A/N: So, this is actually a request of sorts. Kind of. My sister wanted me to do a piece of 'introspective' on Crocodile's time in Impel Down. And, uh, this is what happened. I had a blast writing it, so I hope you all enjoy it!
They will not take him.
It isn't clear to Crocodile just why his devil fruit power has suddenly stopped working, but he knows that it's putting him at a disadvantage. It has been many, many years since he has been forced to fight without it. Aside from his hook and his own brute strength, he doesn't have a single weapon.
There are hundreds, no, thousands of marines around him. They have sabers and rifles and bayonets, and they are all out for blood. His blood.
He isn't stupid either, and he knows that if they catch him this time, he won't just be taken to some small town military base. He'll be taken somewhere well-gaurded, where he cannot break out so easily.
Enies Lobby, maybe? He knows that they often take the large guns there to be finished off. Crocodile also knows that, if that is indeed the case, he will most likely never come back alive.
So he fights like a man possesed, and the hook that is attached to his left wrist soon becomes stained with blood. As does the plain white shirt that he has worn for the last month, and the matching pants. The once pristine clothing tears - and he briefly wonders, inbetween the madness, when the last time he felt pain like this was.
A long time ago, he is certain. Long enough that he cannot remember the date or the cause, just that he had not yet entered into the Grand Line.
"This is a losing fight for you." sneers Crocodile, and his teeth are stained red, his mouth filled with the acrid tang of copper. In a movement quicker than his large form should allow, he dashes forward. The point of his hook slams into someones chest, drawing forth both a scream and a burst of ruby.
He doesn't stop there. Pulls his arm back with a rip of flesh and spins around, striking out at someone else. At this point, he isn't thinking. He's just fighting.
Just trying to survive.
And the battle seems to stretch on forever, really, until a sharp twinge hits him in the back of his neck. Crocodile's mind is going hazy before he even reaches back, fingers grasping to try the source of discomfort. They hit something thin and sharp, something digging deep into the tender flesh - and it's a needle, he realizes, a tranqualizer.
The former warlord is unconscious before he even hits the ground.
They will not take him.
This time, they remove his hook. The thick swathe of bandages wrapped around the remains of his wrist is allowed to stay - and Crocodile consoles himself that at least no one can see the scars there, from the hacks that didn't quite cut all the way through.
They are not something that a lowely marine should ever be allowe to lay eyes on.
After the hook comes his clothing, and Crocodile can do little more than snarl at the men surrounding him. The drugs have not worn off yet and he still cannot use his fruit-powers. When they grab his arms and roughly jerk them around to his back, all he can do is force himself not to wince as his shoulders are jerked into a painful position. Something cold and tight is latched around his wrist. It doesn't take him but a moment to understnad that they're sea-stone handcuffs.
The unearthly material drains what is left of his energy even as he stands there, narrowed eyes following the now relaxed gaurds. His lids droop against his will, and a second later his body follows suit, muscles going lax.
Someone prods him in the back with something hard. The butt of a rifle, maybe?
Crocodile grunts. Almost takes a step forward, because he's so tired and that seems like the easiest thing to do, then stops himself. Pure, inexplicable rage boils under his skin, pushing away the haze of sleep. He stumbles backwards, an elbow slamming into the man behind him.
The marine screams. So does Crocodile, as the blunt edge of a sword slams into the back of his knees. They buckle and, unable to catch himself with his arms bound as they are, he pitches forward.
His head makes contact with the stone floor - and everything goes black.
They will not take him.
The next time that he wakes up, he is on a ship. The marines have him in a cell, a shackle latched tight around his ankle, chain keeping him from moving more then a few feet in any direction. His arms are still bound and, by now, they are beginning to ache. A constant throbbing, over and over and over again, as though he's being beaten.
His shirt is still gone he notes blearily, but he's wearing pants now. Simple, black slacks that cover up a shabby bandage job. Even he is better at wrapping wounds, which certainly is far from one of his talents.
"Damnit..." hisses Crocodile, trying to struggle to his feet. Something he finds to be impossble, between the bindings of both sets of limbs. "Damnit all!"
This is what happens when he looks after someone other than himself! If he had just gotten himself out of that confounded jail, then he would have been free right now. But no, he had been weak and he had made a detour, ensuring that Daz Bones got out as well.
Because of that, he thinks to himself, he is trapped here, sailing to only God knows where.
They will not take him.
By the time the ship docks, Crocodile can feel himself begin to waver. And that is a thought that would be disgusting were he under the threat of death. Here, where his only foe is a lack of food and comfort, it is just not an acceptable notion. Shouldn't even cross his mind.
But it does, over and over again as the marines come gather about his cell. Three of them are armed with guns. The fourth, a general, holds the key to his cage. It unlocks with a click - and Crocodile hisses at the man, doing his best to keep his weak thoughts to himself.
Even chained and sedated as he is, the general freezes at the sound. Then he motions to the the men behind him and, one by one, they file into the cramped quarters. A gun is pressed up against the back of his head, two more pointed at him, and the general crouches, undoing the chain around Crocodile's ankle.
"What the Hell?" gasps the general, hands jerking back as the shackle falls to the stone floor with a clink. Even in the dim light of the prison-hold, he can make out the blood coating the metal. Coating the ankle it was once on.
Crocodile has not been idle. Will never be idle. And ever chance he had gotten he'd fooled with the thing - jerking on his leg and pulling and walking, back and forth and back and forth and back and forth, because he hates being constricted.
It reminds him too much of his childhood.
"You fools don't really think that something as pityful as that can keep me contained for long, do you?" asks Crocodile, and his voice still holds that taunting tone it always does. "I'm not just some bounty you're transporting, you know."
It takes a moment for the general to respond but, when he does, there is anger in his voice. "Oh, we know who you are, Crocodile. And now you're going right where you belong. Straight into Impel Down!"
They will not take him.
They strip him of his clothes again. The gaurds that help run Impel Down that is. They are far more forceful then the other marines, who left as quickly as they could, and far less considerate of his still open wounds. The bandages are ripped off of his torso and legs.
Crocodile lets them.
One of the gaurds, a tall thing whose face is covered with a dark green mask, reaches for the swathe of bandages around his left hand.
Without warning or heed to the men around him, Crocodile swings his body around. He cannot move his arms, so he ducks down and slams his skull against the surprised gaurd.
"Don't even think about it, rat shit!" he snarls at the stunned gaurd. "You don't get to touch those."
There's a sharp pain in the center of his back as he's struck from behind, and he cannot keep the yelp in. Pain is still a foreign thing to him after avoiding it for so many years. Still a surprise.
"You don't get to make orders here, Crocodile." the woman that struck him snaps. When he cranes his head to look at her, he realizes that it is the blunt end of some sort of pole. The other side has three prongs on it, in the shape of a triangle.
Cattleprod, he realizes, and he complies after that. Even lets them take the swathe of bandages off - if only because he cannot see the old scars himself.
They will not take him.
It's a short walk after that, over to the showers. The "Cleansing Room", as the gaurds had called it. It is a small room, filled with the stench of burnt flesh and stale blood, made of porcelain. Clinical looking, almost, with its whitewash walls and stark white floors. There are what look to be steel shower nozzles lining the walls of the room, and a large drain in the center.
The blunt end of the prod is slammed into him again, a silent order to move. Crocodile is herded into the center of the room and then just left there, the gaurds slipping outside and closing the heavy, metal door behind them.
"Hmm, I hope that this isn't where you expect me to stay from now on?" asks the dark-haired man, glancing about the room with a level gaze.
It's obvious that it isn't, but he cannot stand this acursed silence. So he bluffs and acts tough, just like he always does. The facade ends the moment the shower comes on, blasting his bare flesh with sizzling water. In second, steam filled the confined space, bringing with it a renewed odor of burning flesh and a thick coating of wax on his lips.
Crocodile isn't thinking about image anymore. Just lets the howl rip from his throat, and crumples uncerimouniously to his knees. The boiling water assaults him from all sides, taking off first one layer of skin, then a second. The wounds he recieved during his attempted escape are ripped open, blood joining the water running down his body in rivulets.
Suddenly, the drain makes sense.
They will not take him.
He is barely conscious when the water finally shuts off. Crumpled in a heap on the floor, knees and shoulders holding him up and ass in the air, so undignified that it physically hurts him.
This is the kind of position he swore to never let himself end up in again. Yet here he is, unable to stop the panting, unable to stop the tears. Like he's nothing more then a frightened child, unable to fight back against a bigger enemy.
When the door creaks open, Crocodile tenses. Blinks rapidly, hoping that the tears running down his face are mistaken for water. Knows that his skin is an unsettling shade of pink and will be ridiculously tender - and he's right, because the pain he feels as two pairs of rough hands grab him under the arm and heft him up is almost unbearable. He bites down on his bottom lip to stop from gasping, determined to save some part of his pride, as they jostle him back towards the center of the room.
Odd. He doesn't remember ever moving away from it.
Again, he hears the door open. A single pair of footsteps echo across the room. Something hisses and there's heat and pain and someone's screaming. It may be himself, but he isn't sure. Smoke fills the small, confined space of the shower-room, carrying with it the putrid air of burning flesh.
Three numbers, branded into the taut skin on the back of his left shoulder.
821.
If he were thinking straight, Crocodile would recognize it as his prison number. But he isn't thinking straight. Isn't thinking about anything but the mind-consuming pain engulfing him.
Isn't thinking anything...Save for one, chilling thought.
He is theirs.