the silence.

“What’s wrong?”

Marco looked down. The kid was blinking up at him, eyes glazed with fever but still alert enough to read Marco’s panic.

“You’ve got a fever,” Marco said. “We need to get you to the base. You need real medicine, rest. But there’s a hoard out there. I can’t risk driving through.”

Buggy was quiet for a long moment, staring at Marco like he was weighing something heavy.

Then he said, simply, “We can walk through.”

Marco blinked. “Yoi?”

Buggy sat up straighter, wincing but firm. “The zombies… they won’t touch me. If I’m there, we can walk through. You’ll see.”

Marco stared at him, caught between concern and sheer disbelief. “Buggy, that’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking,” Buggy snapped, his voice cracking. “They don’t like me. I don’t know why.”

Marco reached out, his hand gently settling on Buggy's feverish forehead. "Buggy, you're sick. That's just the fever talking, yoi. There's no way I'm risking—"

As Marco spoke, he felt a sudden, desperate surge of energy from the small boy. Buggy’s blue eyes sharpened with a fierce resolve. Before Marco could fully react, Buggy twisted, pushing hard against Marco’s chest with surprisingly strong hands, scrambling off his lap.

Too fast for someone so sick, he flung the car door open and stumbled out, blanket trailing behind him like a cape. He ran—straight toward the road, toward the hoard.

“Buggy!” Marco leapt out after him, heart lurching with a white-hot spike of fear.

He caught up just as Buggy stumbled to a stop, standing a few feet from the closest zombie. Marco lunged, grabbing the kid and shielding him with his body as he dropped into a crouch.

He was only sixteen, but the camp, Pops and his siblings had taught him what it meant to protect. He didn't know if they'd survive, but in that moment, all he could think was that if the horde surged, if they got to him, he hoped with every fibre of his being that they would leave Buggy alone.

But then… nothing.

No snarl. No moan. No grasping, rotting hands.

The nearest zombie swayed on its feet three paces away, then shuffled a step to its right. The ones behind it followed suit. Actually, they were simply not moving toward Marco and Buggy at all.

Marco’s breath came in short bursts, more from shock than exertion. He turned his head slowly.

Buggy trembled in his arms, silent tears streaking his flushed cheeks. “Told you...”

Marco held him tighter, too stunned to speak.

What the hell was that?

Buggy was right. The zombies just left them alone. This was insane. They could walk straight through. He could make it to the base on foot in about thirty-five minutes, but he could probably cut that down to twenty if he ran.

The car was still there, but would Buggy’s weird zombie-repelling ability work the same if they were inside a vehicle?

As if hearing Marco’s unspoken question, Buggy’s eyes flickered open. He managed to meet Marco’s gaze, a faint nod from his feverish head.

“Y-yes. Car works. They… part."

Marco stared, a fresh wave of disbelief washing over him. He shifted Buggy’s weight, careful not to jostle him too much, and adjusted the blanket around the boy’s shoulders.

The boy’s head lolled slightly against his shoulder, breath hitching shallow and fast.

“Alright. I got you.”

He rose slowly, arms cradling Buggy close and began to pick his way back toward the alley where they'd left the car. He reached the passenger's side door, fumbled with the handle one-handed, and gently lowered Buggy onto the seat.

Marco suddenly remembered that first night at Pops' camp, how someone had done this same thing for him - carried him when he couldn't walk, covered him when he couldn't get warm.

Marco then picked up Captain Flop from the seat and carefully placed it in Buggy's limp arms. He leaned in, pulling the seatbelt across Buggy's chest and clicking it into place. With a soft touch, he brushed Buggy's damp hair away from his forehead and adjusted the white beanie that had slipped askew.

Marco slid into the driver's side, his eyes on the road ahead.

Chapter Text

The wind bit at Izou’s jawline. It was carrying with it the faint, bitter scent of rot.

From his post atop the main outpost gate tower, he scanned the cracked road that stretched far into the city’s broken spine. The light of the late morning sun reflected off a jagged line of cars long abandoned, turning rust and glass into tiny flames.

Jozu stood beside him, arms crossed, scanning through binoculars. His massive frame was still, but his shoulders were tense. They hadn’t said much all day—not since the last patrol confirmed no sign of Marco.

Two days.

Marco had gone out to draw the horde away so the rest of them could get through a collapsed overpass. It was a split-second decision. Smart. Brave. Stupid as hell.

No one had said it out loud, but they’d all been bracing for the worst.

Then Jozu made a small noise. A hum deep in his chest.

Izou turned. “What?”

“There,” Jozu murmured, lowering the binoculars a fraction. “That blue car. You see it?”

Izou squinted. A shimmer of motion on the far end of the ruined avenue. Something low and sleek. Blue paint, scratched but still vibrant under the grime.

“Sports car?” he muttered, raising his own scope. “Who the hell—?”

It was moving oddly. Slow at first. It wasn’t weaving or trying to avoid the undead. The car simply slid through the street, brushing past the shambling bodies like a river around stones. A few even bounced off the hood, but they didn’t react.

They didn’t attack.

Izou’s mouth went dry. “They’re ignoring it.”

Jozu was already pressing the radio clipped to his vest. “We got a vehicle inbound. Blue. Looks like Marco. Might be. Clear path to Out Gate. Prep for breach, silent sweep formation.”

The radio crackled, acknowledging the order. Below, the outer yard of the base burst into action. No panic. No shouting. Just trained, practiced movement. Shadows darted from post to post. Bolts were drawn. Safeties clicked. The small auxiliary door beside the massive reinforced gate creaked open just enough for a squad to slip through, rifles ready.

They waited.

The car’s engine gave a sudden growl. Marco had floored it. The vehicle surged forward. It clipped a few undead, sending them tumbling, but most had already started veering out of its way, unnervingly passive.

The out-gate team moved in coordinated rhythm, clearing the last dozen zombies with swift efficiency. Shots rang out in soft pops, bodies dropped before they could groan.

The heavy gate parted. The blue car slid through, tires squealing slightly on broken pavement.

And then—clang. The gate slammed shut behind it. Locking with a finality that echoed through the walls.

All quiet again.

Izou was already halfway down the tower ladder when Jozu passed him in a blur. They both broke into a sprint across the courtyard as the team regrouped, some trailing behind to double-check the perimeter.

They reached the car just as the engine cut. The door popped open with a tired click.

And there he was.

Marco.

Leaning forward over the steering wheel, sweat dampening his hairline, face pale but intact. His jacket was a little torn in places, dirt smudged across one cheek, but he looked up at them with those familiar tired, sharp eyes.

Then he smiled. That lazy, cocky smile they hadn’t seen in forty-eight hours.

“Yo,” Marco rasped, voice thin but steady. “Miss me, yoi?”

Jozu let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh.

Izou just stared at him for a second. Then exhaled, deeply, and said, “You sure took your damn time, idiot.”

And then they both saw the blanket in the passenger seat.

Something small was bundled in it. A kid, pale-faced and burning with fever, arms curled tightly around a black rabbit with a red ribbon.

Izou blinked once.

“Who the hell is that?”

Marco just leaned his head back against the headrest, a strange softness on his face.

“Long story.”

… …

Marco carried Buggy in his arms, careful to shield the boy’s fever-flushed face from the late morning light as he made his way through the winding corridors of the base.

He’d told the gate team not to spread word of his return—only Thatch and Pops needed to know for now. This wasn’t the moment for a reunion. Buggy needed help, fast.

The infirmary doors were already open, Tate and Arlene glancing up from their workstations. The moment they saw Marco, both women froze.

“Marco?” Arlene blinked. “Is that—? Oh, saints, you’re alive!”

Tate all but dropped her clipboard. “You were gone two days, we thought—!”

“I’m fine,” Marco said quickly, shifting Buggy gently in his arms. “But he’s not. I need help. Now.”

That snapped them back into action. Arlene rushed forward, guiding him to an open cot while Tate grabbed a tray of medical supplies.

Buggy whimpered softly; barely conscious, small fingers tangled in the fur of his rabbit. His lips trembled, eyes half-lidded from exhaustion and fever. Tears leaked steadily from the corners.

“It hurts…” he whispered, voice like torn paper.

Marco sat on the cot and carefully laid him down, brushing damp hair away from Buggy’s brow. “I know, I know, we’re here, okay? They’re gonna fix you up, yoi.”

Marco’s sisters descended on the boy with tenderness. Thermometer. Gloves. Cool cloth. Questions, fast and clinical.

“Is he bitten?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Checked him twice. No bite. No grey veins, no chills. Just fever.”

Still, they checked again. Pulled up the sleeves of Buggy’s oversized shirt, rolled down the blanket. Looked for signs—marks, blood, anything. There was nothing.

“He’s clean,” Tate confirmed softly, relief in her voice. “Just burning up. Poor thing.”

“He doesn’t look older than six,” Arlene murmured, her fingers brushing gently along the boy’s cheek. “God, what’s he been through…”

Marco didn’t answer. He just stayed close, holding Buggy’s tiny hand while the nurses worked. They cleaned him up, changed his shirt, got a proper IV running. It didn’t take long — Arlene and Tate had handled chaos worse than this, but they didn’t linger when it was done. They shared one look with Marco and quietly stepped out, leaving the door half-cracked.

Now it was quiet.

Buggy lay back against a fresh pillow, still flushed but breathing a little easier, bundled beneath a clean sheet. His rabbit rested in the crook of one arm, its fur now fluffed from a quick brushing.

Marco sat beside the bed, elbows on his knees, watching the kid with a tightness in his chest he didn’t want to name. He didn’t know when he’d started caring this much. Maybe the first time Buggy scowled at him. Maybe the second. Maybe when he saw him walk into a hoard without blinking.

Buggy stirred slightly, eyes cracking open just a bit. His hand clutched Captain Flop tighter. Marco leaned in.

“You’re safe,” he murmured. “We made it, yoi.”

Buggy didn’t respond, but his hand moved—barely—reaching toward Marco without letting go of the rabbit.

Marco caught it, held it and sat there in silence.

… …

Thatch hadn’t really slept in two days.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Marco sprinting off with a trail of zombies snarling behind him, the rest of them scrambling back to the safehouse with his name on their lips and no answer.

He’d kept it together. Sort of. But now—now Izou had told him Marco just showed up and now at the infirmary?

He didn’t wait for the rest. He bolted straight for the infirmary.

The door creaked as he shoved it open.

“Marco?!”

Marco looked up from where he was sitting on the cot, elbows on his knees, like he'd just been waiting for this moment. He was breathing. Whole. Here.

Thatch stopped in the doorway; words tangled behind the relief in his throat. “You’re seriously alive?”

Marco blinked at him. “Hi.”

“That’s it? Hi?” Thatch marched in, waving an arm. “You vanish, no radio and when we think you're a zombie chow, you turn up at the side gate like it's a casual walk back from the market?!”

Marco shrugged, tired and sheepish. “Sorry.”

Thatch was about to keep going—but then his eyes flicked sideways. To the shape next to Marco.

Small. Wrapped in what looked like a heavy blanket, curled up against Marco’s side.

“…Wait. Is that a kid?”

Marco lowered his eyes. “His name’s Buggy.”

Thatch blinked. “You brought back a baby.”

“He's six. He’s not a baby.”

Thatch stepped closer anyway, crouching down. The kid looked barely there—flushed face, damp hair, lips parted in shallow breaths. He let out a soft, broken cough that made both teens flinch.

“Fever hit hard this morning. He wouldn’t eat and barely drank. I didn’t think we’d make it, but...”

Marco sounded calm and too steady for how obviously rattled he’d been when he walked in.

Thatch shook his head, sitting back on his heels. “You’re not built for heroic rescue arcs.”

Marco snorted weakly. “Says the guy who fell out of a tree trying to impress Izou and Vista.”

“That was strategic misjudgement, not reckless martyrdom.”

They both went quiet as Buggy stirred again, a little noise escaping his throat—half dream, half discomfort. Marco immediately moved, adjusting the blanket, brushing a knuckle over the kid’s temple.

Thatch watched Marco, then glanced again at Buggy. His expression softened.

“Man,” he said. “He really does look like a baby. You sure he’s not two years old stuffed into a five-year-old’s hoodie?”

Marco actually smiled. "He hotwired a sports car, then rescued me, but came pretty close to getting us both killed by crashing into a lamppost because he threw a tantrum. So yeah, he's definitely fine."

Thatch let out a low whistle of appreciation. “Instantly respect him. So, what's the plan, Marco? We just... keep him?”

“I mean…” Marco shrugged. “Pops won’t say no.”

Thatch chucked, nudging Marco with an elbow. "No kidding. Pops will adopt him before the kid even finishes his first meal. And honestly, a baby in the camp? It'd be good for us. Liven things up a bit, eh?"

They both looked at Buggy for a second. He let out a sigh in his sleep, a little wrinkle forming between his brows.

Thatch clasped Marco on the shoulder.

"You really did good, Marco. Bringing him here... this is what we do. This is what Pops built. Another little brother for the pile."

"Yeah," Marco murmured.

Thatch expected Marco to smile, to relax into the easy acceptance of it, but the younger man's shoulders remained oddly tense. Marco simply stared at Buggy, a complex, almost troubled look in his eyes that Thatch couldn't quite decipher. It was as if Marco already knew something Thatch didn't.

Something made the idea of "another little brother" not as simple as it sounded.

They sat in comfortable silence after that, just listening to Buggy’s breathing and the faint hum of the base outside.

Thatch believed this kid wasn’t going anywhere.

Marco wasn't so sure.

Chapter Text

Everything hurt.

Fire burned under Buggy’s skin, pooling in his right shoulder where Kestrel’s bullet had torn through him. He’d patched it himself days ago, gritting his teeth through the pain like he always did. But now, with the fever raging? It wasn’t just the wound. His whole body ached, muscles trembling, head pounding. His thoughts felt thick and slow, like wading through syrup.

Worst of all was the childish desperation clawing at his chest.

Rayleigh.

The name echoed in his fever-haze, a raw, wordless plea. He just wanted Rayleigh. Like a lost kid wanting his dad. Buggy bit his lip hard, the metallic tang of blood sharp on his tongue. Stupid, he thought, squeezing his eyes shut. Stupid, weak, baby brain.

Days blurred together in the sterile, antiseptic-smelling room of the Whitebeard camp infirmary. Had it been three days? Four? It felt like weeks trapped in this sweaty, shivering purgatory.

Nurses came, their hands gentle but impersonal as they cleaned and rebandaged his shoulder. "Healing well," they murmured, but the fever held on stubbornly.

Then Marco would appear.

He’d pull a chair beside the narrow cot. Then, he’d patiently coax spoonfuls of plain, boiled rice into Buggy’s mouth. He’d wipe Buggy’s clammy face and neck with a cool, damp cloth.

Buggy watched him through heavy-lidded eyes.

Marco the Phoenix. Whitebeard’s right hand… feeding me rice. The disconnect was jarring. He barely knew this Marco, barely knew any Marco, even in his own world. Marco stayed, ignoring his own exhaustion, until Jozu or Izou practically dragged him out to eat or rest.

He looks tired. More tired than me. Why won't he just leave? ...But I don't want him to leave.

One morning, the fever loosened its grip just enough. Buggy managed to push himself up slightly against the thin pillows. Marco handed him a cup of water.

"Feeling a bit more human, yoi?" Marco asked, his usual lazy drawl softened with concern.

Buggy nodded, sipping slowly. The cool water was bliss. He took another sip, then stared into the cup, his voice small. "Can I… ask you something?"

Don't say it's about you. Don't be stupid. Make it about someone else.

Marco blinked. "Sure, yoi."

Buggy hesitated, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. "What if… what if you had a friend? And this friend… they got really scared. Like, they were with someone who was really nice to them, who wanted to take them somewhere safe." He swallowed, thinking of Rayleigh. His jacket smelled like woodsmoke and salt. He called me 'kid'.

Buggy remembered the feeling of being pulled into a hug that felt safe, being cradled when he was sad and a gentle hair ruffle that always made him feel seen and protected.

"But then, bad people, they… they grabbed my friend to hurt the nice person, or their other friends." He looked up, his red eyes wide and earnest. "And my friend… they got rid of the bad people. But they did it in a way that wasn't normal. It was kind of scary, maybe."

Marco listened.

"So my friend ran away. Even though the nice person found them and wanted them to come back. They ran because… because they're not normal. And they don't want to scare the people they care about. Even if those people don't even really know them, not truly." He looked down again, shame colouring his cheeks. "Do you think… do you think that friend is stupid for running? Or… or do you think the nice person would hate them now?"

Marco leaned forward. "Buggy," he said softly, his hand coming to rest gently on Buggy’s uninjured shoulder. "If that 'nice person' truly cared about your friend, then they wouldn't hate them. And they certainly wouldn't be scared of something your friend couldn't help, something that might have even saved their lives, yoi." He squeezed gently. "Sometimes, the things that make us 'not normal' are the very things that make us strongest. And if your friend was scared, that just makes them human. It doesn't make them stupid."

Buggy’s lower lip trembled, and he bit it hard, a single tear escaping and tracking down his cheek.

The infirmary door swung open with a cheerful bang. Thatch bustled in, his grin wide and infectious. "Hey there, Firecracker! I heard you’re finally kicking that fever’s butt!" He ruffled Buggy’s damp blue hair without hesitation. "Looking way better!"

Buggy flinched but was too wrung out to pull away, just wiping his nose messily on his sleeve.

"Marco," Thatch continued, turning, blissfully unaware of the emotional minefield he’d entered, "West Bridge caravan just rolled in! Finally! They’re setting up for trade near the east storehouse. Figured you’d wanna greet ‘em?"

West Bridge? Buggy’s breath hitched, a cold prickle spreading down his spine despite the fever.

Thatch, still oblivious, beamed at Buggy. "And guess who's with 'em? Shanks! The red-haired menace himself. Still loud as ever, that kid, and probably got into more trouble since last time. Maybe you could—"

Shanks.

The name was an ice pick to Buggy’s heart. His gaze snapped to Marco, who was watching him now with sharp, focused intensity, the earlier softness gone.

"Who…" Buggy whispered, his voice barely audible, dread coiling like a snake in his gut. "Who else?"

Thatch shrugged, rummaging in his pocket. "Oh, the usual crew. Roger’s leading ‘em, obviously. His kid Shanks. And his right-hand man, Rayleigh. Solid guy, that Rayleigh. Bit quiet, but—"

Rayleigh. Here. Now.

Joy, pure and blinding, surged through Buggy for a split, dizzying second – followed instantly by crushing, suffocating panic.

He’s here! But… What do I say? What if he’s furious? What if he looks at me and sees a freak? What about this Shanks? What will this Roger—

Buggy’s Observation Haki exploded outwards, a desperate, instinctive pulse that drowned out Marco’s shout and Thatch’s startled yelp.

Buggy moved.

One second he was a trembling, tear-streaked mess on the cot. The next, he was a blur of blue hair and white bandages, shoving past Thatch, ducking under Marco’s lightning-fast grab. He hit the infirmary door at a dead run, bursting into the harsh afternoon sunlight.

"BUGGY!" Marco’s voice roared behind him, filled with alarm.

He didn’t look back. His Haki painted a frantic map – away from the bustling centre of the camp, away from the murmur of voices and clatter of trade near the east storehouse. He darted down a narrow alley between storage huts, the rough wood scraping his arm, skidded on loose gravel around a corner and slammed his back against a stack of crates, chest heaving, heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

Peering cautiously around the edge of the crates, his breath caught.

There. Near the main gate, talking calmly with Jozu, his posture relaxed but watchful, sunlight glinting off his glasses…

Rayleigh.

Real. Whole. Unharmed. Here.

A choked sound escaped Buggy’s throat – half sob, half gasp of overwhelming relief so potent it made his knees weak. The urge to run to him, to fling his arms around him and bury his face in that worn jacket, was a physical ache.

But then… shame. Cold, heavy, paralyzing shame. He’d run. He’d left without a word. He’d been a coward. What could he possibly say?

Rayleigh turned his head slightly, scanning the camp, his expression thoughtful, searching. Was he… looking? Did he know?

Buggy yanked himself back, pressing his small body flat against the rough wood of the crates, squeezing his eyes shut as if that could make him invisible. Flop, clutched forgotten and damp in his sweaty hand, was the only anchor in his whirling world of fear and desperate longing.

He couldn’t face him. Not yet. Not like this.

Chapter Text

Rayleigh hadn’t wanted to come.

He’d said it flatly that morning, brushing past Roger’s hopeful suggestion with a tired grunt. The West Bridge monthly visit could go on without him — he had other things to do. Places to check. Trails to follow. Buggy could be anywhere out there, alone and cold and hurting. He didn’t have time for polite reunions.

But Roger had stopped him at the door. “We’ll pass through new sectors on the way. You can look then. And back. Two birds, one stone.”

Rayleigh had stared at him long, like he was trying to burn holes in the man’s soul. Then he’d given in — not because Roger was right, but because there was the slightest chance.

The ride had been quiet. Shanks dozed. Roger talked — about nothing. Rayleigh barely listened.

And now… here they were.

Whitebeard’s camp hadn’t changed much since the last visit — makeshift gates, laughing sentries, and a steady scent of grilled meat and makeshift booze. Edward Newgate stood near the gate, tall and solid like a mountain, surrounded by the same rowdy warmth that Rayleigh had never quite gotten used to. They greeted each other — a handshake that nearly cracked Rayleigh’s fingers, a nod between old warriors.

Roger and Newgate started chatting. Shanks ran off somewhere — probably to pester Marco or Thatch.

Rayleigh tried not to look impatient. He really did.

Then—shouting.

A voice, young and frantic, cut through the hum of the camp.

"BUGGY!"

Rayleigh’s head snapped up so fast his glasses nearly slid off his nose.

That voice—Marco. And that name—

Buggy.

His pulse roared in his ears.

He turned just in time to see Marco and Thatch sprinting across the courtyard, their expressions tight with urgency.

"Where’s the kid?" Thatch was demanding, scanning the alleys between storage huts.

"Buggy—" Marco started.

"Blue hair?" Rayleigh interrupted, voice rough.

"Yeah."

"Red nose and blue eyes?"

Marco nodded.

"Carrying a black stuffed rabbit?"

Thatch blinked. "How the hell did you—?"

Rayleigh didn’t answer. His heart was pounding so hard it hurt.

Buggy. Here. Alive.

He should’ve been relieved. He was relieved. But beneath that relief was fear. Because if Buggy had run from him, if he was hiding now—

"He’s scared, yoi," Marco said quietly, as if reading his thoughts. "Buggy thinks he did something wrong."

Rayleigh’s jaw tightened. "Where is he?"

“He bolted out of med, yoi. He’s been jumpy for a couple of days but this—dammit—”

Thatch nodded. “He’s fast, too.”

Rayleigh didn’t wait for the rest. He was already moving.

The camp blurred around him — tents, stacked crates, a dog barking somewhere in the distance. He turned the corner behind a row of storage sheds, just in time to catch a glimpse — a small figure pressed flat against the back of a crate, shoulders shaking, red nose unmistakable.

Rayleigh stopped. He didn’t call out or move closer. He just breathed, slow and careful.

“Flop still keeping you company, huh?”

A shaky breath.

Rayleigh smiled. It hurt, how much he missed that sound.

He crouched now, easing down to the dirt with a quiet grunt, careful not to get too close.

"Come on out, kid."

Silence. Then—

"...No."

The word was small, muffled, like it had been pressed into fabric.

Rayleigh exhaled. "Why not?"

A pause. Then, even quieter, "You’ll hate me."

Something in Rayleigh’s chest cracked.

"I don’t hate you," he said, voice steady. "I couldn’t hate you."

Another pause. Then, so soft it was almost lost in the wind, "...I ran away."

Rayleigh closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them, his voice was softer than he’d ever heard it. "Yeah. You did. And I looked for you everywhere."

Finally—finally—a pair of wide, watery blue eyes peeked around the edge of the crate.

“Everywhere. Every scrap of land. Every camp. I don’t care how it happened, how you got here like this—none of that matters. I just want you safe.” Rayleigh didn’t move. “I missed you, Buggy” he said, and meant it in every way a man could miss his child.

Buggy stepped out just slightly. Bare feet dusty. Arms trembling. His mouth opened, but no sound came. He looked like he expected to be scolded. Or left behind.

Rayleigh opened his arms.

“C’mere, sweetheart.”

Buggy hesitated for one awful second. Then he stumbled forward and crashed into Rayleigh’s chest, burying his face in his jacket like it was the only safe place in the world.

Rayleigh held him tightly, protectively, one hand cradling the back of his head.

“Got you,” he whispered. “Got you, baby. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Buggy didn’t sob, but the shaking wouldn’t stop. He clung to Rayleigh like he was trying to anchor himself to the moment, like letting go might undo it all.

Rayleigh stayed there, kneeling in the dirt behind the crates, rocking gently as the world continued without them. The man held his child closer, chin resting on soft blue hair.

Then—quiet footsteps.

He looked up to see Marco and Thatch, both frozen a few feet away, clearly unsure whether to speak or back off.

Rayleigh stood, lifting Buggy easily — one arm under his legs, one around his back, like he weighed nothing at all.

Marco broke the silence. “You… know him?”

Rayleigh didn’t let go.

“He’s mine,” he said, voice steady as stone. “And we’re not losing him again.”

Buggy’s fingers curled tighter in his coat.

… …

They gave them space.

Marco had been the first to speak, gesturing toward a quieter patch behind the barracks. Then they’d all left. No questions. No pressure. Just distance and time.

Rayleigh sat on a worn bench beneath the shadow of an old, half-collapsed awning, Buggy curled tightly in his lap, arms looped around Flop like it was all that held the world together. His small body still trembled every now and then, little hiccups left over from the crying, but the storm had mostly passed.

He was warm. Fragile. Real.

Rayleigh sat quietly, his cheek resting atop the boy’s hair, just breathing in the scent of dust and soap and something familiar he couldn’t name. His hand rubbed slow circles into Buggy’s back — not because it helped, but because he didn’t know how to stop.

“I thought I lost you,” he murmured, so softly it barely broke the air.

Buggy didn’t answer. He just curled tighter, knees drawn up on Rayleigh’s lap, head tucked against his shoulder like a cat burrowing into warmth.

“Don’t do that again, okay?” Rayleigh added gently, brushing a knuckle across the boy’s cheek. “Don’t disappear on me like that. My heart can’t take it.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Buggy muttered, voice small and hoarse.

Rayleigh shifted just enough to look at him. “Then why did you run?”

There was a beat. Two. Then...

“I was scared,” Buggy whispered.

Rayleigh’s chest tightened.

“I thought…” Buggy hesitated. “If you saw what I could do… if you found out I’m not like other kids, maybe you’d think I was a freak. Or dangerous.”

Rayleigh let the silence stretch just enough for Buggy to keep going — something about that quiet seemed to loosen the boy’s grip on his own secrets.

“I was the one killing the Ravens at the prison,” Buggy said. “And the Mall. That day you saw me… I was trying to make it safe. For you. For everyone.”

Rayleigh blinked.

“I just… I didn’t want you to get hurt. But then Shanks saw me and I panicked and ran because I thought—” He stopped short.

Rayleigh slowly wrapped both arms around Buggy tighter, holding him close again.

“You thought we’d be afraid of you,” he said quietly.

Another nod. Buggy swallowed hard. “And zombies don’t come near me. I don’t know why. They just don’t.”

Rayleigh leaned back just enough to tilt Buggy’s chin up with one finger. The boy’s red-rimmed eyes met his — defensive and vulnerable and far too old for his tiny face.

“I’m not scared of you. Not even a little,” Rayleigh said, firm. “You could tell me you walk on ceilings and spit lightning, and I’d still say the same thing.”

“But it’s not normal—”

“Neither is surviving this long on your own, but here you are.” He gave the boy’s cheek a gentle pat. “I don’t care what makes you different. You did all of that for us. For me.”

Buggy looked away, clutching Flop tighter.

Rayleigh chuckled softly. “You’re brave. And brilliant. And yeah, mouthy as hell.”

“Shut up,” Buggy mumbled, cheeks turning red.

“And cute.”

“Stop saying that!”

“I will not,” Rayleigh said, grinning now. “It’s true. Deal with it.”

Buggy groaned and tried to bury his face again, but Rayleigh was faster, scooping him back into a snug hug, arms fully encircling the tiny boy.

“I love you, Buggy,” he said quietly. “No matter what you can do, or what you’re scared of, or how much you think you have to hide. I love you. I always have.”

There was a pause.

Then Buggy let out a low, muffled grumble that sounded like, “You’re such a sap,” but he didn’t pull away.

In fact, after a second, he leaned more fully into the hug, arms sliding around Rayleigh’s chest in return. Rayleigh smiled into the boy’s hair and kissed the top of his head.

“I missed you, baby,” he whispered. “So much.”

Buggy huffed.

“I mean it,” Rayleigh added, rubbing his back again. “You’re my little chaos gremlin and I wouldn’t trade you for anything.”

Buggy gave a snort of laughter. “You would call me that.”

“You’ve earned it.”

The boy was quiet for a while after that. Just sitting. Leaning. Breathing.

Then finally, he grumbled, “Okay. You can hug me for, like… two more minutes.”

Rayleigh chuckled.

“I’ll take what I can get.”

And he held Buggy close, rocking gently back and forth, heart full to bursting.

… …

They left just after noon.

Buggy’s farewell to the Whitebeards was grumbly and reluctant, full of dramatic eye-rolls and muttered insults, but he didn’t pull away when Marco ruffled his hair, and he accepted Thatch’s snack bag without complaint. Even Edward Newgate himself bent down to squeeze Buggy’s shoulder.

Rayleigh had stood to the side, arms loose at his sides, letting the boy have his moment. But the second Buggy’s eyes found his, Buggy walked over, climbed into his arms like he’d always belonged there, and didn’t look back.

He didn’t squirm or argue when Rayleigh carried him all the way to the car, either — even if his pout was deep enough to leave dents in the universe.

Rayleigh sat in the backseat with Buggy nestled on his lap, one arm braced securely around his back, the other hand draped lightly across the boy’s knees. Shanks flopped into the seat beside them with a grin far too bright for the hour.

Roger took the wheel.

Rayleigh didn’t miss the way Buggy turned his nose up when Shanks tried to lean in too close — or the way the boy didn’t move an inch when Shanks ended up practically plastered to his side anyway.

Captain Flop made an appearance five minutes into the drive. Rayleigh had tucked the stuffed rabbit into Buggy’s travel bag, and it was immediately seized with possessive force. The kid didn’t even notice when Rayleigh gently tugged the seatbelt across them both, or when he adjusted Buggy’s hoodie so it wouldn’t rub against his neck.

He just clutched the rabbit and settled in like gravity had finally remembered him.

Then somehow — somewhere between a debate about whether Flop was a marine double agent or the last hope of the pirate rebellion — Buggy started playing.

Full commitment.

Voices. Dramatic sound effects. Tiny hands flailing in outrage. Shanks played along, but it was Buggy who took the lead, building whole worlds out of nothing but imagination.

Rayleigh didn’t say much. He just listened, one hand brushing absent circles across Buggy’s calf, the other anchoring the boy’s side every time he bounced too hard. He leaned in to wipe a crumb from Buggy’s cheek when the kid stole a cookie from Shanks’ bag.

And Buggy let him.

Every time.

Like he didn’t even realize.

Like it had always been this way.

Rayleigh felt something twist warm and painful in his chest.

Then, right in the middle of Flop declaring dominion over the Grand Cupholder Isles, Buggy stopped.

Frozen.

Blinking up, eyes wide, as if suddenly realizing where he was — and more terrifying, what he was doing.

Their eyes met.

Rayleigh smiled softly, hand never stopping its slow, steady movement against Buggy’s back.

Buggy made a strangled noise, grabbed Captain Flop, and buried his entire face in the plush.

From the front, Roger howled with laughter.

“Looks like someone’s finally letting their guard down, eh?”

“Shut up!”

Rayleigh could feel the heat rising off the boy’s face even through Flop’s fur.

Shanks cackled and leaned closer again. “Don’t worry, I got you!” he said, wrapping both hands around Buggy’s wrist. “From now on, I’m gonna be your best big brother, Buggy! I’ll protect you forever!”

Buggy turned just enough to give him a scathing glare. “I don’t need protecting, especially not from a noodle-haired crybaby with weak hands.”

The insult should’ve stung, but Shanks just laughed — bright and easy — and Roger followed suit, shaking his head and muttering something about “the brattiest brats ever.”

Rayleigh chuckled too, his hand finding its way into Buggy’s hair — gently combing the strands away from his forehead, fingers pausing now and then to smooth down cowlicks and tiny tangles. He felt the tension bleeding out of the boy with every stroke.

Buggy huffed and crossed his arms, still hidden mostly behind Flop, but he didn’t move away. He didn’t say anything at all as Rayleigh quietly adjusted the blanket over them both, tucking it around Buggy’s shoulders like it was second nature.

The pout stayed on Buggy’s face, even as his eyes drooped and as his head lolled toward Rayleigh’s chest.

Rayleigh just watched him — this tiny, sharp-edged, soft-hearted, miraculous little boy who had wormed his way into Rayleigh’s soul like a splinter you never wanted to remove.

Rayleigh smiled.

The world finally felt right again.

Chapter Text

Buggy had fallen into a routine.

It was a grumpy, snippy, perpetually-suspicious routine, but a routine nonetheless. Breakfast with Rayleigh. Morning rounds to "accidentally" sabotage zombie detection alarms. Afternoon with Shanks, where they either trained, argued, or plotted mischief. Sometimes all three.

The West Bridge Camp wasn’t much. It was just a cluster of repurposed museum buildings squatting behind a wall of rusted shipping containers and thorn-laced wire. The old Natural History Museum of Foorat made for a fortress. Its once-polished dinosaur skeletons now wore rain-stained tarps and the moth-eaten dioramas of tigers and gibbons watched over their new human tenants like guardians. Buggy hated the bat colony in the east wing, but even he had to admit the place had perks. The underground archives were zombie-proof, the solar panels on the roof still worked, and the overgrown botanical garden meant fresh lychees in summer.

Today Buggy and Shanks sat on the old tire swing behind the mess hall. The camp’s "mess hall" was just the museum café with the shattered windows boarded up. Shanks rocked them lazily with one foot while Buggy hugged Flop like he wasn’t enjoying this at all.

“Hey,” Shanks said, chewing on a cookie. “Is Rayleigh your dad now?”

Buggy blinked. Slowly.

“What? No.”

“But he acts like your dad.”

Buggy scowled. “He’s not.”

“Everyone has a dad.”

“I don’t.”

“Rayleigh acts like he’s—”

“He’s not.”

Shanks tilted his head. “But he—”

Buggy snapped, “Didn’t you come from a bag?”

Shanks paused, mouth half-open.

“Rayleigh told me,” Buggy added smugly. “You were found in a duffel bag. Near a trash bin. You’re a garbage baby.”

“I’m a recycled treasure,” Shanks said with absolute dignity. Then he got quiet for a moment, looking thoughtful. “But… Roger still became my dad. He fed me, carried me, gave me a knife when I was five.”

Buggy stared.

“He taught me stuff. Let me annoy him constantly. Kept me safe. That kinda stuff.” Shanks shrugged. “You don’t need blood for that. It’s the doing that matters.”

Buggy went very still.

Because that…

That reminded him of Oro Jackson. Of a warm night, a quiet laugh, someone draping a too-big coat over his shoulders and whispering “Get some sleep, kid.”

A lump formed in his throat.

“…That makes sense,” Buggy muttered, barely audible.

Shanks leaned forward with a grin. “So? Is Rayleigh your dad?”

Buggy hesitated.

Then mumbled, “...Maybe.”

“Maybe?” Shanks grinned.

Buggy looked down, fingers tightening around Flop. There were thoughts rising up again. What if he’s just being nice out of guilt? What if he gets tired of you? What if he sees it one day—whatever’s wrong with you—and he leaves too?

“But what if he doesn’t think that?”

Shanks blinked. Then gave Buggy a look like you absolute idiot.

“Buggy, Ray looks at you like you put the stars in the sky,” Shanks said bluntly. “He brushes your hair. He kisses your forehead. He let you wear his good sweater for a week. He carried you for three straight days when you just got here. He tucks you in. He shares his food. He washed Flop.”

Buggy was visibly dying.

“And!” Shanks grinned. “He calls you ‘baby’ and you don’t even yell about it.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Shanks said, already standing up.

“What are you doing.”

“Getting your dad.”

“No—”

“He’s gonna hold you.”

“Shanks, no—”

“You’ll like it~”

“I WILL KILL YOU!”

Too late.

Shanks was already sprinting off like a human firecracker.

Buggy nearly jumped from the swing to chase him but froze mid-motion when he heard Shanks’ unmistakable voice, loud and proud.

“RAAAAYLEIGH! BUGGY WANTS HIS DAD! HE’S NOT FEELING GOOD!”

Buggy turned to stone.

Moments later, the back door opened.

Rayleigh stepped out, eyes sweeping the yard until they landed on Buggy. Something warm and knowing flickered in them. His sleeves were rolled up to show faded ink and a fresh cut from repairing the water pump. He walked over, crouched without a word and placed a gentle hand on Buggy’s cheek.

“You alright, baby?”

Buggy wanted to die.

Absolutely, completely, immediately die.

Buggy made a noise somewhere between a squeak and a gasp.

His entire face turned red.

“I’m fine,” he tried, but it came out hoarse and defensive and quiet.

Rayleigh reached out, brushing the back of his fingers over Buggy’s cheek. “You’re warm again.”

“I’m not—”

Rayleigh ignored him, shifting his hand to his forehead. “Still running a little hot.”

“It’s not like before,” Buggy muttered, staring at Flop like the rabbit would help him vanish.

“I know. But maybe you pushed it today.” He looked up into Buggy’s face, studying him with those tired, patient eyes. “Want to lie down for a bit?”

Buggy didn’t answer. His throat was too tight.

And when Rayleigh gently slipped an arm under his legs and lifted him anyway, Buggy didn’t fight it. He buried his face in Flop. If he didn’t look at anyone, this wouldn’t be real. From over Rayleigh’s shoulder, he spotted Shanks across the yard. The older boy was beaming and gave him a massive thumbs-up.

Buggy’s eye twitched.

He raised a hand and gave Shanks a long, deliberate middle finger. Shanks grinned harder.

Rayleigh adjusted Buggy’s weight, pressing a kiss to his temple. “You want to sleep on the couch or the bed?”

Buggy didn’t even hesitate. “Bed.” His arms clung tighter around Rayleigh’s neck and buried his face in Rayleigh’s collar. Buggy let the rhythm of steps lull him.

He didn’t mind being carried.

Not even a little.

… …

Rayleigh nudged the door open with his hip and carried Buggy inside like he weighed nothing. Buggy could already feel the heat creeping up his neck again — not from the fever this time, but from sheer, bone-deep mortification.

It only got worse when Rayleigh deposited him onto his “bed.”

Well. Nest, really.

A lopsided pile of worn blankets, pillows and at least two stolen sweaters Rayleigh hadn’t asked about yet. The whole thing had been assembled in a corner like a feral dragon’s hoard of softness. Which, to be fair, it was.

Rayleigh just adjusted a corner and made sure Flop landed safely beside him before stepping back like a dad tucking in a particularly defensive porcupine.

“I’m not sick,” he insisted, wriggling deeper into his blankets anyway.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Rayleigh said mildly, already digging through the old wooden crate they used for medicine.

Of course, Shanks had followed them in. The gremlin. He’d flopped himself onto the foot of the bed like he lived there, legs swinging, expression unreasonably proud of himself.

“He looks sick,” Shanks announced helpfully.

Buggy turned his head to deliver a look of pure murderous intent. “I look like I wanna strangle you.”

“You looked like that yesterday too,” Shanks pointed out. “This is more fever murder than normal murder.”

“Rayleigh’s gonna think I’m weak.”

“He already knows you’re weak,” Shanks said cheerfully. “He’s your dad.”

Buggy’s face went scarlet.

“Stop saying that!”

“Everyone knows. Rayleigh’s dad-shaped. You’re dad-starved. Math.”

Buggy stared at Shanks like he’d just committed a war crime.

Rayleigh returned with a canteen and a clean cloth, completely unfazed by either of them. He handed the water to Buggy without a word, then sat beside him and began pressing the cool cloth to his forehead.

Buggy hated how good it felt.

“…I said I’m fine.”

“You’re warm,” Rayleigh corrected.

“I’m embarrassed!” Buggy hissed.

Rayleigh didn’t budge. “Same symptoms.”

Shanks snorted.

Buggy considered homicide again, then took a sip from the canteen just to give his hands something to do. (He was kinda thirsty. Not that he’d admit it.)

Rayleigh gently brushed sweat-damp hair from his eyes. “You probably just overdid it earlier.”

“I did nothing. I was sitting on a swing.”

“Swinging takes energy. Arguing with Shanks takes even more.”

“I wasn’t—!” Buggy snapped, then stopped, realizing he kind of was.

Rayleigh gave him a look. One of those quiet, dad-looks that said I know exactly how you operate, baby boy, and then some.

Buggy huffed, flopped back into his pile, and covered his face with one arm. “I can’t believe you let him live.”

“Shanks?” Rayleigh asked.

“No, the sun,” Buggy deadpanned.

Shanks, still kicking his legs, looked absolutely thrilled with himself. “You like me.”

“I want to put you in a blender.”

“See, Ray? Buggy likes me.”

Rayleigh rolled his eyes, then leaned down and murmured just loud enough for Buggy to hear, “Shanks shouted because he was worried about you.”

Buggy froze.

Rayleigh pulled the cloth away, reached for the spare one he’d soaked, and said more gently, “He told me after lunch you looked a little off today.”

Buggy didn’t know what to say to that.

Because yeah. He had been off. His joints ached. His head felt cottony, but he’d tried to hide it. He always did. And Shanks—that rat—had noticed anyway.

Rayleigh smoothed the cloth over his cheek and added, “So if you want to be mad at someone, be mad at me. I listened to him.”

Buggy’s eyes flicked to the side.

Shanks gave him a goofy little wave and mouthed, You’re welcome.

Buggy groaned and buried his face in Flop. Rayleigh didn’t tease him for it. Just ran a slow hand over Buggy’s hair, careful and rhythmic.

Shanks, at least, had the decency to hop off the bed and stretch. “Welp. I’m gonna go steal dessert before the soup people get it.” The boy grinned before wandering off with a careless salute. “Later, Bugsy.”

“Stop calling me—ugh.”

The door shut behind him with a soft click.

After a moment, Rayleigh adjusted the blankets again, tucking them around Buggy’s shoulders. The kid shifted under the weight but didn’t fight it. Rayleigh leaned down again and pressed a kiss to Buggy’s temple.

Buggy flinched like he wanted to object — but didn’t. His eyes fluttered shut instead.

“Try to nap,” he said gently. “I’ll be close.”

“Not going far?”

Rayleigh smiled, brushing Buggy’s bangs from his eyes. “Nowhere you can’t reach me.”

That finally got a tiny sound out of Buggy.

Rayleigh stood slowly, giving the boy’s head one last gentle pat. “Rest, baby.”

Buggy grumbled faintly, but he didn’t argue.

He just closed his eyes and this time he didn’t open them again.

Rayleigh didn’t leave the room.

Chapter Text

Four months.

Four goddamn months of this. The world had gone sideways, Buggy had shrunk. Every day was just another painful reminder of everything he'd lost, everything he couldn't do.

Except… there was Rayleigh. The Dark King, reduced to some kind of doting, overly attentive dad. It was soft, it was confusing, and Buggy would never admit it, but maybe it wasn't the worst thing in this zombie-infested mess.

Buggy blinked awake to the insistent chirping of birds outside his window, Flop clutched tight in his arms. The boy stretched. Sleeping on a lopsided pile of blankets had its downsides.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet landing on the cool, worn wood of the floor. After a quick splash of cold water on his face from the basin in the corner, he reached for his clothes, Flop still tucked under one arm. He pulled on a pair of soft, dark grey trousers, slightly baggy at the ankles, and a plain, long-sleeved shirt in a deep, muted blue.

Buggy grabbed the worn toothbrush and a small amount of gritty paste from a tin.

Even in a world overrun by walking corpses, some standards had to be maintained. What was the point of surviving if you had scurvy or your teeth rotted out? Most of the films about this kind of apocalypse always forgot these crucial details. It was annoying. A proper pirate, even a tiny one, knew the value of basic hygiene.

He and Shanks had stumbled upon a few of those bizarre movies and series that tried to explain what happened to the world. The plots always focused on the obvious dangers. But like, how did those survivors always have perfectly white teeth?

Never mind…

When Buggy emerged from the small room, Flop still tucked under one arm, Rayleigh was already in the main living area, nursing a steaming mug. He looked up, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Morning, baby.”

Buggy just grunted in response, still not quite ready for the day. He walked over to the makeshift counter, where a brush lay beside a couple of pieces of toasted bread. Rayleigh picked up the brush without a word, motioning for Buggy to turn around. Buggy sighed and presented his back.

Rayleigh’s fingers were gentle as he worked through Buggy’s perpetually tangled hair, slowly and methodically untying the knots. Buggy leaned into the touch. When Rayleigh was done, he reached for a familiar object on a nearby hook – a soft, black beanie. He settled it onto Buggy’s head, tugging it down just enough to cover his ears.

Buggy adjusted the beanie, then finally turned to face Rayleigh.

“Hungry?” Rayleigh asked, his thumb gently brushing a stray hair from Buggy’s forehead. The man then moved towards the small stove, a pot simmering quietly.

Buggy shrugged. “Where’s Shanks?”

Rayleigh chuckled softly as he stirred the pot. “Already up and probably causing trouble. He was out with Roger checking the traps earlier. Make sure you both eat a good breakfast before you run off. And don’t wander too far from camp, alright? We’ve still got some clear-up to do from that storm last night.” He glanced back at Buggy. “Roger mentioned he might need an extra hand this afternoon with the west fence. Said you and Shanks might be good for it.”

“An extra hand for what?”

Buggy dragged a small, wooden stool over to the counter and awkwardly climbed onto it, Flop squished between his body and the edge.

“Probably just carrying some planks. Nothing too strenuous,” Rayleigh assured him, already dishing out two bowls of warm porridge. He set a bowl and a piece of toast in front of Buggy, then ruffled the boy’s hair gently. “But if it’s too much, you tell him, understand?”

Buggy picked up his spoon and scooped a mouthful without looking up. Rayleigh reached over and gently wiped a smudge of porridge from the corner of Buggy’s mouth with his thumb.

It was just what happened now. Rayleigh smoothed Buggy’s hair, fixed his beanie, wiped his face. And every single time, Buggy’s core loosened just a fraction. Rayleigh returned to his own mug, watching Buggy eat with a contented look. The light morning chatter of the camp slowly began to filter into the small cabin.

… …

The wrench was too big for Shanks’s hands, which didn’t stop him from pretending he was some kind of mechanical genius as he tightened the last bolt on the fence.

“Done!” he announced, wiping sweat off his forehead like he’d just repaired the entire camp by himself.

Roger grinned and gave his son an approving nod. “Nice work, partner.”

Buggy, crouched a few feet away with dirt on his knees and a nail sticking out of his mouth, grunted. “Why does he always get the easy stuff?”

“Because you’ll do the hard part without whining,” Roger said, completely straight-faced.

“I am whining.”

“Not effectively,” Roger replied, then reached over and rustled his hair.

Buggy batted him away. “Don’t touch me, old man.”

Roger just laughed.

They were fixing a busted section of perimeter fencing out behind the mess tent. The late afternoon sun cut through the trees in amber streaks, and the air smelled like dirt, sweat, and someone burning rice.

Buggy hammered in another nail and wiped his hands on his pants. He wasn’t smiling. Definitely not. Just because he didn’t hate this didn’t mean he liked it.

“Captain,” Shanks chirped, nudging Buggy’s foot with his own.

“Don’t call me that.”

“You started it.”

“I meant Roger. He’s the camp captain.”

Roger looked up from where he was checking the alignment of the boards. “If I’m Captain and Rayleigh’s your dad, doesn’t that make me your uncle?”

Buggy squinted at him. “I know how it works, you old geezer. It just doesn’t apply to me.”

“He knows how it works,” Shanks confirmed, nudging Buggy again. “He just doesn’t want it to.”

Buggy huffed, hammering the final nail with a bit too much force. “I’m not calling you Uncle.”

Roger grinned, pulling Shanks into a quick, one-armed hug that left the boy laughing. “That’s alright, Buggy. Family doesn’t always need a title.” He then winked at Buggy, a warm, knowing glint in his eyes, before returning to his work.

Buggy didn’t answer, but he didn’t argue either. Before he could think of something scathing, a voice rang out from somewhere behind the greenhouses.

“LION!!”

Buggy blinked.

Then more shouts, sharper now—someone yelling “ANIMAL!” and “SOMEONE GRAB A GUN!”

Roger’s head snapped up. His expression went from dad-joking to command-serious in a breath.

“Shanks. Buggy. Get inside.”

“But—”

“Now,” Roger said, already rising.

Shanks grabbed Buggy’s arm, pulling him back toward the mess hall. People were starting to run. Someone screamed. A dog barked somewhere in the distance.

“A lion?” Shanks repeated. “Where would a lion even come from? We don’t have those around here!” He looked genuinely lost, trying to process the absurdity.

“Who cares where it came from?” Buggy hissed, pulling his arm free from Shanks's grip. He felt that peculiar resonance, that presence, just beyond the trees. "Just get inside already, idiot!"

Roger waved them toward the side door. “Stay there. Don’t move until I come back.”

He turned and ran toward the commotion, his voice already barking orders to someone about moving the kids and locking down the north path.

Shanks pushed Buggy behind a stack of crates. “You think it’s real?”

“Sounds real.”

Buggy’s heart pounded weirdly. Then he heard it. A snarl. Not close, but real. And familiar. His gut twisted. He peeked around the crates, eyes scanning the space between the tents. Someone was shouting for a rifle. Another person stood frozen near the solar panels.

And there between the cookhouse and the medical shed, stood a lion.

Huge. Golden. Ragged mane puffed out like a pillow stuffed with lightning. He wasn’t attacking anyone. Just standing there, tense and panting, like he didn’t know where he was or how he’d gotten here.

Buggy’s breath caught.

He knew that lion.

He knew him.

Someone raised a gun.

“NO!” Buggy shouted, sprinting before he could think.

“Buggy?!” Shanks shouted behind him.

He didn’t care. He couldn’t care.

“RICHIE!!”

The lion’s ears twitched.

Everyone froze.

Buggy skidded to a stop between the lion and the man with the rifle. “Put that down! He’s not dangerous! He’s mine!”

The rifle lowered, uncertain.

The lion stared at him, eyes wide. Then, like gravity had finally reasserted itself, Richie bounded forward with a huffing cry, tail lashing like a whip. Buggy barely had time to open his arms before he was smothered in a mountain of fluff and muscle and warmth.

“Ghh—RICHIE—ugh—you’re—big,” Buggy wheezed.

The lion whined, then flopped his entire body over Buggy’s lap like a dog who hadn’t seen his person in a year. His massive head shoved against Buggy’s chest.

Buggy blinked furiously, fingers digging into that ridiculously soft mane. “You big idiot,” he muttered. “You found me.”

Around him, camp members were gawking. A few had their mouths open. Someone whispered, “Did he say his lion?”

“He has a lion?”

“Is that legal?”

Buggy didn’t care.

He hugged Richie tighter, eyes squeezing shut. Something warm and knotted in his chest finally began to loosen.

A few seconds later, a familiar voice called out, sharp with worry: “Buggy?!”

Rayleigh burst around the corner, eyes wide, gun still in hand. He stopped short when he saw the scene. His brows furrowed. “What in the world—”

Richie growled softly—protective, not threatening.

Buggy peeked up from the lion pile. “Don’t worry. He’s… with me.”

Rayleigh took it in—the lion draped over his son like an 800-pound security blanket—and sighed, running a hand through his graying hair.

“…Of course he is.”

Richie let out a satisfied chuff and licked Buggy’s cheek.

“Augh—gross—!” Buggy yelped, pushing at his snout, but he was laughing now. Just a little.

Somewhere behind them, Shanks appeared, breathless. “What the hell—”

“I told you I had a crew,” Buggy said smugly, petting Richie’s nose.

Richie rumbled contentedly and curled tighter around him.

Buggy didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to explain or leave. He just let himself sink into the warm, impossible comfort of something that had crossed worlds to find him.

Chapter Text

After the initial panic subsided, it became clear the creature wasn't interested in eating anyone. The lion seemed far too intelligent for an ordinary animal. It now settled into the camp as if he owned the place.

Later, Richie and the four of them (Buggy, Shanks, Rayleigh and Roger) found themselves back in Buggy and Rayleigh's cabin. Roger and Rayleigh watched with amused patience as the two boys resumed their usual squabbling.

"Richie's mine."

"Yours?!" Shanks had squawked, jaw practically on the floor. "Where would you get a lion?! Are you from some kind of weird circus family or something? I thought those were just stories!"

Buggy had just rolled his eyes. "It's not a 'circus family,' you moron. Just because your dad insists on calling me his nephew doesn't mean I suddenly have to explain my entire life to you.” He patted the lion, who nudged his head against the boy's hand.

"But... a lion?" Shanks argued, utterly bewildered. "The only big cats around here are the ones from the zoo they let loose, and they were tigers, not lions. And they stay way out in the deep woods. This one's not from our mountains."

"Relax," Buggy said, scoffing. "Richie was always lurking around the edges of our last camp, you know, the one my old group had before everyone scattered. I guess he just kept wandering until he found me again. Animals are clingy like that, especially to someone as flashy and as important as me." Buggy muttered, already grabbing a bucket. "Now, if you're quite done gawking, some of us have actual work to do."

It was a perfectly plausible lie.

"So, Richie, huh?" Roger's voice broke in. He walked over, cautiously extending a hand to simply acknowledge the huge creature. Richie shifted, eyes tracking Roger, then nudged Buggy's side. "Seems like he knows you pretty well. He's been surprisingly calm."

Rayleigh nodded from his spot. "Guess he knows who's in charge."

Buggy preened, despite himself. " Richie's not stupid. He knows a good flashy thing when he sees it." He patted Richie's head, the lion letting out a soft, rumbling purr. "He's just a bit dramatic sometimes. And he expects to be pampered. Right, big guy? No eating Shanks, unless he really, really asks for it."

Shanks's eyes widened. "Hey! I'm not asking for that! And what makes you a 'good flashy thing'? You're just Buggy!"

"Exactly!" Buggy snapped, pointing a triumphant finger at his nose. "And Richie knows a true genius when he sees one! Unlike some red-haired idiots."

"I am not an idiot!" Shanks protested, planting his hands on his hips. "And I'm flashier! I have red hair!"

"That's just a common hair colour, you blockhead!" Buggy retorted, puffing out his chest. "Mine is natural-born brilliance! And my nose!"

Shanks snickered. "Your nose is just big."

"What did you just say about my nose? You uncultured menace! I'll show you big!" Buggy roared, lunging forward, ready to pummel Shanks.

Rayleigh anticipated the move. He stepped in smoothly, bent down and wrapped his large hands around Buggy's middle, and lifted the boy off the ground, holding him at arm's length while Buggy kicked his legs in the air.

"Now, now. No need for fisticuffs over hair colour." Rayleigh's voice was warm. He tucked Buggy against his chest, one arm wrapping around the small boy like a secure cradle, while his other hand gently smoothed the beanie down.

Rayleigh looked over Buggy's head at the still-patient Richie. "If he's good enough for our little one, then he's good enough for us. Welcome to the family, big guy."

Richie responded with a soft, rumbling purr. He dipped his massive head, nudging Rayleigh's leg with his nose.

Roger chuckled. "Good to know. We'll just have to make sure he's well-fed. Don't want our new camp mascot getting peckish."

"He's not a mascot!"

… …

Buggy worked the soap into Richie’s fur, the thick suds releasing a comforting scent of clean linen mixed with a hint of earthy herbs, like rosemary. This was Rayleigh’s good stuff, a bar Buggy never would have thought twice about before, but now appreciated for its sheer, luxurious cleanness. Richie remained calm, closing his eyes against the spray, a low purr vibrating in his chest.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Buggy muttered, arms soaked up to the elbows. “You’re happy to see me. You missed me. You’re proud of me. Whatever.”

Richie rumbled again, deep and velvety, like distant thunder.

Buggy scowled. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Richie looked at him exactly like that.

“I am not cute,” Buggy snapped.

Richie licked the side of his face in a great, slobbery swipe.

“Ugh!! Disgusting!” Buggy wiped at his cheek furiously with his sleeve, now just as soaked as the rest of him. “Stop agreeing with people! You’ve been here five minutes and you’re already taking their side?!”

Richie snorted and shook his mane, soaking Buggy even more.

Buggy groaned. “Great. Now I’m wet and humiliated. You better not be doing this just to mock me.”

But even as he grumbled, his hands moved with care. He scrubbed behind Richie’s ears, combed through the fur of his chest, checked his paws for thorns or scrapes. The lion was bigger than he remembered—tougher-looking too—but still his Richie.

Somehow, impossibly, still his Richie.

Buggy leaned against Richie’s damp shoulder for a second, letting out a slow breath. “I can’t believe it. You really found me.”

Richie let out a short, rough grunt, like a bark and a roar mashed together, and Buggy blinked.

“…Wait, you’re saying you’re here on purpose?”

Richie repeated the sound, then shook his head in a weird, almost-human way.

Buggy’s eyes widened. “What?”

Richie puffed out his chest with pride.

Buggy sat back on his heels. “So… Alvida, Mohji and Cabaji… they’ve been looking for me?”

Richie nodded.

“And Shanks?! And Straw Hat’s crew?!”

Another nod.

“Dr. Vegapunk?!”

Richie snorted and flicked his tail like yes, obviously.

Buggy’s heart skipped something. Not just joy, not just relief. Something heavier. Real.

“So… they really didn’t give up on me,” he whispered.

Richie stepped forward and gently lowered his head, nudging Buggy’s chest. Buggy hugged his mane without thinking, burying his fingers in the thick fur. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need to and Richie already knew.

When Richie sat back again, something glinted around his neck. Buggy frowned, leaned closer.

“What’s this?”

A thick leather band circled Richie’s neck. Buggy hadn’t noticed it before—too hidden under the mane. He unfastened the small clasp, revealing a waterproof pouch sewn under the main strap.

Inside were papers.

Buggy’s hands shook as he pulled them out.

The first was scrawled in Mohji’s uneven handwriting. ["Buggy-sama! We found where you are! Hang on, please! We’re bringing you back!!”]

The second was from Alvida. ["We’ve got some of the best minds in the world working on this, clown. You owe me ten drinks when you get back.”]

The third one was from Cabaji, neat and concise. ["Captain, please don’t die. Also, bring Richie back in one piece.”]

Buggy’s grin wobbled, lips trembling despite himself.

Then, the final letter. Typed. Crisp. Cold but brilliant.

["This animal travelled through dimensions via my prototype trans-universal resonator. The machine can only support non-human lifeforms for now. If you wish to return, you must locate this dimension’s version of myself. I have encoded the schematics in the animal’s collar. Good luck."]

Buggy’s heart pounded in his ears.

He could go home.

He could go home.

He stood there soaking wet, clothes clinging to his skin, Richie dripping beside him like a half-drowned carpet—and for the first time since he’d landed in this weird, apocalyptic, sunflower-infested version of hell, he had hope.

Then the door creaked behind him.

“Snack time,” came Rayleigh’s voice.

Buggy spun around, quickly stuffing the letters back into Richie’s collar.

Rayleigh walked toward them with a wooden tray in one hand—apple slices, dried meat, a few cookies that looked suspiciously like they'd been stolen from the pantry. He didn’t even blink at the sight of a sopping-wet boy and a shampoo-covered lion.

“Everything alright out here?” he asked casually.

“Y-yeah,” Buggy said, a little too fast. “Just, uh… washing. Hygiene.”

Rayleigh eyed his soaked clothes. “You planning to stay in those wet pyjamas, or...?”

Buggy glared at him. “They’re not pyjamas.”

Rayleigh held up a towel. “Mm-hm. Come on. Dry off. I’ve got clean clothes for you inside.”

Richie sniffed the tray and nudged Rayleigh’s hand gently. Rayleigh chuckled and offered him a piece of jerky. “He’s polite.”

“He’s smarter than half of the camp,” Buggy muttered.

Rayleigh just nodded, like he agreed. Buggy took the towel and began drying his hair with a vengeance, but his thoughts had already drifted.

He could go home. Back to his ship. Back to being Captain Buggy the Star Clown. Back to Alvida, Mohji, Cabaji. Back to being feared, respected—even if it was mostly by accident. But as he peeked at Rayleigh.

Not the Right Hand of the Pirate King, but the quiet, comforting presence who made sure Buggy brushed his teeth, who explained how to identify safe berries, who always had a warm meal ready.

Buggy had always seen Captain Roger as the closest thing to a father figure he'd ever known, but Captain Roger's execution had left a void, a stark reminder of loss. Now, bit by bit, memory by memory, this gentle, dependable Rayleigh was filling that space, cementing a new, softer foundation in Buggy's heart. And the most shocking part? Buggy wasn't even ashamed of it.

Buggy actually preferred this Rayleigh.

It was a cruel trick of fate. He wanted to return to his world, with all its chaotic glory, but he wanted to bring this Rayleigh with him. But he couldn't have both. The impossibility of it burned.

Would this man, who had somehow become so important, even feel a pang if Buggy vanished? And would Buggy's own pirate soul ever truly recover from leaving this quiet, steady affection behind?

Buggy scowled and rubbed harder at his head. “Stupid thoughts,” he muttered.

Rayleigh handed him a cookie.

Buggy took it, his small fingers brushing Rayleigh's. He didn't say thanks, but he didn't scowl this time. Instead, he simply stared at the cookie, a plain, oatmeal-coloured disc, as if it held the answer to his impossible dilemma.

Rayleigh watched him, a slight crease forming between his own brows.

The boy was usually so quick to devour anything sweet, or at least complain about its quality. This prolonged silence caught his attention.

"Everything alright, baby boy?" Rayleigh asked softly.

Buggy blinked. He looked up at Rayleigh, a fleeting, almost vulnerable expression passing over his face before it vanished behind his usual bravado. He took a small, hesitant bite of the cookie, chewing slowly.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, almost lost amidst the camp's distant hum, he mumbled, "Thanks, Dad."

Before Rayleigh could even fully register, Buggy was already moving. He slid off the stool, the cookie still clutched in his hand, and darted towards the cabin door.

"Richie! Come on, big guy! We've got flashy stuff to do!"

Rayleigh's hand, still outstretched where he'd offered the cookie, slowly lowered. He watched the spot where Buggy and Richie had disappeared, a wistful smile playing on his lips.

"Flashy stuff, huh?"

Chapter Text

One of the hallmarks of a good sitcom, Buggy had recently learned from the camp’s tiny, dusty library, was the misunderstanding episode. You know, the kind where characters go entire arcs not realizing they’re arguing about two different things, like someone thinking “I’m in love with your sister” meant their actual sister when it was really a dog named Sister.

Hilarious. Stupid. Predictable.

Except when your life felt like one of those episodes, it was a nightmare.

But Buggy’s life wasn’t a sitcom.

It was messy, apocalyptic, filled with talking lions and undead groaners, and now, apparently, truth time.

He wasn’t going to run from it. Not tonight. Not like last time when he escaped the Ravens and left Rayleigh worried sick. This time, Buggy was going to be brave, which was totally not a word he’d usually apply to himself, but hey, growth.

After introducing Richie to the camp—where the lion was promptly fed three cooked chickens, patted by at least eight toddlers, and declared “a big fluffy doggy”—Buggy had gone through the motions.

He helped clean the tool shed. Fed the chickens. Dug up a few beets. Ate dinner with Rayleigh—who kept piling sliced mango and guava into Buggy’s bowl like he thought vitamin C cured trauma. Then he showered, brushed his teeth, slipped into the only pyjamas he didn’t hate (they had tiny clown fish, and no, the irony wasn’t lost on him), and waited.

The fabric was stupidly soft, like everything Rayleigh picked for Buggy, and the sleeves still smelled like that cedar sachet Rayleigh tucked into his dresser to "keep the moths away."

The sun had set. The air was cool. Buggy lay stiff as a board in his haphazard nest of blankets, clutching Flop the rabbit to his chest like a lifeline. Rayleigh walked in with a blanket over his shoulder and a warm cup of something herbal in hand.

“Ready to get tucked in, superstar?” Rayleigh asked with that annoying half-grin.

Buggy stared at the ceiling dramatically. “I have a secret.”

Rayleigh blinked. “Oh?”

“You have to lie down next to me to hear it.”

“You trying to stall bedtime again?”

“No! This is serious. Like… secret serious.”

Rayleigh gave a short hum, then sighed and settled on the bed beside him. The mattress groaned a bit under the weight, but it was warm and quiet and safe in a way Buggy hadn’t felt in a long time.

He stared at the shadows on the ceiling. Then, after a second, he turned his head.

“I’m not from this world.”

… …

Things didn’t change overnight, but they also kind of… did.

Buggy told Rayleigh the truth.

The whole thing. Well, almost the whole thing—he might’ve skipped the part where he was actually a very attractive adult man in his thirties with a bounty and reputation, because that would’ve been weird. But the important details? Yeah. Rayleigh knew. And weirdest of all, he believed him.

No yelling. No laughing. No calling him delusional or sleep-deprived. Just a quiet nod, a hand on his shoulder, and that dependable Rayleigh-style calm: “We’ll find this Vegapunk guy. If there's a way back, we’ll get you there.”

Simple. Solid. Supportive.

And now… things were good.

Like, weirdly good.

Buggy's mornings started the same way they had for weeks now—only now he had a lion in his bed.

Richie had claimed the foot of it as his spot, paws draped lazily off the edge, mane a little too fluffy after the recent bath. He snored. Loudly. It was comforting, in a bizarre sort of way. Buggy had gotten used to it. Like having a very large, hairy space heater that occasionally licked his face.

Rayleigh was the one who made breakfast. Buggy used to be suspicious of that—like the man was trying to trick him into “bonding time”—but lately, Buggy found he didn’t mind. Especially when Rayleigh toasted the little coconut cakes just the right way, with honey and banana slices on top.

Honestly, for an apocalypse, the food was surprisingly good. And having another version of a legendary pirate as a personal chef, who also happened to now be Buggy’s dad, was a definite upgrade. For an unexpected forced retirement, this was turning out to be a surprisingly good deal. Solid A-minus for post-apocalyptic living arrangements. Would consider staying, if it weren't for the whole pirate king destiny thing.

Buggy the Clown. The Star Clown. A name that still brought a surge of pride, a flash of his intended glory. He was meant for grand stages, for dazzling displays, for the ultimate treasure!

But Buggy knew his weaknesses.

He preferred to avoid a real fight. He got scared. He absolutely hated pain. But when it came to his ambition, his dream of glittering riches and ultimate freedom, he was unyielding. A stubborn, flashy, determined little cannonball, always aiming for the top, no matter how many times he had to scheme, manipulate, or run away to get there. It was his greatest strength, and also his greatest weakness.

His return was inevitable, Buggy told himself. But the familiar pull of his pirate life was now countered by a surprising whisper of doubt.

Could he genuinely abandon everything here? Could he abandon them?

A loud yawn from beside him brought Buggy back to the here and now. Richie was stretched out, clearly ready for his meal. The lion got his own bowl of meat. Cooked, thank you very much, and a lot of it.

The other kids were obsessed with Richie. Some were scared at first, sure, but Richie had a way of flopping on the ground and making the dumbest yawning sound until everyone got over it. Buggy made sure to explain that Richie was his, that he was a crewmate, and not a zoo attraction. Richie, being Richie, then proceeded to let four children braid flowers into his mane.

“Traitor,” Buggy muttered, watching the scene unfold with arms crossed.

Afternoons were for chores, though Rayleigh always made sure Buggy didn’t overdo it. The lion helped too—kind of. He scared off a few scavenger birds from the crops, which Buggy considered valuable labour, though Rayleigh argued that roaring at pigeons wasn’t technically helpful.

Still, it counted.

Evenings were the best. Sometimes they played cards. Sometimes they listened to old records in the main hall. Once, Richie somehow learned how to operate the crank-powered radio, and the camp had a very awkward ten minutes of jungle-themed elevator music before they managed to shut it off.

There were moments when Buggy caught Rayleigh watching him. Not in a suspicious way, more like... thoughtful. Quiet. Like he was trying to memorize this version of Buggy—small, loud, full of energy and pie crumbs.

Buggy didn’t ask what he was thinking. He sort of knew.

It was the same thing Buggy tried not to think about too hard.

Because yeah, he had a plan now. A goal. A way back home. His real home. The place where he was captain. The place where his face was on wanted posters, where people feared and admired him, where he had control.

But…

…Here, Rayleigh brought him a clean shirt without being asked. Here, Richie dozed beside the fireplace. Here, dinner meant laughter and small arguments over card games. Here, the world didn’t expect anything from him.

Buggy wasn’t used to not having expectations.

He wasn’t used to feeling safe.

So he didn’t overthink it. Not right now. Not today. There would be time for worry later—for mission planning, for figuring out how to track down this universe’s version of the most brilliant scientist alive.

For now?

Buggy lay in the grass, arms folded behind his head, Richie curled beside him like a massive purring cushion. Flop rested on Buggy's stomach. A few camp kids ran around with sticks, pretending to be zombie hunters. Someone somewhere was playing harmonica. And Rayleigh was in the garden, humming as he pulled weeds.

Buggy smiled.

It wasn’t a big grin. It didn’t have the sharp edge of his stage persona, the wicked flash of showmanship. It was just a quiet, real smile.

Because for the first time in what felt like forever…

Today was a good day.

Chapter Text

Buggy wasn’t nervous. Not at all.

He was just… slightly pacing back and forth in front of his mirror, trying on his fifth outfit and talking to his lion. That was completely normal behaviour. Any sane person would do the same before visiting a group of apocalypse-surviving Whitebeards who may or may not know how to find a secret genius scientist that might be his only ticket home.

Totally normal.

Do you remember that Buggy had stayed there for a while? Just until Rayleigh's group had visited, and they'd had that talk, and Buggy had agreed to go back with Rayleigh to the West Bridge Camp. Buggy hadn't had to go back to the Whitebeard camp, though. Instead, the Whitebeards—mostly Thatch and Marco, sometimes even a few others—would drop by West Bridge Camp.

Richie, lounging lazily on the rug, let out a short gruff-rumble-huff kind of sound. It was somewhere between a snore and a complaint.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Buggy snapped, tugging at the oversized striped shirt he’d stolen from Rayleigh’s clean laundry. “This matters! I can’t show up looking like some scruffy camp kid—I'm a flashy captain. I have a flashy brand.”

Richie blinked slowly, unimpressed.

Buggy scowled. “Fine. This one, then. Flop—let's go!”

The plushie was already tucked in Buggy’s backpack. Richie yawned, stretched like a lazy housecat, then padded after Buggy as he stepped out of the cabin.

Rayleigh was by the car, doing one last check under the hood. Shanks was already in the backseat, legs up on the window like he owned the place. Roger was munching on roasted peanuts in the front passenger seat like this was a casual picnic and not a trip to see an infamous faction of survivors.

“Alright, hop in, squirt,” Rayleigh said as Buggy climbed into the middle seat with Richie squeezing in the back. “You packed snacks?”

Buggy crossed his arms, huffing. "Of course I packed snacks, old man! Do you think I'd let Richie go hungry? He eats half a cow a day! Your dried banana chips aren't gonna cut it for him." He made sure to emphasize the 'him,' not 'us.'

Rayleigh offered a soft smile. "Always so thoughtful, aren't you? It's a good quality to have." His voice was low and reassuring. "Did you get enough sleep last night? You were up late reading."

"I slept fine."

"Good. Just want to make sure you're feeling your best. It's a long drive."

Rayleigh then slid into the driver's seat, the old engine sputtering to life with a cough before settling into a rumble. He gave a quick, reassuring glance to Buggy in the middle seat, then to Roger beside him, before putting the jeep into gear. The vehicle lurched forward, slowly at first, then picking up speed as they left the West Bridge Camp behind.

Shanks leaned over. “You packed Flop?”

Buggy glared. "It's Captain Flop to you! No one calls him Flop unless I give permission, and you certainly don't have it!" He clutched his backpack protectively.

Shanks burst into laughter. "I thought you were supposed to be some super mature, flashy captain?"

"It's a matter of respect, you imbecile!" Buggy shrieked, kicking out towards Shanks's shin, though he missed. "And I am mature! It takes maturity to recognize true genius like Captain Flop!"

Roger chuckled, tossing another peanut into his mouth. “You ready for the Whitebeards?”

"Ready enough for Marco and Thatch, I guess." Buggy crossed his arms and pointedly not looking at Shanks.

Shanks immediately leaned forward, a wide grin splitting his face. "Hey! What's that supposed to mean?! I'm way more fun than Marco! And Thatch just cooks! I'm your best big brother! I teach you important stuff, like how to trip Roger!"

"You just trip yourself!" Buggy retorted, twisting around to face Shanks properly. "And Marco doesn't annoy me every five minutes! He's actually useful!"

"I'm useful! I'm your best friend!" Shanks insisted, poking Buggy's arm. "Admit it, you secretly loved me!"

"I did not! I loved my peace and quiet!"

The car rolled out.

… …

The Whitebeard settlement wasn’t that different from the one Buggy lived in, just bigger, louder, and full of people with arms the size of Buggy’s entire body. Buggy had been here before, but never with Richie, and never on a mission this important.

The moment they arrived, the usual greetings turned into full chaos.

 “IS THAT A LION?!”

"No way, a real one?!"

"Who has a pet lion in the apocalypse?!"

“Next thing you know, someone's going to show up with a pet tiger, like it's totally normal!"

“He’s licking Pops’ chair—someone stop him!”

"Did it follow them from the woods?"

“He’s purring. Guys. He’s purring.”

Buggy climbed out of the car and crossed his arms proudly. “This is Richie. He’s my crew. Be respectful.”

Thatch was the first to run up to him. “BUGGY! You little sea imp, we missed you!”

Then Marco followed with a grin. “Thought we’d have to send someone to kidnap you, yoi.”

That earned a snort from Shanks. "Try it and lose both arms," he called out, a playful challenge in his voice. "You guys are so clingy. Let him breathe. He's my little brother, not yours." Shanks glared at Marco and Thatch.

Buggy rolled his eyes as Thatch and Marco immediately began arguing with Shanks over who missed Buggy more. In any other universe, this would’ve been weird. But here? It just felt like the messiest kind of family reunion.

Then, just as he was about to ask if anyone knew anything about a scientist named Vegapunk—

“HEY!” someone shouted from the watch tower. “People at the front gate!”

Instant tension.

Vista sprinted in, panting, sword in one hand. “Group outside. Not infected. Just… strange.”

Buggy stilled.

He didn’t know how to explain it, but his Haki pulsed—deep in his chest, buzzing like static on his skin. The sensation hit him fast and sharp.

Familiar.

Very, very familiar.

Richie straightened up beside him, ears forward. His entire body trembled in excitement. Then he made the loudest sound Buggy had ever heard from him—a strange, deep ROWRRMPHH! that shook dust from the rafters.

“Richie?” Buggy asked.

The lion turned to him, eyes wide and clear with meaning.

And Buggy just—knew.

He took off running.

“Buggy!” Rayleigh called.

“Wait—don’t just bolt—!” Shanks yelled.

But Buggy didn’t stop. His feet hit the dirt fast, Richie thundering after him, the wind slicing through his hair, the air buzzing in his ears.

Déjà vu. All of them—Rayleigh, Roger, Shanks, Marco, Thatch—they were shouting, chasing, sprinting after him like that time at the Ravens’ camp.

But this time, Buggy wasn’t running away.

He was running toward.

The gates were already wide open when he got there.

And just beyond them, three figures were standing—no, crying. Loud, ugly sobs. Buggy only recognized them when the sun hit their faces.

“CAPTAIN!!” Cabaji wailed.

“YOU’RE SMALL BUT YOU’RE REAL!!” Mohji screamed.

“My baby!” Alvida shrieked, already diving forward.

And then Buggy was enveloped. Arms. Shouts. Smothering affection and wet faces and too many smells. Buggy couldn’t even breathe—but he didn’t care. Because as Cabaji’s bony shoulder pressed against him, a sudden surge of "oh, these idiots" filled him. When Mohji's warm, furry arm wrapped around him, a surprising feeling of being truly, undeniably found settled deep in his chest. And when Alvida’s distinct, cloying perfume hit him, mingled with the wetness of her crying, an almost overwhelming sense of his own personal brand of chaos enveloped him.

His crew.

His weird, clingy, dramatic, absolutely insane crew.

They found him.

… …

By the time the sun dipped lower into the horizon, casting a soft golden light over the worn-out Whitebeard camp, the battlefield had quieted. Most of the zombies were nothing but scattered bones or charred ash, and the scent of sweat, scorched earth, and victory hung heavy in the air.

Buggy sat cross-legged on an old crate, chewing noisily on dried mango strips and sipping slightly too-sweet tea that Marco had brewed in a chipped kettle. Thatch lounged nearby with his boots kicked up, toasting a chunk of roasted meat over a small fire. Edward Newgate—yes, that Whitebeard—sat like some ancient mountain a few paces away, drinking from a wooden mug, his laughter still occasionally rumbling across the clearing like distant thunder.

Around them, the rest of the camp was finally settling down.

Buggy, for once, was not.

He glared across the smouldering grass at two collapsed groups of idiots, each slumped in exhaustion from what could only be described as the dumbest showdown in recorded history.

On one side - Cabaji, Mohji and Alvida. Buggy’s crew—arrived only hours ago with a solid, if vague, story about surviving in another safe zone and journeying here after months of evading undead and raiders. No one questioned it much. Survivors were survivors. The world had room for any backstory that didn’t sound like complete delusion.

On the other side - Rayleigh, Roger and Shanks. Three of the most overbearing, competitive, emotionally-charged men to ever exist in any dimension.

And all of them, all of them, had been fighting for one prize.

The right to carry Buggy.

It began innocently enough.

After Buggy introduced his “long-lost friends” to the rest of the camp, and after some tears, laughter and aggressive hugging from Alvida, the mood turned… odd. Specifically, when Alvida announced in front of everyone, “Buggy is my baby now. I’m going to be the mother he never had.”

“Excuse me?” Rayleigh asked, very calmly, which meant it was very not calm.

Mohji chimed in, “As his primary caretaker, I think I should have seniority rights.”

“Caretaker?” Shanks repeated, visibly offended. “Buggy’s been with us for months! I built him a fort!”

Roger placed a hand on Rayleigh’s shoulder. “They’re trying to replace you, Ray.”

“I see that, Roger.”

It didn’t take long before someone—probably Thatch, honestly—said, “Why not settle it the old-fashioned way?”

Cue the brilliant idea: a zombie-clearing contest right outside the Whitebeard camp gate. Whoever killed the most undead won the sacred honor of carrying Buggy for the day.

Buggy had objected, of course.

“You overgrown buffoons! I am not a side-quest prize!” he roared, stamping his foot with indignation. “I am the future Pirate King! Treat me with respect!”

No one listened.

Rayleigh had already rolled up his sleeves.

Roger cracked his knuckles.

Shanks tied back his hair.

Alvida pulled out a spiked bat she’d smuggled in somehow. Cabaji got his sword. Mohji grabbed his whip. Buggy had half a mind to walk into the horde himself and get bitten just to end the madness. But of course, he couldn't. Every single zombie he’d ever encountered just seemed to part for him, shambling away as if his very presence was a repellent. He'd even considered just lying down in their path, but he was fairly certain they'd just form a polite circle around him.

It was a miserable existence when even the ravenous undead respected his personal space.

Now, with the so-called “war” over and both teams in varying states of grass-stained defeat, Buggy sat in silence with Marco, Thatch and Whitebeard—his only surviving brain cells.

“I think we all learned something today,” Thatch said solemnly, flipping his meat over the fire.

“That people are crazy?” Marco offered.

“GURARARARA! We learned that some folks are just destined to attract the most unusual phenomena,” Whitebeard added with a grin.

Buggy let out a heavy sigh and leaned back on his palms. “No. We learned that giving grown adults emotional attachment issues is a mistake.”

Marco smirked. “You okay, though?”

“Physically? Splendid. Mentally? The jury’s still out. Emotionally? I’m stuck between grown men acting like squabbling toddlers over me. Honestly, the level of absurdity is off the charts. I’ve barely had a moment’s peace.”

Richie, lying beside him with his massive head on Buggy’s thigh, let out a low, content rumble. He hadn’t moved since the contest began, only watching with an expression that could be best described as deep disapproval.

“I’m pretty sure Richie thought the whole thing was a territorial dispute,” Buggy added, scratching behind the lion’s ear.

“He’s certainly protective of you, yoi.”

“He gets it from me,” Buggy declared, puffing out his chest. “I teach him how to be fiercely loyal. And intimidating.”

"Oh, they're really going at it again out there!" Thatch suddenly exclaimed. "Rayleigh just decapitated three with one swing! And look at Roger go, he's like a whirlwind! Alvida's bat is really putting in work too. Shanks just sent one flying clear over the fence!" He paused, taking a breath. "They're really trying to impress you, Buggy. Look at them, practically tripping over each other to get to the zombies!"

Buggy scoffed, crossing his arms. "They're just showing off. It's ridiculous. And a complete waste of energy."

Thatch burst out laughing. “Okay, but you were smiling when they called you their treasure.”

“I wasn’t smiling. That was just gas.”

Whitebeard chuckled. “Mm. You’re loved. That’s a rare thing in this world. Even rarer when it comes from so many people at once.”

Buggy paused, the mango slice halfway to his mouth.

Yeah. He was loved. Even in this weird, broken world. Even with half the truth buried and the other half too unbelievable to tell. Somehow, the people who mattered most to him had found a way here. With fake backstories and bad disguises, sure—but they came.

Rayleigh knew the truth, of course. He hadn’t questioned the sudden arrival of Buggy’s ‘survivor friends.’ Hadn’t pushed, even when he probably guessed more than he let on.

And he’d made a promise.

They’d find this world’s Vegapunk. They’d figure it out.

Buggy would go home.

Eventually.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he’d just enjoy the snack. The tea. The silence after the storm. And maybe, he’d let someone carry him for five minutes tomorrow—after a signed agreement of course.

Preferably notarized.

Whitebeard rumbled, his deep laugh echoing through the clearing. "GURARARARA! Well, if they're fighting over who gets to carry you, Little One, then I suppose we're due for a turn too." He gestured with his massive hand. "A son needs his Pops, after all."

"He's right, yoi. We've certainly got the space. You'd be well looked after here. Plenty of good food, no red-haired nuisances trying to steal your snacks."

"Exactly!" Thatch chimed in, grinning. "We've got better cooks! We'd treat you like the king you are, Buggy!"

Buggy’s eyes widened, the mango slice dropping from his fingers. He stared, aghast, from Whitebeard to Marco to Thatch, then back to the chaos still unfolding near the gate where Shanks, Roger and Rayleigh were now bickering amongst themselves about who had the most zombie kills.

"WHAT?!" Buggy shrieked, his face flushing crimson. He scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over Richie.

This was it. This was the moment.

Kids were a rare commodity in the apocalypse, especially ones who hadn’t gone completely feral or started carrying around dead teddy bears. Buggy was objectively adorable, he knew it, even with the nose. He wasn't one of those unsettling apocalypse kids who gave everyone the creeps. He was charming, flashy, a genuine ray of sunshine in this zombie-ridden wasteland. And now, apparently, everyone wanted a piece of that sunshine.

And it wasn't Buggy’s fault!

He hadn't asked for this. He didn't want to be the apocalypse's most sought-after child. It was a burden, honestly. This inexplicable 'adorable' quality just seemed to attract overbearing, clingy adults like flies to honey. All Buggy wanted was to be left alone to pursue his grand destiny, not to be caught in a bizarre, multi-faction custody dispute.

If only Buggy’s younger self had been aware of this potent cuteness. Buggy could have used it. He could have manipulated entire islands, charming entire navies into handing over their treasures! He could have batted his eyelashes, pouted and had the world at his feet. Instead, he’d relied on explosives and theatrics.

A monumental oversight!

What a waste of prime cuteness-wielding years!

The regret was almost as overwhelming as the embarrassment.

A large, soft hand gently pinched his cheek, and Buggy snapped back to reality.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, yoi."

Buggy glared, but the words Marco, Thatch, and Whitebeard had just spoken echoed in his ears. He stared at them. Oh no. Oh no, no, no. They weren't just joking. They were actually going to—they were all going to—

"Are you all completely mad?! This is mortifying! I'm not a collectible! I'm not a son for anyone to 'look after'! This is too much! Richie! Flop! We're leaving! NOW!" He practically bounded away, not even waiting to see if the lion followed.

"GURARARARA! A bit of friendly competition never hurt anyone!"

"Looks like the 'Buggy Games' are officially open to all, yoi

"He's our baby! And we're far more stylish than all of you combined!" Alvida shrieked, swinging her bat.

"I’m the original big brother!" Shanks chimed in, tripping a zombie with a sweep of his leg. "You just met him! You don't know his complicated emotional needs like I do!"

"This is ridiculous!" Buggy screeched, looking over his shoulder at the escalating chaos. Zombies were dropping left and right, caught in the crossfire of the argument. "You're going to clear out the entire city at this rate! Then what?! Are we moving to another country for more zombies to fight over me?!"

“…”

The bickering paused.

Heads turned.

Roger, Rayleigh, Shanks, Alvida, Cabaji, Mohji, Marco, Thatch and even Whitebeard himself, looked around at the rapidly diminishing zombie horde. A sudden, shared realization dawned on their faces.

"He's got a point," Roger conceded, wiping blood from his cheek.

"We are running low on targets, yoi," Marco added, a thoughtful look replacing his grin.

"Which means," Thatch concluded, his eyes lighting up, "after this round, we'll definitely need to move to the next city for the grand finals of the battle!"

Chapter Text

Buggy didn’t remember signing up for this.

He sat—no, was enthroned—on Rayleigh’s lap like some pampered royal brat, half-listening to science talk while actively trying not to choke on the piece of fruit Shanks was shoving into his mouth.

Oh, right. Dr. Vegapunk.

They'd found him.

It had taken a week of travel, venturing north of the country, the zombie-clearing "Buggy Games" oddly efficient for travel, before they located the genius. Turns out, the good doctor was being "protected" (read: held against his will) by a self-proclaimed group of influential individuals calling themselves the World Bureaucracy of Salvation (WBS), a very polite, very controlling alternate version of the World Government. It had taken a few hours of well-placed threats, some flashy demolitions courtesy of Buggy's 'friends’ and ‘family’ to help the man.

“Chew, Buggy,” Shanks said gently, too gently, like he was a nursemaid or something.

“I am chewing, you sad excuse for a—” Buggy tried to yell, but was interrupted by a cup of water pushed into his face by Alvida.

“Drink, sweetie, you don’t want to choke.”

Rayleigh patted his back encouragingly, while Cabaji and Mohji stood at his sides, flapping him with handmade fans like it was the hottest summer day in Marineford.

Buggy stared at the lab ceiling and accepted his fate.

Somewhere across the lab, Dr. Vegapunk was practically bouncing on his heels, arms flailing as he explained something very important-sounding.

“—Fascinating, absolutely fascinating! I can’t believe it! Interdimensional travelers, confirmed with overlapping quantum signatures! You and your crew must have been pulled through by an unstable energy pocket, likely activated by the virus mutation from your world’s alternate Vegapunk, and it explains everything! The shrinkage, the memory regression, the cell degradation—though you’ve stabilized now! This is groundbreaking!”

Buggy didn’t respond.

He was still mentally stuck on the moment an hour ago when Rayleigh, Roger and Shanks found out the truth.

That he was actually thirty-nine years old.

Thirty-nine. Mentally. Physically… well, now he was a toddler without Devil Fruit powers, and even his brain got scrambled enough to think naps and cookies were more important than pirate strategy or bounties.

He’d been so sure they’d be angry. Or shocked. Or anything.

But no.

They blinked. Shanks tilted his head and muttered, “That actually makes a lotta sense.” Rayleigh just raised an eyebrow like, “I knew it.” And Roger? That damn smiling menace just said, “At least now I can tell people my nephew's older than he looks.”

Buggy had screamed. Loudly.

And now… now this was his life. Again. Somehow worse than before.

“Why are you all treating me like a baby again?!” Buggy snapped, squirming in Rayleigh’s arms.

“You are a baby,” Shanks replied sweetly, brushing crumbs off his cheek.

“I am older than you, you red-haired buffoon!” Buggy shrieked, twisting to glare at Shanks. Then, he whipped his head towards his crew. “And I am your BOSS! Your CAPTAIN! Not some… some plushie for you to coo over!”

“Oh, are you now, old man?” Shanks retorted, a mischievous glint in his eye as he leaned in closer. “You can yell all you want, but you’re still reaching for the cookies, not the rum.”

Buggy froze, his face heating up.

He hated to admit it, but Shanks wasn't wrong. Buggy had just tried to barter his silence for an extra cookie. He'd also cried when Rayleigh wouldn't let him keep a shiny rock they found, and he’d been insistent that Captain Flop get the best seat in the car. It was infuriating. His adult mind knew better, but his tiny body and scattered brain just… did these things.

The sheer indignity of it made his nose itch.

Dr. Vegapunk overheard from across the lab.

“Ah, Shanks has a point, albeit crudely put! You see, Buggy, while your consciousness retains the complexity of a thirty-nine-year-old, your current physiological state—cellular structure, bone density, metabolic rate, hormonal profile, even neural development outside of your stored memories—is unequivocally that of a six-year-old child! Your brain, for example, has undergone significant synaptic pruning consistent with early childhood. So, physiologically, you are a six-year-old, with a very unique, highly condensed experiential library! It’s quite extraordinary!”

Mohji wiped Buggy’s face with a napkin. “And our captain is adorable!”

Alvida sniffled. “I prayed last night that you’d never grow up again.”

“You what—”

“Imagine it,” Cabaji said dreamily. “Captain Buggy, the eternal chibi.”

Buggy wailed internally. He instinctively leaned into Rayleigh's chest, burying his face there. He clutched at the plush rabbit he always kept tucked under his arm, squeezing Flop as if the stuffed animal could absorb his humiliation. Rayleigh simply tightened his arm around Buggy, humming a low, calming tune and gently swaying him side to side, as if comforting a much younger child. He even kissed Buggy’s messy hair.

Buggy could admit—privately, very privately—that being a kid had its perks. He got carried everywhere. He didn’t have to lift a finger. People gave him food constantly. He had naptimes.

But it also came with… this.

He glanced down at the floor where Richie was lying on his back like a very smug overgrown cat. At least he understood the suffering.

“Just wait until we get back to our world,” Mohji chuckled, completely oblivious to his chibi Captain’s misery. “Dracule Mihawk will take one look at Captain Buggy’s big, innocent eyes and completely forget how to use a sword! He’ll be too busy finding him the best toys!”

“And Crocodile,” Alvida added. “He’ll complain, of course, but he’ll be buying Buggy all the candy he wants within an hour! Who could say no to this face?!”

Cabaji nodded sagely. “The entire world will bow to the power of Captain Buggy’s cuteness. Our future is brighter than ever!”

"Are you all utterly devoid of common sense?!" Buggy shrieked, struggling against Rayleigh’s comforting arm. "You think two of the most dangerous men in the world are going to be swayed by a baby face?!"

"Look, it's just a new weapon in your arsenal, Buggy. Embrace it! You could get anything you want!" Alvida winked at Buggy.

Buggy’s face was a furious red. “You morons! I’m the next Pirate King! I need to be feared, not... not pinched!” He flinched as Alvida reached over and gently squeezed one of his cheeks.

“Aww, see?” Alvida cooed. “So pinchable!”

SMACK!

Shanks swiftly swatted Alvida’s hand away. “Hey! Hands off! He’s my little brother, not a squeeze toy!”

“He’s our Captain, you red-haired menace! We’ve been taking care of him for years!” Cabaji snapped, defensively puffing out his chest.

“And we do a much better job than you ever did!” Mohji added, shaking his head. “You just dragged him into trouble!”

“Hey, whoa, hold it right there!” Shanks objected. “You’re talking about my other self, the one who’s apparently a big deal pirate? That’s not me! I’m going to be way better than that guy, you’ll see! I won’t get a giant scar, and I definitely won’t let anything bad happen to Buggy! I’m going to be the best! So stop comparing me to some grown-up version you don’t even know!”

Rayleigh gently cradled Buggy closer. "That other Rayleigh, that other Roger… they made their choices in a different life. Choices we here have no part in. Their actions are their own, and they don't define us." He ran a comforting hand through Buggy's hair. "This world, this time, is ours. And we're not repeating their mistakes. We won't abandon you. So yes, we'll fight over who gets to carry you, Buggy. Because you're precious. And you're staying with us, until you're ready to go home."

Buggy found himself relaxing into the embrace. A quiet, almost inaudible “Thanks, d–” was about to escape his lips.

“See, Captain?!” Mohji blubbered, wiping his eyes with his napkin, cutting Buggy off mid-word. “This is what we mean! This Rayleigh… he cares! Not like that other one who just left you after his captain got himself killed!”

Alvida was openly sniffling. “And this Shanks! He actually looks out for you! And even if we don’t know the Pirate King Gol. D. Roger, but this one… this one listens! He’s a friend!” She burst into a fresh fit of tears.

Even Richie let out a surprisingly mournful whine. “Rrrrowww…”

Cabaji, surprisingly emotional, patted Buggy’s tiny arm.

Vegapunk cleared his throat, this time holding up a glowing blueprint. “Thanks to the documents brought by Richie and the additional set delivered by your crew, I was able to build this world’s version of the multiversal translocator! The alternate me was a genius—though of course, I’m also a genius—and the combined data was everything I needed to finish it.”

Cheers would’ve made sense here.

But no one cared. Buggy could feel the way the room immediately shifted topics.

“So,” Alvida said, hand on her hip, “can we use it?”

“To go back and forth,” Mohji added.

“Like for shopping trips?” Cabaji asked hopefully.

“…And so we can visit your world and tell those other guys how much better we are at being family?!” Shanks piped up.

“And I can look up my old self’s grave and tell him what he missed, leaving these two without a family. And Rayleigh,” Roger clapped his hand on his best friend’s back, “you can find your alternate self and show him how to really look after our boys!”

Rayleigh chuckled, a fond exasperation in his eyes.

Buggy groaned. “Are we seriously talking about cross-dimensional bragging rights and shopping now?! What about getting me back to my proper size?! Or, you know, finding some actual treasure?!”

“…”

The room fell silent.

Every head turned towards Buggy.

Dr. Vegapunk, without being prompted, adjusted his glasses. “Ah, yes, your proper size. Unfortunately, Buggy, the de-aging effect is quite permanent. Your cellular structure has fundamentally reset. Attempting to artificially reverse it now, to force your body to grow at an accelerated rate, would be… catastrophic. Your systems simply aren’t equipped to handle such rapid and intense biological changes; it could lead to organ failure or complete cellular breakdown.”

Buggy’s tiny face crumpled.

He was about to burst into a fresh tirade, perhaps even a heartbroken wail, about being forever stuck as a pint-sized clown, when an explosion of cheers erupted.

“YES!” Alvida shrieked, pumping a fist into the air.

Mohji and Cabaji embraced, practically weeping with joy. “Our chibi Captain forever!”

Shanks let out a triumphant whoop, rushing over to high-five Mohji, then Cabaji. “See, Buggy? Told you it wasn’t so bad! Eternal cuteness!”

Roger clapped Rayleigh on the back, a wide grin stretching across his face. “Well, that settles it, Ray! Looks like our little one is staying little!”

Rayleigh, though still holding Buggy, couldn't help but smile, a warm, indulgent look in his eyes.

Buggy could only stare.

“Are you all mad?!” he bellowed, a high-pitched, furious sound. “This isn’t a flashy victory! This is… this is a tragedy! How am I going to lead an armada across the seas if I need a booster seat?! How am I going to intimidate emperors and admirals when they’ll just want to pat my head?! How am I going to find the One Piece if I have to stop for naptime?! I’m going to be a BABY PIRATE KING! I’m going to be a laughingstock!”

Buggy was putting on a performance worthy of an East Blue stage—kicking, yelling and generally making a spectacle of himself. But Rayleigh simply hauled the squirming boy against his chest and held on.

“Let—go—of me, you old—hrk—!” Buggy’s protests were half-hearted at best, especially once Rayleigh started stroking his hair like he was some kind of overgrown, angry cat. And, well… it was kind of nice. Plus, his traitorous body didn’t care about pride—his muscles relaxed, his eyelids drooped and before he knew it, he was slumped against Rayleigh like a deflated balloon.

Ugh. Humiliating.

Vegapunk raised a hand. “Oh—and there are two more things,” the doctor said, his tone light but eyes intense. “A rather extraordinary discovery, in fact.”

Everyone glanced back at him.

"There is a fascinating development! Your Devil Fruit ability appears to be… re-emerging. It seems the physical degradation didn’t completely erase your unique powers!” Vegapunk then stepped closer to the center, tapping his datapad. “And your blood, Buggy… it’s changed. Adapted, more accurately. Your cellular structure didn’t just reset—it evolved. During the de-aging process, your body synthesized a protein that neutralizes over 97% of known viral strains across both worlds. Including the undead contagion that originated here.”

Silence.

“…What?” Buggy croaked.

“Do you understand what this means?” Vegapunk’s voice rose with excitement. “With your blood, I can manufacture a global vaccine! No more zombie outbreaks, no more pandemics, no more biological warfare. Your body has become the blueprint for a universal cure. You, Buggy may have just saved humanity.”

Alvida blinked. “Wait. Buggy’s blood?”

“He’s the vaccine,” Vegapunk said, grinning like a madman. “I’ve already synthesized a stable sample from a single drop. It's miraculous.”

Mohji let out a low whistle.

Shanks nodded slowly. “Buggy the Saviour. That has a nice ring to it.”

Rayleigh raised a brow. “You’re a walking cure, kid.”

Buggy stared at them, horrified. “You mean I’m a medicine mascot?!”

“Better than being a mascot without a purpose,” Cabaji offered cheerfully.

Buggy opened his mouth to scream—but then they continued speculating whether the machine could bring others across. Because apparently, Buggy’s crew had decided they liked this world better. This Rayleigh—young, hot, and inexplicably parental—was apparently superior to the old drunk gambler version they remembered. This Shanks—with two arms and no Yonko ego—was “more tolerable.” And Roger was still Roger, but alive. And if that wasn’t the coolest thing ever to Buggy’s crew, Buggy didn’t know what was.

Buggy’s crew was still starstruck. Even after a week of traveling together, camping and competing in zombie-killing matches across ruined towns, they hadn’t gotten over it.

“I still can’t believe we met Roger,” Cabaji whispered dramatically.

“Fought beside him,” Mohji corrected.

“Got his autograph!” Alvida squealed, proudly showing the signature tucked into a plastic sleeve.

Buggy stared at it. “Did… did my captain ever have an autograph?”

“Doesn’t matter!” Shanks said brightly. “We made him one.”

Buggy blinked. “You what—?”

“We even dressed this Roger up to look like the Pirate King version,” Mohji added, waving a photo.

Buggy covered his face. “Why are you like this?”

“I have finished the machine!” Dr. Vegapunk suddenly shouted from the far side of the lab.

The entire room froze.

Vegapunk beamed. “It’s ready for testing.”

Buggy’s heart beat faster.

The way home. Or a bridge between worlds.

And suddenly… he didn’t know what he wanted anymore.

“Wait,” Shanks said, standing so fast his chair clattered behind him. “Are you saying it’s done done? Like, actually operational?”

“Yes,” Vegapunk said. “And—”

“And we can use it more than once?” Alvida cut in, stepping forward. “Because this world… it’s actually kind of nice now! No Marines, no World Government, just… zombies we can beat up! We could come back for visits! Like, on holidays!”

“I want to come back because I want to know if my alternate self has cooler hair,” Mohji added. “Or a cooler lion. No offense, Richie.”

Richie snorted in offense.

“And if my other self rides unicycles,” Cabaji grinned, spinning one wheel idly. “Or maybe he figured out how to do backflips while juggling swords.”

Vegapunk cleared his throat. “Actually, what I was trying to say—”

“If I’m alive here and go to that world, maybe I can find out if my alternate self ever managed to grow a proper beard!” Roger said.

“Doesn’t work like that,” Alvida said with a sigh. “You died in our world, remember?”

Roger tilted his head. “Then I want to meet my zombie.”

Buggy gaped. “You people have completely lost it! Can someone—anyone—focus on the big question here?!”

“I’m trying to!” Vegapunk shouted over everyone, voice finally cracking through the chatter like a lightning bolt. “The answer is yes! Yes, the machine can connect both worlds! I modified the dimensional anchor system two days ago after your first request, but every time I try to tell you people—!”

“Wait, really?!” Alvida gasped.

“YES!” Vegapunk barked, hair standing on end like a furious cartoon character. “You can freely travel between the two dimensions, assuming stable anchor points are maintained. I installed a backup battery, and the other version runs on modified Seastone fusion—thank you, alternate me!”

Buggy stared. “You mean it’s just been ready this whole time?”

“Yes. But no one would stop yelling long enough to let me explain.”

Shanks scratched his head sheepishly. “Oops?”

Rayleigh looked impressed. “Dimensional syncing on both sides… That’s some top-tier science.”

The room fell quiet.

“...You realize,” Cabaji murmured slowly, “this changes everything.”

Alvida’s eyes gleamed. “We could build something even bigger than the Grand Line. An interdimensional pirate age.”

Mohji gasped. “Cross-world treasure hunting.”

Cabaji squeaked, “Cross-world bounties!”

Alvida whispered reverently, “Cross-world romance.”

Buggy moaned and buried his face in Rayleigh’s shirt. “I’m surrounded by lunatics.”

“Visionaries,” corrected Roger.

“Entrepreneurs,” added Shanks.

“Horny,” muttered Buggy.

Vegapunk gave a polite cough. “If everyone is done dreaming up terrifying cross-dimensional crimes, I’d like to suggest a controlled test before you all throw yourselves into unknown space-time. Maybe one person crosses first?”

Everyone turned to Buggy.

“Nope,” Buggy said instantly, clinging to Rayleigh’s coat like a barnacle. “Not me. You maniacs broke reality once already, I’m not being the guinea pig again!”

Shanks smirked. “Too late. You're small. Easier to throw.”

Buggy's eyes widened. “Don’t you dare—”

And then Cabaji picked him up.

“PUT ME DOWN—!”

Rayleigh smiled apologetically. “We’ll keep a rope tied to your leg so you can come back.”

“THIS ISN’T A FLASHY FIELD TRIP!”

As Buggy thrashed in panic, Vegapunk sighed and flipped the activation switch.

The gate to another world began to open…

… …

- Fan service (?) -

Buggy sat in a slightly-too-big swivel chair, legs dangling. Today, he was outfitted in a bright, primary-coloured striped shirt, a pair of dark blue overalls with small, functional buckles, and bright red sneakers that looked just a little too large for his feet. A black stuffed rabbit, Flop, was clenched under one arm like a hostage or emotional support prisoner. His desk was a collapsible plastic table, stained with glitter, surrounded by sterile white floors and humming fluorescent lights. Across from him: a massive, single-file line of Readers.

They had no faces—blank, gleaming white like mannequins—but wore lanyards labelled things like,

Reader #001, Reader #002, Reader #003 and so on.

A crooked sign above the room blinked:

["Buggy-sama Appreciation Circle – Gifts Welcome"]

Buggy scowled. “Is this a punishment? Is this... therapy?!”

Flop remained limp.

Then the first Reader stepped forward and bowed low. “Buggy-sama, your tantrums were divine.” They placed a glowing opal the size of a tangerine on the table.

Buggy blinked. “...Wait. That’s real.”

The second Reader knelt. “Buggy-sama, when you cried in Rayleigh’s arms, I cried in a Denny’s.” They left behind a solid gold, life-sized replica of Captain Flop, studded with actual, flawless diamonds for eyes and a tiny, perfectly tailored pirate captain's coat.

Buggy stared. “What the—?”

The third bowed lower. “Buggy-sama, you embody the holy trinity: Drama, delusion and drip. You are my canon. You are my chaos.” They then tenderly placed a small, intricately carved compass made of pure mother-of-pearl onto Buggy’s lap.

Buggy’s eye twitched.

Reader after Reader came. Each with gifts. Each with unrestrained, feverish praise.

Reader #420 dropped a bouquet of gilded knives.

“Your very existence is a masterpiece of unpredictability! A flash of glorious, impossible luck in a world of rigid fate! We live for your unearned victories!”

Reader #529 left behind a stuffed toy goose holding a diamond in its beak.

“Oh, divine Clown God! You are the living testament that chaos reigns supreme! This humble goose signifies the golden eggs of fortune that inexplicably lay themselves at your feet, simply because you are you!”

Reader #674 knelt, carefully placing a small, meticulously crafted miniature of the Grand Line's Reverse Mountain, complete with tiny, glittering waterfalls and a microscopic, perfectly rendered Big Top ship at Buggy’s dangling feet.

“Buggy-sama, you are my absolute favourite character because you defy every expectation, every logical prediction! You are the very essence of chaos that somehow creates order, the glorious punchline that becomes the main event! Let the haters hate! They simply cannot comprehend the concentrated divinity that is your existence!”

Buggy started sweating. “Okay, listen, this is getting a little intense—”

“Buggy-sama!” screeched one Reader, hurling themselves to the floor. “When you declared yourself a World Government asset and orchestrated the prisoners’ escape from Impel Down, turning a prison break into your personal parade, I transcended! I shed my mortal flesh! I became thought!”

Another offered a solid gold rattle.

One Reader brought a carved statue of Buggy made entirely of blue raspberry candy. It looked disturbingly majestic. Buggy licked it. “Huh. Kinda tastes like me.”

They chanted his name. They played kazoos. Someone threw flower petals. The line was eternal.

Reader #777 said, “I have a Buggy shrine. My mother says it’s concerning. But when my own world felt like it was falling apart, when the choices were impossible and the path unclear… it was your resilience, your audacious will to simply be, that kept me going. Your very existence was the light I clung to. Thank you, Buggy-sama. Thank you for showing me that even when everything is chaos, there’s still a way to shine.” Their voice broke on the last word, tears, real or imagined, streaking down their featureless face.

Reader #789 stepped forward. “Buggy-sama, I printed out every single one of your glorious quotes and nailed them to my ceiling, directly above my bed. They are the first thing I see when I wake, and the last thing before I sleep. Your words are my scripture, my guide through the darkest days. They remind me that even in the face of impossible odds, one must always maintain their magnificent image!”

Reader #842 almost whispered, “Buggy-sama. In a world that demands perfection and stoicism, you showed us that it’s okay to terrified and still blunder into greatness. You are the embodiment of every ordinary person’s wildest, most accidental dreams, and we love you for it more than words can express.”

One offered their soul written in crayon.

Buggy’s arms were soon overflowing with jewels, tiaras, lollipops, plushies and what appeared to be an actual deed to a sunken island.

By the time Reader #999 bowed and said, “Buggy-sama, you are the One Piece,” something in him cracked.

Buggy stood—well, clambered up onto the table—and screamed, “YES! YES, I AM GREAT! PRAISE ME MORE! SHOWER ME IN RUBIES! PILE ON THE GOLD, YOU UTTERLY DEVOTED SIMPLETONS! MAKE IT FLASHY!”

They did.

They roared.

"We live only to adore you, Buggy-sama!"

"Let the rubies fall! Let the gold rain!"

"A god among men! A clown among kings!"

"All hail Buggy-sama!"

"May your fame eclipse the sun and moon!"

"Your orders are our command!"

"We are but dust beneath your glorious feet!"

Buggy giggled. He jumped up and down on the table, sending jewels and plushies bouncing around him. "YES! YES, THAT'S RIGHT! YOU'D BETTER TREMBLE! TREMBLE BEFORE THE FUTURE PIRATE KING!"

They chanted “BUGGY-SAMA! BUGGY-SAMA!” like he was Moses and K-pop and Beyoncé all rolled into one overdramatic gremlin. Buggy threw glitter into the air and posed dramatically with Flop, who now wore three necklaces and sunglasses.

“I ACCEPT YOUR WORSHIP!” he bellowed. “BUILD ME A THRONE OF EMOTIONAL VALIDATION!”

They started building it. From Legos and fear and sapphires.

Buggy wept softly, buried in a pile of treasure and deranged adoration, as Flop rested loyally against his cheek.

“...Okay,” he sniffled, “Maybe being loved is kind of… flashy.”

… …

- Epilogue (?) -

The zombie world had begun to heal.

Slowly. Painfully. But it was happening.

The skies weren’t as grey. Cities were rebuilding. Trade routes cautiously reopened. Even the zombie menace had dwindled to manageable levels thanks to the combined efforts of soldiers, scientists and survivors.

And somehow, through it all, Buggy the Clown remained.

Officially, he was still part of Cross Guild. Technically, he was still an Emperor. Unofficially? He was now an emotionally volatile child with a high bounty and two war criminals who acted like overbearing divorced parents.

Mihawk and Crocodile.

They were still mean. That hadn’t changed. Still sharp-tongued, intimidating, and deeply allergic to basic affection. But the physical bullying? Gone. The insults? Mildly filtered. And once—just once—Buggy had nearly fainted when Mihawk handed him a chocolate bar.

“I found this on the street,” Mihawk said, deadpan.

“Same,” Crocodile said, flipping Buggy a rubber duck.

“YOU FOUND IT ON THE WHAT?!” Buggy shrieked. “WHO GIVES STREET CANDY TO A CHILD?!”

Neither responded. Just sipped wine and pretended it was normal.

Alvida had been right. Buggy’s cuteness was a nuclear weapon. A soft, giggly, tantrum-prone doomsday device.

Meetings were different now. Buggy had crayons. Buggy was allowed crayons. He even had a special folder. Nobody commented when he drew little stick figures stabbing zombies or a heroic self-portrait labelled “King of Everything.”

Then came the escalation.

They started carrying him. Like it was normal.

First Mihawk. Then Crocodile. Then back to Mihawk. Whoever got to the office first that day would casually pluck him up like a fashionable accessory. Sometimes, they didn’t even ask. Just swooped in mid-conversation and deposited him onto a lap.

Buggy now routinely attended high-level war meetings sitting cross-legged in Crocodile’s lap or curled up napping against Mihawk’s chest like a smug, demonic cherub.

They fought about it. Every. Day.

“He sat in your lap yesterday, Dracula.”

“I swaddled him last night.”

“I’m the one who bought him a blanket.”

“I knit him a hat.”

“You stabbed three men in line for that wool.”

Through it all, Buggy remained composed. Dignified. Sticky with lollipop residue and glitter, but still composed.

Occasionally, very occasionally, visitors arrived through the machine in his bedroom.

Rayleigh. Shanks. Roger.

They never stayed long. It was too risky. Their existence in this world was still a closely guarded secret—especially from anyone outside the inner circle.

Then Shanks showed up.

Not modern AU zombie-fighting little Shanks.

Yonko Shanks.

Emperor of the Sea. Charismatic, chaotic, still-laughs-too-loud Shanks. And the moment he saw tiny Buggy—curled up in a blanket fort between two war criminals—he screamed like someone had drop-kicked his heart.

“B-BUGGY?!”

He burst into the room like a cannonball, slipped on a rug, headbutted the snack table, and still somehow made it to Buggy in record time.

“Is that—did you get cursed?! You look—! You’re—!!” he sputtered, red-faced, cradling Buggy like a holy artifact. “You’re so TINY!! What the HELL happened?! Who hurt you?! Was it Blackbeard?! I’LL KILL HIM!”

“GET OFF ME, YOU LOUD HAGRAVIAN PIECE OF GINGER—!”

Buggy kicked and flailed. Shanks only squeezed him tighter.

“You’re my baby brother now,” Shanks declared. “No negotiations. I’m kidnapping you.”

“WHAT?!”

“NO,” Crocodile snapped, standing so fast the chair shattered.

“Put him down,” Mihawk said, unsheathing Yoru.

Shanks blinked. “Wait—are you two his parents now?!”

“NO!” the two warlords shouted.

“...Okay but like, emotionally?” Shanks pressed.

Buggy screamed, “WHY IS EVERYONE CLAIMING ME LIKE A DAMN HOUSEPLANT—?!” But it was too late. Shanks hoisted Buggy under his arm like a squirming plushie.

“We’re going to go hang out! Maybe get ice cream! Maybe a tattoo!”

“NO TATTOOS!” Buggy shrieked. “AND NOT WITH YOU!”

Crocodile and Mihawk immediately activated full pursuit. There was yelling. Sword beams. Logia smoke. A candy bribe.

Buggy screamed the entire time.

And then, in the middle of this glorious chaos, Rayleigh arrived. He walked into the middle of the warzone like he was strolling into a tea shop. Calm. Polite. Disgustingly dad-like. Without saying a word, he reached up, plucked Buggy from Shanks’s grip mid-air, and placed the boy on his hip.

“I’m taking my son for an outing,” he said.

Everyone froze.

“Who are you?” Mihawk asked.

“Return the clown!” Crocodile roared.

“Who the hell gave you visitation rights?!” Shanks shouted.

No one recognized Rayleugh. How could they? This wasn't the aged, scarred Dark King they knew from their pirate legends. This was a man in his late thirties, radiating an effortless power. His calm demeanour belied a formidable strength, easily navigating the volatile aura of Mihawk and the raw fury of Shanks.

Rayleigh just smiled. “My baby needs fresh air. I’ll bring him back before dinner.” And then he stepped into the light tunnel behind him, a swirling beam of impossible energy, and vanished with a confused, flailing Buggy.

“Wait. I didn’t finish my drawing—and I don’t have Flop! Where’s Flop?!” And thus, the future Pirate King disappeared for the day, leaving behind a Yonko, a warlord and a war criminal arguing over joint custody across dimensional space.

The zombie world? It healed.

Buggy? He thrived.

... ...

Fanart by 2000sky

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: BUGGY-SAMA APPROVES THIS ENDING :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧
(Because his ego demands it.)