The captain's quarters smelled like rum, blood, and scorched varnish, a scent you only found on pirate ships or poorly run taverns.
Buggy sat slouched on his bed, shirt peeled off, one arm outstretched, while the ship's so-called 'doctor', a man who'd once bragged about stitching a shark's jaw shut, worked over his wounds.
The same one that he had consulted prior, only to get diagnosed with whatever disease the doctor had heard about prior.
Regardless, it seemed that he also had some experience with wounds. Still, the doctor's hands trembled from lack of sleep or too much rum, maybe both.
"Try not to move, Captain," the man muttered, swabbing another bullet wound with what smelled suspiciously like whiskey.
"I am trying not to move," Buggy hissed. "It's you who's shaking like you're auditioning for a maraca band."
"Y-you got shot five times, Captain. Anyone else would've-"
"Anyone else would've died, yes, yes, cue applause. I'm special. You can write it on my gravestone later, right after 'Died in Style,' and 'Manic Schizo.'"
Buggy grinned despite the pain, teeth flashing in the dim lamplight. Every movement made his muscles ache, but he still found ways to make it sound funny.
That's what kept the doctor from panicking, the laughter, even if it came through clenched teeth.
He winced as the needle pierced flesh again. "Careful! I still need that shoulder for… well, for shoulder things!"
The doctor looked up, confused. Buggy waved it off.
"Never mind. Keep going. Stitch me up before I bleed out, doc~"
For a while, the cabin was filled only with the sounds of the waves and the occasional grunt of pain. Buggy's gaze drifted to the window, the small, round porthole that let in streaks of gold from the late morning sun. Dust danced through the beam like tiny ghosts.
He smirked. "You know," he muttered, mostly to himself, "There was a time I used to think I was invincible. I still think I am, not gonna lie, but my body disagrees with me at times."
The doctor pretended not to hear him.
Buggy chuckled under his breath, feeling the ache spread across his ribs. "Still… at least I ain't bored."
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Up on deck, the crew worked in the heavy salt air. The ship creaked and moaned around them, wood split and singed, ropes frayed, and holes patched over with whatever could be hammered or nailed into place.
Cabaji balanced on a beam, tying down a new rope while Mohji scrubbed blood from the planks with a mop that had seen better days.
"Can't believe we're still floating," Mohji muttered.
Cabaji spat into the sea. "The captain's stubbornness could hold the whole ship together if the nails gave out. That, or his ego."
Mohji gave a tired laugh. "Still… he's different now, huh?"
"Different?" Cabaji tied another knot and glanced down. "I guess you could call it that. Used to be when someone fired a cannon at us, Buggy would scream louder than the explosion. Now he just… smirks. Like he's in on some joke the rest of us don't get."
"Maybe he's finally lost it?"
Cabaji snorted. "You think he ever had it?"
The men nearby chuckled, but there was affection under the noise. One of the deckhands, a scrawny man with an eyepatch he didn't need, looked up from hammering. "I liked him better when he shouted more. His stories were also always grand..."
Mohji paused his scrubbing. "Yeah… but maybe this calm version's scarier. Like… when he grins now, I can't tell if he's thinking about the next joke or the next person he's going to explode."
Cabaji leaned on the mast, thoughtful. "He used to talk about conquering the Grand Line with his Buggy Balls, remember? Big speeches, fireworks, all that."
"Yeah," Mohji said softly. "I'm starting to think that was never even possible, honestly. That fishman would've killed us all back then, were it not for the captain. What are cannonballs good for if ya don't get to use them? Well, thankfully we still got to use them, but it's only when he creates the opportunity..."
"That's the weird part. Before, captain seemed to avoid most scraps..." Cabaji's voice dropped. "Now? He's enjoying himself, even when he's bleeding. Like the pain doesn't matter anymore."
Silence fell for a beat, broken only by the scrape of tools and the gentle lapping of the ocean.
"Maybe the mast really did knock something loose in that head of his," Mohji said finally. "He's been calm ever since. Smiles more. Laughs more. Doesn't yell half as much. Fights a lot better... You think-"
A sudden shadow swept over the deck.
"News Coo!" someone shouted.
The seagull swooped down, proud and self-important, a tiny mailbag swinging from its neck. It landed on the rail, ruffled its feathers, and stared at them like they owed it rent.
Cabaji tossed it a coin, snatched the paper, and unrolled it. The front page was splashed with an ink drawing so dramatic it might as well have come with a thunderclap.
A flaming ship. Screaming Marines. A jester grinning through the chaos, one hand raised like he was taking a bow.
The headline screamed: "BLOODY JESTER BUGGY – EAST BLUE'S NEW MENACE!"
Cabaji's jaw slackened. "Oh… no."
Mohji's mop hit the deck with a wet slap. "What's it say?"
"Conomi Islands… Reported civilian casualties… Assault on two Marine cruisers… Destruction of government property…" Cabaji flipped to the inside page. "Fifty million berries."
The deck went still.
One of the younger pirates whistled. "That's… that's higher than anyone in the East Blue, right?"
"Higher indeed..." Cabaji muttered. "Bloody Jester, huh?"
Mohji scratched the back of his neck. "Kinda catchy, actually. Sounds like a brand of rum that kills you after two sips."
The laughter that followed was uneasy.
Cabaji handed the poster around. Each man took a turn looking at Buggy's grinning face, the exaggerated sneer that the artists had carved from memory. The number beneath it made them all shift a little heavier on their feet.
"You think Captain'll be proud?" one of the deckhands asked.
Cabaji thought for a moment. "Oh, definitely. Then he'll make a joke about how ugly the portrait is."
Mohji sighed. "Still… fifty million. That's not a bounty, that's a death sentence..."
"Yeah," Cabaji said, staring out at the horizon. "The Marines don't put numbers like that up unless they want every hunter and dog in the sea coming for you. Headquarters must've taken notice. This isn't just local anymore."
The waves slapped against the hull, the sound heavy and distant.
After a long moment, Mohji said quietly, "We need to get stronger. We already can't keep up with the captain anymore..."
Cabaji's lips twisted into a half-smile. "I know... That stands for all of us, really... Buggy can protect us for now, but who's to say he can do the same on the Grand Line?"
Everyone on board was already aware of the rumors surrounding the Grand Line, after all. If they were fighting for their lives on the East Blue, then what would they do then?
Well, only time could tell.
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The door to Buggy's cabin creaked open, and Cabaji stepped inside. The clown sat at the small table by the window, bandaged, bruised, and sipping rum from a chipped glass.
"You look like hell, Captain," Cabaji said.
Buggy didn't look up. "Hell's got better lighting pal,"
Cabaji dropped the folded newspaper onto the table. "Got your morning fan mail."
Buggy arched an eyebrow and flipped it open.
For a moment, the room was silent except for the slow sound of paper crinkling. His eyes moved from headline to portrait to the number printed beneath it.
He blinked once. Twice. Then a low whistle escaped him.
"Well," he said finally, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Fifty million berries. Guess I'm famous again."
"'Bloody Jester Buggy,'" Cabaji read aloud. "You like it?"
Buggy tilted his head, considering. "Could be worse. Could've gone with 'Slightly Charred Buffoon.' This at least has flair and some intimidation factor to it."
Cabaji chuckled, shaking his head. "You know what this means, right? You won't be able to walk into Loguetown without half the Marines trying to collect your head."
"Ah, details," Buggy said, waving a hand. "I'll wear a hat."
Cabaji frowned. "I'm serious."
Buggy leaned back, eyes glinting. "So am I. I'll wear a different hat."
Cabaji sighed, but there was a faint smile tugging at his lips. "You really aren't afraid, huh?"
Buggy swirled the rum in his glass, watching the liquid catch the light. "Afraid? No. Cautious, maybe. But you don't get to fifty million by playing safe. You get there by being unforgettable."
He lifted the paper, studying his own face one last time. "Bloody Jester… yeah, I can work with that."
Then he looked up, grin widening. "Tell the boys not to worry about Loguetown. Trouble's half the fun, right?"
Cabaji hesitated at the door, then nodded slowly. "Right."
As he left, Buggy turned back toward the window. The horizon shimmered, pale gold over deep blue. The Clown Ship rocked gently beneath him, battered, patched, but still moving.
He tapped the bounty poster against the table once, folded it neatly, and slid it under his drink.
"Guess the show's just getting started," he murmured, eyes narrowing in amusement.
Outside, the gulls screamed, the waves rolled, and far off in the distance, the next act waited.