Chapter Text
The sea was calm, the sky clear—a peaceful day by all accounts.
Vice Admiral Garp stood on the main deck of the Marine warship, arms crossed, watching the horizon. He should have been relaxed, his mission nearly complete. Rouge's and Roger's son slept belowdecks, swaddled in blankets in the captain's quarters, destined for the care of Dadan and her bandits. The boy hadn't made a sound since they'd set sail. As if he already knew the weight of the world on his tiny shoulders.
Garp sighed, scratching his chin. "Kids," he grumbled. "Always more trouble than they're worth."
Then the screaming started.
It wasn't the usual chaos of his rowdy Marines. High-pitched, frantic, like a man who'd seen a ghost.
Garp's head snapped toward the commotion just in time to see two soldiers collapse to their knees, their faces drained of blood. Between them darted a blur of blue and red, moving too fast, too wrong. A laugh echoed—unnatural, jagged, like nails on glass—before the figure vanished down the hatch leading belowdecks.
"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!" Garp bellowed, storming forward.
A Marine stumbled back, trembling. "V-Vice Admiral! There's—there's a—"
"SPIT IT OUT, SOLDIER!"
"A DEMON CLOWN!"
Garp's eyebrow twitched.
Then he heard it—a giggle, drifting up from the lower deck.
He moved.
The hatch slammed open as Garp barreled down the steps, his haki flaring in warning. The narrow hallway below was dim, lined with storage crates and swinging lanterns. At the far end, the door to the captain's quarters hung slightly ajar.
And perched on a barrel just outside it, swinging his legs like a child on a playground, sat him.
Blue hair, shaved close to the scalp. Face caked in smeared white makeup. That damned red nose, glowing like a beacon in the shadows.
But the eyes—
This wasn't the whining, cowardly brat Garp remembered from Roger's crew.
This boy's smile was hungry.
"YOU!" Garp roared, fists clenching. "GET AWAY FROM THAT DOOR!"
Buggy tilted his head, still grinning. Then, in a voice that didn't quite sound like his own, he giggled.
"Oops."
And then he split apart.
His head detached first, floating upward with a lazy spin. His arms followed, peeling away at the shoulders, fingers stretching like spider legs. The Marines behind Garp shrieked—some dropped their weapons, others fainted outright.
Garp didn't flinch. "DEVIL FRUIT USER!"
Buggy's disembodied head drifted closer, still grinning. "Sorry, old man! Just here for a little... souvenir!"
Garp's blood ran cold.
Souvenir?
Then it hit him.
The baby.
"IF YOU LAY A FINGER ON THAT CHILD—!"
Buggy's laughter echoed as his torso twisted midair, slipping through the cracked door like smoke. His legs kicked off the barrel, following after him. Garp lunged, his fist shattering the doorframe—but Buggy was already inside, his reassembled body crouched over the crib.
Ace lay undisturbed, still sleeping.
Buggy's gloved finger pressed to his painted lips. "Shhh," he whispered. "You'll wake him."
Garp's next punch would have caved in the wall—would have ended this—but Buggy's free hand moved, and suddenly Ace was cradled in the crook of his detached arm, lifted just enough that Garp couldn't strike without hitting him first.
"Fast," Garp realised, teeth grinding. Too fast.
Roger's clown apprentice had been a nuisance, a whining weakling who couldn't even swim.
This thing? This wasn't the same boy.
Garp feinted left, then drove his haki-coated fist straight for Buggy's gut—a blow that would drop most pirates without killing them.
Buggy folded.
His torso bent backward like a snapped puppet, his legs twisting unnaturally to the side. Ace remained cradled safely in the crook of his arm, not even jostled.
"Tsk tsk," Buggy tutted, his floating head wagging. "Careful, old man. You'll hurt the baby."
Every move Garp made, every shockwave he held back—Buggy anticipated it. Not just dodging, but positioning Ace so any attack would risk hitting him first. And worse, Buggy wasn't even using the baby as a shield. He was protecting him. Deliberately. Perfectly.
"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT WITH HIM?!" Garp roared, fists trembling.
Buggy's grin sharpened.
"Not him," he sing-songed, bouncing Ace lightly. "Just... proof."
Then his free hand plunged into the crib's blankets—and pulled out Rouge's pendant. The one Garp had hidden there.
Garp's stomach dropped.
How did he—?
Before he could finish the thought, Buggy's body reassembled in a whirl of limbs, Ace now strapped snugly against his chest with a strip of cloth—when did he even do that?—and his free hand lashed out.
Not to attack.
To tap the porthole behind him.
The entire window frame detached, swinging open with a creak.
Garp was on him in an instant—but Buggy was already perched on the sill, sea wind whipping at his coat, Ace still secure in his grasp.
"Don't worry," he chirped, tilting his head. "I'll give him back. Probably."
Then he leaned backward—
—and dropped into the open sea.
Garp's hands shook.
── ⟡ ˙🌱 ̟
The island was small, silent, and utterly insignificant—just a speck of sand and palm trees in the endless blue. Buggy stood there, Ace still bundled against his chest, his mind a storm of confusion and panic.
"What the hell was that?!" he shrieked, voice cracking. "You said—you said just steal something from Garp the Marine Hero! You didn't say it was a baby!"
Bavilion's reflection shimmered in the blade of Buggy's knife, his bare-faced grin stretching too wide. "Oh, but it wasn't just a baby, was it?"
Buggy's breath hitched. "What?"
Bavilion's voice dropped, low and knowing. "That's Gol D. Roger's son."
Silence.
Then—
"WHAT?!" Buggy's scream sent birds scattering from the trees. He looked down at the sleeping infant, his stomach twisting. "No. No, no, no—Captain didn't—he wouldn't—"
"His name is Ace. His mother was Portgas D. Rouge," Bavilion continued, merciless. "She held him in her womb for twenty months. She died giving birth to him. All so the World Government wouldn't hunt him down."
Buggy's hands trembled. His arms went numb. He looked down. The baby—Ace—was so small. So impossibly small. His tiny fingers curled, his breaths soft against Buggy's chest.
Captain's son.
Captain's son.
His throat tightened. He remembered Roger's laugh, the way he'd ruffle Buggy's hair, the way he'd smiled even when—
No.
This wasn't happening.
"I—I can't—" Buggy stammered, voice small. "I'm seventeen. I'm a coward. I talk big but I—I run when things get tough! I'm not—I can't—"
Bavilion's reflection leaned closer, eyes gleaming. His voice was like a blade wrapped in velvet.
"You just outmaneuvered Garp the Fist. You stole from a man who breaks mountains with his bare hands. You held a Vice Admiral at bay while cradling a newborn in your arms."
Buggy opened his mouth—then shut it.
"That wasn't me," he whispered. "That was you."
Bavilion laughed, dark and smooth. "Was it? Or did I just remind you what you could be?"
Buggy's breath came fast, ragged. Ace stirred in his arms, tiny fingers curling. "What... what do you want me to do?"
Bavilion's smile sharpened. "Take care of him."
"WHAT?!" Buggy's voice cracked again. "I can't raise a baby! I don't know the first thing about—about diapers or feeding or—"
"You'll learn."
"I'll screw him up!"
"Then screw him up less than the world would."
Buggy froze. Bavilion's voice softened, just slightly—not kindness. "You were Roger's cabin boy. He trusted you. And now? His son has no one."
Buggy's chest ached.
"But I—"
"You have a choice," Bavilion murmured. "Leave him here. Let the sea decide. Or..."
A pause.
"Prove that the boy Roger saw in you wasn't a mistake."
Buggy's vision blurred. He looked down at Ace—Captain's son, Rouge's sacrifice, a child born from a love strong enough to defy death itself.
His gaze fell to the sleeping infant in his arms.
Ace's tiny fingers flexed unconsciously against his chest, each miniature fingernail perfect as a pearl. The baby's cheeks were impossibly round, flushed pink with life, his parted lips puffing soft breaths against Buggy's shirt. That stubborn wisp of dark hair - so like Roger's - refused to lie flat no matter how many times Buggy's trembling fingers tried to smooth it down.
Then the tear fell.
Buggy hadn't realised he was crying until he saw the droplet darken the blanket. His finger moved, drawn to that tiny hand. When Ace's fingers closed around his with surprising strength, something fundamental shifted inside him.
That warm, trusting grip felt like an anchor, like absolution.
The world narrowed to that single point of connection.
A sudden sneeze shattered the moment - a ridiculous newborn squeak that startled a wet laugh from Buggy's throat. Ace woke up. The baby blinked up at him with those grey, unfocused eyes.
In that moment, Buggy knew he was utterly, irrevocably lost.
How could he possibly walk away now?
How could he abandon this child when he'd already memorised the exact weight of him in his arms, the particular way his face scrunched up when yawning, the feel of those tiny fingers clinging to him like he was something worth holding onto?
Something in him broke.
"...Damn it," he choked out.
Then, quieter... "...Damn you."
Bavilion's reflection grinned. "Welcome to fatherhood, Buggy."
Buggy found himself carefully adjusting his hold, bringing Ace just a fraction closer - as if he'd been holding babies all his life.
── ⟡ ˙🌱 ̟
A year ago.
A week had passed since the world watched Gol D. Roger laugh his way into legend, and yet the city moved on as if nothing had changed. Buggy stared at the cracked mirror in his temporary room. His usual clown makeup smudged from days of neglect.
His chest still burned with anger—Shanks, that traitor, abandoning their dream, abandoning him—but mostly, he just felt empty.
He splashed water on his face, rubbing away the last of the blue and red paint.
Then he froze.
Because the face in the mirror—wasn't his. No nose. No makeup. Just pale skin, sharp features, and a smile that stretched too wide, too wrong.
"What the—?!" Buggy stumbled back, knocking over the washbasin. The water spilled, but the reflection didn't move. It just kept smiling.
"Hello, Buggy."
The voice came from inside his head—smooth, mocking, familiar in a way that made his skin crawl.
"Who—what are you?!" Buggy shrieked, grabbing a knife and pointing it at the mirror.
The reflection tilted its head. "I'm you. The real you."
"LIAR!" Buggy swung the knife—the mirror shattered.
But in every broken shard, the face still stared back.
Laughing.
── ⟡ ˙🌱 ̟
Buggy barricaded the bathroom door, chest heaving. Safe. He was safe.
Then—the tin washbasin.
"You can't hide from me."
"YES I CAN!" He hurled the basin out the window.
The glass lantern? "You're not a clown. You're a lie."
"SHUT UP SHUT UP—" He yanked the blanket over it.
His own knife blade—
"Who were you before Roger?"
Buggy recoiled. A memory, sharp as a splinter. A woman's voice, fading. 'Stay here, Buggy.' His mother's voice was already half-gone, her hand prying his fingers off her coat one by one. 'Don't make a scene.'
He hadn't understood. He never did.
'When will you be back?' he'd asked, small and stupid and still hopeful.
His father had laughed—not warm, not kind. The sound of a man flicking a roach off his boot. 'We're not coming back.'
His mother sighed, like his existence was a chore. 'You're not a baby anymore. Figure it out.'
Then—the worst part. The part that haunted him.
She'd knelt, just for a second. His heart leapt—maybe she'd changed her mind, maybe she'd hug him—
'If you're lucky,' she murmured, 'someone will mistake you for a useful kid. Maybe some pirate'll take pity on you.'
Bavilion murmured. "Just like Shanks. Just like Roger. Your parents never came back, did they?"
"DON'T TALK ABOUT THEM!"
"Why not?" The reflection's eyes gleamed. "You remember, don't you? That little boy waiting on the docks.'"
Buggy's vision blurred. No. No no no—
"They left you. Just like everyone else."
"STOP IT!" Buggy clutched his head.
"But I won't leave you, Buggy." The voice softened. "I can't."
"WHY?!"
"Because I'm you."
The reflection reached up—and peeled off the red nose. Buggy's hands flew to his face. His nose was still there.
"You could take it off anytime," the reflection whispered. "But you don't. Why?"
Buggy couldn't breathe. "I—I don't... It's—it's not fake! It's—"
"Is it because without it... you're just another abandoned brat no one wanted?"
Something in Buggy snapped. He grabbed the knife—not to strike, but to scream into, his voice cracking against the steel. Buggy's hands shook. "WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!"
A pause. Then—
"I want you to stop hiding."
The knife clattered to the floor.
Buggy curled into himself.
"...Go away."
"Never."
Three days later. Buggy hasn't slept.
Buggy sat curled in a corner of the room, curtains drawn, every mirror covered. But it didn't matter. Even the polished metal of his dagger showed him—Bavilion, the name he'd given the monster in his head.
"You look terrible," Bavilion mused from the blade.
"SHUT UP!" Buggy hurled the knife across the room. It stuck in the wall, vibrating.
A sigh. "This is tedious. Let's make a deal."
Buggy's breath hitched. "...What deal?"
"Do what I say, and I'll stop haunting you."
"...That's it?"
"That's it."
Buggy hesitated. "...What do you want me to do?"
── ⟡ ˙🌱 ̟
The next morning.
A secluded beach outside Loguetown.
"AGH—WHAT THE HELL?!" Buggy screamed as Bavilion forced his body into a brutal stance, muscles burning.
"Again."
"I CAN'T—"
"You can. Or do you want me to stay in your head forever?"
Buggy's teeth ground together. He pushed up. His arms gave out. Face in the sand.
Bavilion sighed. "Pathetic."
"SCREW YOU!"
"Get up."
"NO!"
"Get. Up."
And then—Buggy's body moved on its own. His limbs jerked like a puppet's, forcing him upright. His vision swam.
"If you won't do it yourself... I'll do it for you."
Buggy's blood ran cold.