-Broadcast-
Banquets were essential to pirate culture. An unwritten law, really—as fundamental to crew life as hoisting sails or singing shanties. Women were optional. Music was appreciated. But food, drink, and celebration? Those were mandatory. A pirate crew that didn't throw parties wasn't a proper crew at all.
The Buggy Pirates embodied this philosophy completely.
They arrived at the debris field with characteristic swagger, their massive ship pulling alongside the floating wreckage of the destroyed Marine fleet. Within minutes, crew members had transformed the grim battlefield into a festival ground. Tables were erected on stable sections of deck. Barrels of alcohol were rolled out from storage. Meat was set to roasting over improvised fires.
All of this happened directly above the ruins of recent combat. Next to the scraps of Marine vessels. Surrounded by the bodies of Marine personnel who'd been caught in the crossfire between Buggy and Bullet.
The juxtaposition was jarring—laughter and music echoing across a graveyard, celebration blooming on blood-soaked wood. But none of the pirates seemed bothered by it. Death was just part of the business. Today's corpses might have been yesterday's comrades if the dice had rolled differently.
The Buggy Pirates' crew composition reflected their captain's recent history. Many were escapees from Impel Down's various levels—criminals of varying strength and notoriety who'd been freed during Buggy's infamous prison break. Their combat capabilities ranged from competent to formidable, but loyalty was universal.
They'd all been impressed by Buggy the Clown's personal charisma. That strange magnetism that made people want to follow him, to believe in his vision, to throw themselves into danger on his behalf. Whether fighting or simply handling logistics, every crew member contributed enthusiastically.
Those same crew members now scurried about preparing the banquet. Crates of food and drink emerged from the ship's holds. When supplies ran low, brothers would dive overboard without complaint, swimming to the Marine's abandoned vessels to salvage whatever remained usable. They worked with cheerful efficiency, calling out to each other, making jokes despite the corpses floating past.
If someone swimming through the debris accidentally bumped into a dead Marine—body not yet sunk, pale face staring sightlessly at the sky—well, that was just unfortunate. People's joys and sorrows weren't interchangeable. Same species, different sides. Life and death came down to luck and timing.
The banquet officially began when Buggy the Clown took his position on the elevated captain's chair. The seat sat on a raised platform that ensured everyone could see him clearly—a throne in all but name. He filled an oversized wine glass to the brim with deep red liquid salvaged from the Marine supply ship.
Raising the glass high above his head, Buggy's voice carried across the assembled crowd with practiced showmanship.
"This Marine wine smells excellent!" His grin was wide and infectious. "Get used to the taste, brothers! When you follow me, you'll drink this quality every single day! I, Buggy the Clown, will lead you to conquer these seas! We'll take everything the world has to offer and make it ours!"
The declaration drew roars of approval from the assembled pirates. Buggy tilted his head back and drained the entire glass in one continuous gulp, his throat working as the alcohol disappeared. The moment he finished, slamming the empty glass down with a satisfied gasp, the rest of the crew erupted into action.
Drinking, eating, celebrating—the atmosphere transformed instantly from ordered assembly to joyous chaos. Officers and common crew mingled freely, sharing bottles and stories. Douglas Bullet and Kozuki Momonosuke found themselves swept up in the infectious energy, raising their own cups in response to the toast.
The Buggy Pirates operated with minimal formal structure. Once Captain Buggy took that first drink and started eating, everything else was fair game. No rigid hierarchies. No protocol. Brothers could drink themselves stupid, play gambling games with dice and cards, gorge on roasted meat, wrestle for entertainment, or engage in any number of other activities.
Freedom was the only rule. As long as you were on Buggy's ship, under his flag, you could do as you pleased.
For Kozuki Momonosuke, this was his first experience with alcohol. His mother, Lady Toki, had been strict about such things when she was alive. Children didn't drink. Period. The discussion ended there, no matter how much he'd begged to try when watching the adults celebrate.
But here, on this ship saturated with anarchic liberty, no one cared about his age. No one asked if a minor should be consuming alcohol. Everyone formed their own small groups and did exactly as they wished.
So Momonosuke took a large gulp from the cup someone had pressed into his hands.
The liquid burned down his throat, harsh and bitter. This is disgusting, he thought immediately, fighting the urge to spit it out. How do adults drink this voluntarily? It's worse than seawater!
But strangely, despite the unpleasant taste and the significant quantity he'd consumed, he didn't feel drunk. No dizziness, no impaired coordination, no slurred speech. Perhaps it was related to the artificial Devil Fruit in his body, altering his metabolism in unexpected ways. Or maybe he simply possessed a natural tolerance—one of those rare constitutions that could drink a hundred cups without showing effects.
Either way, the alcohol provided no escape from his thoughts.
Momonosuke's eyes drifted to the figure sitting in the elevated captain's chair. Buggy the Clown—a name his father had never mentioned. Not once in all the stories Kozuki Oden had told about his time with the Roger Pirates.
Why? the boy wondered. Was Buggy not important enough to mention? Or was there another reason Father stayed silent about him?
The Roger Pirates had clearly been filled with exceptional talent. Yet after the crew disbanded following Roger's execution, most members had seemingly vanished from the world stage. As if they were hiding. Running from something. Or perhaps protecting something.
Before fleeing Wano Country, Momonosuke had spent months absorbing information from newspapers that his retainers smuggled into their hiding places. He'd learned the structure of the current world—how power was distributed, who ruled which territories, where his potential allies might be found.
The second half of the Grand Line belonged to the Yonko. Four Emperors who controlled vast territories and commanded loyalty from thousands of subordinates: Kaido of the Beasts, Charlotte Linlin, Red-Haired Shanks, and Edward Newgate—Whitebeard.
The Kozuki family had connections to two of those four.
Red-Haired Shanks had been a trainee on Roger's ship, just like Buggy. But Shanks's relationship with Kozuki Oden couldn't compare to what the Whitebeard Pirates had offered. The Moby Dick was where Momonosuke had been born, after all. Where his earliest memories had formed. Where his father had served as a division commander before returning to Wano.
When Momonosuke had first escaped his homeland with Lady Toki's time-travel ability, his plan had been simple: reach the Whitebeard Pirates. Beg his adoptive grandfather for help. Return with an army to liberate Wano from Kaido's tyranny.
It had been the logical choice. The best choice. The only choice that made sense.
But plans meant nothing when reality intervened brutally.
Momonosuke had spent six months trapped in Punk Hazard's nightmare—hiding among corpses, surviving on scraps, slowly gathering information about the outside world from scraps of newspaper and overheard conversations. And through those fragmentary reports, he'd learned the devastating truth.
The Whitebeard Pirates no longer existed. Destroyed completely during something called the Paramount War. Edward Newgate himself was dead, killed at Marine Headquarters while trying to rescue one of his own.
The news had shattered something fundamental inside Momonosuke. His backup plan. His safety net. His entire strategy for survival and revenge—gone. Obliterated before he could even attempt implementation.
What do I do now? The question had haunted him for months.
But today, Buggy the Clown had appeared like fate's answer to his desperation.
This man—this overwhelmingly powerful pirate who'd defeated Douglas Bullet with almost casual ease—clearly valued Momonosuke for some reason. The connection to Kozuki Oden? Knowledge about Wano? Information about the Poneglyphs? Whatever the reason, Buggy had spared his life and brought him aboard.
As long as he remained valuable, he wouldn't be discarded. That was the cruel mathematics of power.
The negotiating positions were absurdly unequal, of course. Momonosuke had nothing to offer except information and his bloodline. But Buggy's demonstrated strength suggested he might actually be capable of challenging Kaido—one of the Yonko who'd murdered Oden and enslaved Wano.
Is it possible? Momonosuke wondered, hope and dread warring in his chest. Could this man actually help me restore my country?
The thought immediately spiraled into doubt.
How do I even start that conversation? "Excuse me, Mr. Buggy, would you mind going to war with one of the Four Emperors because a child asked nicely?" That's insane. No one wages that kind of war based on a few words from a powerless boy.
The depressing reality made Momonosuke gulp down more alcohol. The taste had somehow become less offensive—not good, exactly, but tolerable. Almost comforting in its harsh burn. Maybe this was how adults dealt with problems too large to solve. Drown them in enough liquid that they became temporarily manageable.
I want to be drunk, Momonosuke thought desperately. I want to stop thinking for just a little while. To not carry this burden that's too heavy for a child.
But the alcohol continued to fail at providing that mercy. His mind remained frustratingly clear.
Across the celebratory chaos, Douglas Bullet sat alone in a corner.
The Devil's Heir had initially attempted to join the general festivities, but his imposing presence and fresh battle damage had created an unconscious bubble of space around him. Other crew members gave him wide berth—not hostile, exactly, but uncertain. He was too new, too dangerous, too unknown.
So Bullet had retreated to the periphery, nursing his own drink while watching the celebration with hooded eyes.
After perhaps an hour of isolation, the man made his decision. He stood, his massive frame drawing immediate attention from nearby pirates who quickly made room. Without acknowledging their stares, Bullet strode directly toward the elevated captain's chair where Buggy the Clown held court.
Buggy tracked his approach with lazy interest, still lounging comfortably while surrounded by subordinates sharing stories and laughter. When Bullet stopped at the base of the platform, looking up at the captain seated above him, something flickered in the massive man's expression.
Frustration, Momonosuke realized, watching from his corner. He hates looking up at someone.
But Bullet suppressed whatever objection rose in his throat. His jaw clenched. His fists tightened. But he endured the indignity because the alternative—challenging Buggy again—would only result in another humiliating defeat.
If you want to become stronger, Bullet's posture seemed to say, you must swallow your pride and take the necessary steps.
From inside his coat—somehow still wearable despite the extensive battle damage—Bullet withdrew a small ornate box. Mahogany, by the look of it, with brass fittings and delicate engravings. Clearly expensive. Clearly important.
Without ceremony, he tossed the box upward.
Buggy caught it one-handed, his reflexes effortless despite the alcohol he'd consumed. His painted face showed curiosity as he examined the container.
"You've been chasing me for weeks just to obtain this," Bullet said flatly. His voice carried across the sudden quiet that had fallen over nearby crew members. "I'm giving it to you tonight. But you have to agree to one request of mine."
Buggy's grin widened, intrigued rather than offended by the conditional offer. "A negotiation? How bold. Let's see what's worth bargaining over."
He activated his Devil Fruit ability. The Bara Bara no Mi (Chop-Chop Fruit) power manifested as hairline fractures spreading across the box's surface—perfect splits that divided the container at the molecular level without damaging the contents. The pieces fell away like flower petals opening, revealing what lay inside.
An Eternal Pose.
The specialized Log Pose sat nestled in velvet padding, its glass dome protecting the needle that pointed unerringly toward a single, permanent destination. Unlike normal Log Poses that needed time to attune to each island, an Eternal Pose locked onto one location and never wavered.
Possession of one meant guaranteed navigation to wherever it pointed—no guesswork, no risk of getting lost, no dependency on magnetic fields or weather conditions.
Buggy lifted the Eternal Pose carefully, holding it up to catch the light. The needle remained perfectly steady despite the ship's gentle rocking. His eyes gleamed behind the clownish makeup.
"Well, well. You've been holding out on me, Bullet." The captain's voice carried genuine appreciation. "This is quite the gift. I'm impressed you managed to keep it hidden during our fight—I'd have carved it off your corpse if I'd known you were carrying something this valuable."
He leaned back in his chair, still playing with the Eternal Pose, watching the needle's unwavering direction.
"You've given me such a treasure. So yes, I'll satisfy any reasonable request you make. What do you want?"
Bullet's response came without hesitation. He'd clearly been planning this moment since his defeat.
"I want to join your crew. Formally. As a member of the Buggy Pirates." His scarred face was serious, earnest in a way that seemed strange on someone so brutal. "Just like when I joined Roger's crew decades ago. I'll challenge you constantly. Push you. Test you. And through those challenges, I'll surpass my own limitations and continue growing stronger."
He paused, then added with raw honesty that was almost painful to witness:
"I hope to achieve with you what Pirate King Roger never accomplished—my own evolution into something greater. I need someone stronger than me to struggle against. You're that person now."
Douglas Bullet was fundamentally simple in his complexity. His mind contained essentially two tracks: muscles and fighting. Combat had been integrated so deeply into his identity that separation was impossible. If he stopped growing stronger, if he lost the ability to challenge himself through battle, existence would become unbearable.
Even twenty years imprisoned in Impel Down's Level Six hadn't extinguished that competitive fire. If anything, the forced stagnation had made the need burn hotter.
But he'd been lucky. Upon escaping, he'd learned of Whitebeard's death—proof that even legends could fall. Not long after, Buggy the Clown had located him through some unspecified means and initiated contact.
Buggy's approach had followed a deliberate three-step strategy, as calculated as any military campaign:
Step One: Treat him to a meal. Extend an olive branch. Offer partnership without violence. Give him the chance to join voluntarily.
Result: Bullet had rejected the offer with contempt. Refused to even consider serving someone he remembered as a weak trainee from decades past.
Step Two: Behead. Not literally, but demonstrate such overwhelming superiority that death becomes a tangible option. Show exactly how large the power gap truly was.
Result: Buggy had crushed him. Humiliated him. Reduced his ultimate techniques to ineffective struggles. Made it clear that killing Bullet would be trivial—a matter of choosing to do so, not capability.
Step Three: Keep as a dog. Not through chains or threats, but by becoming the goal. The mountain to climb. The challenge that made subordination worthwhile.
Result: Complete natural submission. Bullet joining not because he was forced, but because this was exactly what he wanted—someone stronger to push against.
Buggy the Clown, master manipulator who understood human psychology with frightening clarity, had known exactly how this would unfold. Bullet's surrender wasn't a surprise. It was the inevitable conclusion to a perfectly executed recruitment.
"Interesting," Buggy mused, still turning the Eternal Pose in his fingers. The needle pointed steadily toward whatever destination Bullet had been protecting. "You're offering me this treasure and asking for the privilege of constant combat. Most people would consider that arrangement heavily skewed in my favor."
"It is in your favor," Bullet agreed without shame. "But I get what I need too. The chance to grow. The opportunity to face someone worthy. That's payment enough."
Buggy's laugh was genuine—delighted by the brutal honesty.
"I like you, Bullet. You don't hide your intentions behind false courtesy. You're exactly what you appear to be." The captain stood from his throne, still holding the Eternal Pose. He looked down at the massive man below him and grinned wider.
"Welcome to the Buggy Pirates, Douglas Bullet. Challenge me whenever you think you're ready. I'll enjoy crushing you repeatedly until you finally understand the gap between us. And who knows?" His eyes glinted with something dangerous. "Maybe one day you'll actually land a hit that makes me work for it."
Around them, the crew erupted into cheers. A new brother joining the ranks. Another powerful subordinate under Buggy's banner. More strength for the pirate group that seemed destined for greatness.
Bullet didn't smile, but something in his posture relaxed. Purpose had been restored. Direction had been established. The path forward was clear again.
From his corner, Momonosuke watched the exchange with growing understanding. This was how Buggy operated—not through mindless violence or cruel subjugation, but through making people want to follow him. Through becoming someone whose goals aligned with their desires.
Calculated, Momonosuke thought. Everything he does is calculated. Even the party, even the casual attitude—it's all designed to make people loyal.
The boy took another drink, the alcohol no longer even registering as unpleasant. His mind was already working on his own approach.