-Broadcast-
Kozuki Momonosuke, transformed into his fish form, managed perhaps a dozen desperate flaps of his fins after the stones struck him. He swam—if the frantic thrashing could be called swimming—for maybe thirty meters before his strength gave out completely.
The exhaustion wasn't gradual. It hit like a wall.
One moment, he was moving forward through water that resisted his every motion. The next, his muscles simply stopped responding. The fins that had been propelling him froze mid-movement. His gills continued extracting oxygen from seawater, but his body refused to use that oxygen for anything productive.
No. No no no. Not like this.
Momonosuke began sinking.
Slowly at first. Almost gently. The ocean accepting him into its depths with maternal tenderness that belied the horror of what was happening. Bubbles rose from his mouth—not breath, exactly, but something his fish body expelled as he descended.
The light from above grew dimmer. Bluer. More distant with each passing second.
I'm going to die. I'm actually going to die. Drowned like so many other Devil Fruit users. Just another statistic. Another fool who overestimated his abilities.
Despair filled him with each meter of descent. Not the sharp panic of sudden danger, but the slow, crushing weight of inevitable death. The kind of despair that made struggling seem pointless. That whispered surrender might be easier than fighting.
Maybe it won't be so bad. Maybe drowning is peaceful once you stop resisting.
His consciousness began fragmenting. Reality mixed with memory mixed with hallucination.
Suddenly, he wasn't sinking anymore.
Momonosuke stood in Wano Country. In his family's estate before the fire. Before Kaido. Before everything went wrong.
Warm sunlight streamed through paper screens. The scent of cherry blossoms drifted on the breeze. Somewhere in another room, his mother was singing—that old Wano lullaby she used to perform when he couldn't sleep.
"Momo-kun, come here." His father's voice. Strong. Alive. Calling from the courtyard.
He ran—small legs carrying him across polished wooden floors—and burst into the garden where Kozuki Oden sat beneath the cherry tree. His sister Hiyori knelt beside their father, carefully arranging flowers in a vase.
"There you are." Oden's smile was radiant. "We were waiting for you. Can't have a family gathering without everyone present, right?"
Lady Toki emerged from the house carrying a tray of tea. Her grace made even simple movements look choreographed. When she smiled at Momonosuke, warmth spread through his chest.
This is home. This is where I belong. This is...
"...not real."
The words came from his own mouth, surprising him. Hiyori looked up from her flowers, confused.
"What do you mean, brother?"
"This isn't real," Momonosuke repeated, the knowledge crystallizing even as he desperately wanted to deny it. "Father is dead. Mother is... I don't know where Mother is. You're in hiding. And I'm..."
The scene began dissolving. Cherry blossoms turned to ash. Sunlight faded to darkness. His family's forms became transparent, ghostly, then vanished entirely.
"I'm drowning."
Kozuki Momonosuke's eyes snapped open.
He lay in a hammock that swayed gently with the motion of... something. A ship? No, the movement was wrong. Probably the wind causing the canvas to shift.
His body ached. Every muscle felt bruised. His throat was raw, and when he swallowed, he tasted salt.
I didn't die.
The realization brought no relief. Only confusion and a strange disappointment that death's peace had been denied him.
Tears leaked from his eyes without permission. Not from physical pain, but from the memory of that hallucination. His family. Together. Happy. Safe.
"Mom..." The word emerged as a broken whisper. "I miss you so much."
He cried properly then. Not the frustrated tears of a child denied what he wanted, but the grief of someone who understood loss. Who knew he'd never get that moment back. Never have his family whole again.
The sadness was overwhelming—a crushing weight in his chest that made breathing difficult. But it also grounded him. Pulled him fully back to reality. Because the dead couldn't weep. The drowned didn't wake up crying.
Someone saved me. Someone pulled me out before I finished sinking.
Momonosuke sat up slowly, every movement protesting. His clothes were indeed wrinkled and stiff with dried salt water. The hammock occupied a small room—more of a storage closet, really—with barely enough space to move around. Someone had dumped him here to recover without bothering with comfort or amenities.
They fished me out and threw me in the first available space. Like garbage they weren't ready to dispose of yet.
But alive was alive. And alive meant he'd have to face that impossible waterway again.
The thought made his stomach clench with renewed dread. The carp leaping Dragon Gate challenge wasn't training—it was execution through impossible expectations. Even if he somehow succeeded, what would be the reward? Permission to attempt something even more dangerous?
This is my life now. Constant near-death experiences. Suffering designed to either kill me or forge me into something useful.
His stomach growled, interrupting the spiral of dark thoughts. He'd been unconscious all night and most of the following day, judging by the sunlight filtering through cracks in the walls. His body demanded fuel regardless of his emotional state.
Fine. Can't train if I'm too weak to move. Can't escape if I don't have energy. Eat first. Think later.
Momonosuke climbed out of the hammock and pushed open the door.
Iron Island's bizarre carnival atmosphere greeted him immediately. The painted buildings, the entertainment equipment, the perpetual sense that nothing here was quite real. But beneath the visual chaos, he detected something more important: the scent of food.
Cooked meat. Fresh bread. Something sweet and spiced. His empty stomach responded with enthusiasm, temporarily overriding his survival instincts about accepting food from pirates.
They already could have killed me if they wanted. Poisoning my dinner would be unnecessarily complicated.
He followed the scent to the largest tent on the island—a massive canvas structure that could easily accommodate two hundred people. Voices and laughter echoed from inside, along with the clatter of dishes and silverware.
Momonosuke hesitated at the entrance. I'm about to walk into a tent full of pirates. Criminals. Murderers. People who wouldn't hesitate to hurt a child for entertainment.
But his stomach overruled his brain, and he pushed through the tent flap.
The interior was surprisingly civilized despite housing pirates. Long tables arranged in rows, each laden with food. Crew members sat in loose clusters, eating and talking with the casual ease of people who felt safe among allies. Nobody paid attention to the small boy who entered.
I'm invisible to them. Too insignificant to notice.
Momonosuke's eyes scanned the crowd, searching for an empty seat. There—near the back, a spot with a full plate of food but no occupant. The table was slightly isolated from the main groups, making it even more appealing.
He walked over quickly and sat down without ceremony. The food before him looked incredible. Roasted meat that glistened with fat. Fresh vegetables. Bread still warm from the oven. Some kind of dessert pastry drizzled with honey.
Don't think. Just eat.
He grabbed the meat with both hands and tore into it like a starving animal. No utensils. No manners. Just desperate consumption. He barely chewed, swallowing chunks that were probably too large, not caring about choking as long as he could get food into his stomach faster.
His cheeks bulged obscenely as he stuffed more and more food into his mouth. Both hands worked continuously—one bringing food to his lips while the other grabbed the next piece. Grease ran down his chin. Crumbs scattered across the table.
So good, he thought through the feeding frenzy. Why is it so good? Pirates are supposed to be scavengers. Thieves. Where did they get food this quality?
"Although the people are terrible," Momonosuke mumbled around a mouthful of bread, "the food isn't bad. Wonder where they stole it from."
The impression of pirates as fundamentally unproductive—robbers who survived through plunder rather than creation—was deeply ingrained in his Wano upbringing. The idea of pirates farming their own crops or raising livestock seemed absurd. Even supposedly "honorable" pirate crews relied on protection fees and strategic theft.
Piracy is born from original sin, his tutors had taught. They take but never give. Destroy but never build.
"Hey, little brother." A woman's voice, smooth as silk and sweet as poison. "It's quite rude to sit in your sister's seat without asking permission."
Momonosuke looked up from his plate with mild annoyance. He'd been eating, and whoever this was could wait until—
The thought died as his eyes focused on the woman standing before him.
Beautiful.
The word was inadequate. Insufficient to capture what he was seeing. She possessed the kind of beauty that seemed designed to bypass rational thought and speak directly to instinct. Perfect features arranged in perfect proportions. Curves that his child's mind couldn't fully appreciate but his body somehow responded to anyway.
Long dark hair framed a face that could have been sculpted by master artists. Her smile was gentle and inviting. Her eyes held promises of things Momonosuke was too young to understand but desperately wanted to learn.
For the first time in his life—despite being less than ten years old—Kozuki Momonosuke felt his heart race for reasons that had nothing to do with fear.
So this is what desire feels like.
His face flushed. Heat spread through his body, concentrating in places that made him deeply uncomfortable. And then—mortifyingly, unstoppably—his nose began bleeding.
Bright red droplets fell onto the food he'd been eating.
"Oh my." The woman's voice carried amusement and something darker. "Such an honest reaction. You wear your heart on your sleeve, don't you?"
She leaned forward slightly, her cleavage now prominently displayed at Momonosuke's eye level. The boy's pupils dilated. His breathing became shallow. Rational thought dissolved like sugar in hot water.
"Since your eyes love looking at me so much," she continued, her tone remaining gentle and sweet despite the horror of what she was suggesting, "why don't you give them to me? Let them stay with me forever. I'll take such good care of them."
Yes, some subconscious part of Momonosuke whispered. Give them to her. She deserves them. She deserves everything.
His hands moved without conscious direction. Fingers rising toward his face. Reaching for his eyes with clear intent to—
No. Wait. What am I doing?
But the protest was faint. Buried beneath layers of compulsion that felt almost natural. Of course he should give her his eyes. She'd asked so nicely. Refusing would be ungrateful. Disrespectful.
His fingertips touched the skin beneath his right eye. Pressure began building as his hand prepared to—
"Ann. Stop playing." A man's voice cut through the compulsion like a blade. Sharp. Commanding. Annoyed. "If you break this brat, Lord Buggy will be pissed. And then I'll be the one dealing with his tantrum."
Momonosuke's reason snapped back into control like a rubber band released from tension. He jerked his hands away from his face, staring at them in absolute horror.
I was going to gouge out my own eyes. I was actually going to do it. Because she asked.
His entire body began trembling. Cold sweat broke out across his skin despite the tent's warmth. His breathing came in short, panicked gasps.
What did she do to me? What is she?
The woman—Ann—pouted like a child denied a toy. "I was just practicing on a Mythical Beast user. He didn't lose any limbs, so there's no harm done. Captain shouldn't be upset over a little fun."
Her voice remained sweet. As if discussing mutilation was equivalent to discussing the weather.
Momonosuke looked at his rescuer with desperate gratitude. The man's appearance was distinctive—the number three symbol on his head made him instantly recognizable even to someone unfamiliar with the crew's hierarchy.
Character Note: Galdino (Mr. 3)
The man who'd intervened was Galdino, also known as Mr. 3 during his tenure with Baroque Works. Currently recognized as the "Third Brother" of the Buggy Pirates—a title that apparently carried enough weight to override Ann's sadistic entertainment.
He possessed the Doru Doru no Mi (Wax-Wax Fruit), a Paramecia-type ability that allowed him to produce and manipulate candle wax. In combat, he could create structures, restraints, and weapons from hardened wax that rivaled steel in durability.
But more importantly, he'd just saved Momonosuke from self-inflicted mutilation.
"After you finish eating and recover your energy," Galdino said without warmth or sympathy, "get back to your training. And don't even think about escaping Iron Island. Marine Admirals have tried reaching this place and failed to leave unscathed. A weak child like you wouldn't make it ten meters."
Before Momonosuke could respond, Galdino grabbed the edge of the table—with the boy still sitting at it—and physically threw both outside the tent.
Momonosuke yelped as he tumbled through the air, landing hard on packed dirt. The table crashed somewhere nearby, scattering food across the ground.
And then he collided with something solid. Something that felt like hitting a brick wall covered in human skin.
"Found you." Douglas Bullet's voice carried grim satisfaction. "Checked your room—you weren't there. Should have known you'd be scrounging for food. Time for training, brat."
The massive hand grabbed Momonosuke's collar, lifting him into the air effortlessly. The boy's legs dangled uselessly, his protests and struggles completely ignored.
"Wait! I just nearly drowned yesterday! I need to recover! This is unreasonable! You can't—"
Bullet began walking toward the beach without acknowledging any of it. On Iron Island, the weak had no rights. No negotiating power. No voice that mattered.
Momonosuke's fate was decided by people stronger than him, and his opinions were irrelevant to those decisions.
Inside the large tent, Ann and Galdino watched the boy being carried away. Their conversation shifted to more pressing matters than child torture.
"The visitor will arrive tomorrow," Galdino said, producing a small wax sculpture that he'd been working on during the meal. His hands moved with unconscious skill, shaping details without looking. "He's bringing the fruit the captain wants. Quite the peace offering."
Ann's expression shifted from playful to calculating. "The Mera Mera no Mi (Flame-Flame Fruit). I never imagined it would end up in Celestial Dragon hands. That idiot Doflamingo got lucky—probably the only time in his miserable life fortune smiled on him."
She traced a finger along her lips, thoughtful. "He's being quite sincere with this gift. We should accommodate some of his requests when he arrives. Show proper hospitality for proper tribute."
Galdino nodded slowly. "After Marineford, he'll need reinforcements to maintain his position. His family got decimated in that war. The Donquixote Pirates were never the same after losing so many executives."
"And he thinks hiring one of ours will solve his problems," Ann finished. "Desperate. But useful desperation. We can leverage it."
The Mera Mera no Mi was merely a stepping stone—admission price to enter Iron Island and negotiate with the Buggy Pirates. But what that negotiation would ultimately cost Doflamingo... well, he'd never understand the full price until it was far too late.
Some debts couldn't be calculated in Beli or Devil Fruits.
Some prices were paid in blood, loyalty, and the slow erosion of everything you'd built.
Ann smiled at that thought. Sweet. Beautiful. Absolutely merciless.
"I wonder how long he'll last," she mused aloud. "Before realizing his mistake. Before understanding that dealing with us was worse than facing his enemies alone."
Galdino didn't answer. His wax sculpture was complete—a miniature figure of Doflamingo with puppet strings attached. He set it on the table between them.
Neither needed to voice what they were both thinking: The Heavenly Demon thinks he's making a deal. But he's really just trading one master for another.
And our master never lets go.
Outside, the sun continued its arc toward evening. Momonosuke's screams carried faintly on the wind as Douglas Bullet threw him back into the ocean to attempt the impossible waterway once more.
On Iron Island, suffering was routine. Cruelty was policy. And strength was the only currency that mattered.
Welcome to the Buggy Pirates, where the training either killed you or forged you into something that wished it had died instead.