The night after Arlong Park burned, the air finally smelled like the sea again instead of gunpowder.
The Clown Ship drifted under a full moon, sails loose, the waves soft and patient.
For once, Buggy wasn't barking orders or setting something on fire. He was sitting cross-legged on a barrel, boots off, coat draped lazily over his shoulders. A bottle of cheap rum sat in front of him, already half-empty.
Around him, the crew lounged wherever there was space, on crates, coils of rope, or just flat on the deck. Someone had started a small bonfire in a metal basin.
Mohji roasted something unidentifiable on a stick. Cabaji leaned back against the railing, flipping a knife through his fingers like a man who needed to feel dangerous to relax.
Laughter rippled across the deck. The night had that rare softness to it—the kind that almost made you forget they were wanted criminals.
"Alright," Buggy said suddenly, tapping the rim of the bottle with a ringed finger. "Since we're all still alive, let's make it official. We're making a crew tradition, everyone tells a story."
Groans. Immediate, dramatic, heartfelt groans.
"Oh come on, Captain," Mohji whined. "Every time we drink, someone starts crying or puking or both. Want to make it even worse?"
"Exactly!" Buggy grinned. "That's called bonding, my sweet summer simpleton. Now, who's first?"
In the past, maybe they wouldn't have been as inclined. As Buggy was more of a figure they feared.
But he had changed a lot, to the point where his men were free to even make jokes about his nose if they wanted.
But they didn't, because although their fear had faded slightly, their respect had grown massively. Buggy proved himself to be extremely competent after all.
"I'll go first," Cabaji said, shrugging. "It's not much of a story anyway."
Buggy leaned forward, chin in his palm. "Oh, this'll be good. Tell me about how a circus acrobat became a pirate instead of a trapeze accident statistic."
Cabaji smirked, spinning his knife once before sheathing it. "I grew up near a traveling circus. Used to sneak under the tents at night to watch the shows.
Tightropes, knives, lions, and fire. Everything looked larger than life. I wanted that. So I trained. Stole ropes, borrowed knives… didn't have much else."
He took a drink before continuing. "Joined the circus when I was old enough. Turns out, life under the big top isn't all smiles and applause. You either get good fast, or you die midair. I got good."
"Until?" Buggy prompted.
"Until I didn't get paid." Cabaji grinned bitterly. "So I robbed the ringmaster blind and ran. Marines wanted me for grand larceny, so I figured, what's one more crime? Joined up with a pirate crew."
"And then that crew sank, and you ended up joining me," Buggy said, raising his bottle. "Lucky you! From juggling knives to crime on the high seas!
Cabaji chuckled, shaking his head. "Could be worse."
"It will be worse," Buggy corrected cheerfully. "I guarantee it."
The laughter came easily after that.
Next came Mohji's turn.
The tamer sat cross-legged beside Richie, the lion's tail lazily flicking near the fire. "I've always loved animals," Mohji said, scratching behind Richie's ear. "Didn't really like people much, though. My family wanted me to be a noble's pet handler. They said it was an 'honorable' job."
He spat over the side. "Honorable, my ass. You know what nobles do to their animals? Treat them like trophies. One day, I saw a lion cub chained up for sport. I snapped. Broke the locks, stole the cub, and ran. That was Richie."
The big lion yawned, unimpressed.
Mohji smiled faintly. "Been on the run ever since. Nobles, Marines, bounty hunters—you name it. Then one day, a clown pirate shows up and offers me a job feeding a gorilla to a man for entertainment. Thought to myself, yeah, this feels right."
Buggy raised his bottle again. "And here we are. Family through felony!"
They laughed again. Someone from the crew shouted, "Tell your story, Captain!"
Buggy froze dramatically, mid-swig. "Mine?"
"Aye!" several voices chimed in. "C'mon, Captain! You've made us talk, your turn's come."
Buggy made a show of sighing, stretching his arms behind his head. "You poor bastards really want to know?"
"Yeah!"
"Alright, alright." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes glinting in the firelight. "You want the tragic backstory of your glorious leader? The tale of heartbreak, betrayal, and poor decision-making that led to this?" He gestured broadly at himself. "Fine. Sit down, shut up, and pour another drink."
Someone refilled his bottle. He took a long pull, then started.
"Roger's execution…" Buggy's voice softened, just a touch. "It was like watching your parents die. The man was larger than life, hell, he was life for some of us. And when he went, it felt like the sea went quiet."
The crew did go quiet. Even Richie lifted his head. Buggy did his best to drunkenly amend his story so it would fit what his crew knew of him.
"I tried to carry on. I thought I'd make my own crew and find my own treasure. And so I went searchin~ But when you grow up under the Pirate King, everything else feels small."
He swirled the rum in his bottle, eyes distant now. "So I drifted. Picked fights. Made trouble. Fell in with the wrong kind of people. Then… well, let's just say the world isn't kind when you've got nothing left to lose."
He chuckled, the sound hollow but not bitter. "Ever been somewhere so dangerous even the rats walk in pairs? I have. Whole towns ruled by fear, by men who made monsters look civilized. I was young, dumb, and addicted aplenty. Ended up across the seas, far from home."
He paused, the crew hanging on his every word. Even his grin had faded slightly.
"Got caught in the middle of a war that wasn't mine… Spent months in a camp. They beat the color outta me. Then they gave me a choice: die or fight for them." He raised his hand, wiggling his fingers theatrically.
"...What did you choose?" Mohji asked quietly.
He took another swig and grimaced. "I thought, well, I've already died once inside; might as well pick the lively option."
Buggy smiled faintly. "I learned to fight dirty, to steal, to disappear. Did things I'm not proud of, things I'll never forget. But eventually, I got good at surviving."
He leaned back, taking another long drink. "One night, I decided I'd had enough. Took a knife, snuck through their camp, and didn't stop until I'd cut down every bastard who ever laid a hand on me."
No one spoke for a long time. The waves against the hull filled the silence.
Then Buggy grinned suddenly, breaking the tension like glass. "And that's when I learned the secret to life, boys, always clean your knives and never join a revolution unless you get paid really, really well..."
Laughter erupted, shaky but real. Someone threw a cork at him. Buggy caught it in his teeth, bit down, and spat it into the fire with a pop.
"Captain," Cabaji said after the noise died down, "where was all that? What sea? What island?"
Buggy waved a hand dismissively. "Far from here. Doesn't matter. That chapter's done, burned, buried, and blown up for good measure."
Mohji tilted his head. "So… what does matter, then?"
Buggy smirked, setting the bottle down and rising to his feet. "The present, obviously. That's where we're anchored. And the future, because that's where we're headed. The past?" He shrugged. "It's just gravel. Good for keeping you grounded, but dead weight if you hold onto it too long."
He climbed up onto the railing, balancing easily as the ship rocked. "Besides," he said, raising his bottle toward the moon, "if you spend too long staring backward, you'll miss the fireworks ahead."
Cabaji grinned. "And what fireworks would those be, Captain?"
Buggy's grin widened. "The ones we make, of course."
Cheers went up across the deck. Someone started banging on a drum, and another strummed a broken guitar with two strings. Mohji fed more wood to the fire. The air filled with laughter, off-key singing, and the warm comfort of shared survival.
Even Buggy laughed freely, head thrown back, eyes glittering in the firelight. For a moment, he looked less like a clown and more like any other man, one who'd taken a few too many punches from life and decided to learn to take them laughing.
Later, when the crew had either passed out or stumbled below deck, Buggy stayed up alone. The fire burned low, crackling softly. He stared out at the horizon, dark, endless, and silent.
He whispered to himself so quietly that not even the sea could carry it. "Guess I wasn't lying, huh? The past is dead. Present's drunk. Future's probably another bad idea with good lighting."
Then he chuckled, low and tired. "I can work with that."
He raised the bottle one last time toward the stars. "To bad decisions," he toasted softly. "May we always survive them."
The ship drifted on through the night, laughter fading into snores, the sea rolling gently under the silver moonlight.
Somewhere in the darkness ahead, trouble was already waiting. But for now, the world was quiet.